r--and so you are!"

"You're a liar!"

"D'you want a row?"

"Of course, but not here; in the garden."

"All right. Come on."

They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching; they
climbed the garden railings. The spikes on the top slightly ripped Val's
sleeve, and occupied his mind. Jolly's mind was occupied by the thought
that they were going to fight in the precincts of a college foreign to
them both. It was not the thing, but never mind--the young beast!

They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took off their
coats.

"You're not screwed, are you?" said Jolly suddenly. "I can't fight you
if you're screwed."

"No more than you."

"All right then."

Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures of
defence. They had drunk too much for science, and so were especially
careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote Val almost
accidentally on the nose. After that it was all a dark and ugly
scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no one to call
'time,' till, battered and blown, they unclinched and staggered back from
each other, as a voice said:

"Your names, young gentlemen?"

At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden gate, like
some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and snatching up their
coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up them, and made for the
secluded spot whence they had issued to the fight. Here, in dim light,
they mopped their faces, and without a word walked, ten paces apart, to
the college gate. They went out silently, Val going towards the Broad
along the Brewery, Jolly down the lane towards the High. His head, still
fumed, was busy with regret that he had not displayed more science,
passing in review the counters and knockout blows which he had not
delivered. His mind strayed on to an imagined combat, infinitely unlike
that which he had just been through, infinitely gallant, with sash and
sword, with thrust and parry, as if he were in the pages of his beloved
Dumas. He fancied himself La Mole, and Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and
D'Artagnan rolled into one, but he quite failed to envisage Val as
Coconnas, Brissac, or Rochefort. The fellow was just a confounded cousin
who didn't come up to Cocker. Never mind! He had given him one or two.
'Pro-Boer!' The word still rankled, and thoughts of enlisting jostled
his aching head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the
Boers r