me pass!" came again the hoarse, choking cry.

Stanley did not budge. Neither did he answer. He was as dumb, as
immovable, and as white as a block of marble. Paul could endure it no
longer. He caught him by the arm to turn him aside. His touch started
the statue before him into life. As though it were an insult to be wiped
out, Stanley struck out blindly with his fist. Paul received the blow
full on the face, and fell to the ground like a log.

It was a cruel blow. Stanley knew it the moment he had struck his
one-time friend, and he would have given all he possessed to have
recalled it. But it was too late.

"Well hit!" applauded Parfitt, as though Stanley had just made a
brilliant drive in the cricket-field instead of striking his best
friend.

"First knockdown and blood to Moncrief!" exclaimed Newall. "Oh, he's all
right, Waterman. He doesn't want any help from you."

Waterman, who had been standing in the background, leaning in his usual
indolent manner against the most comfortable corner of the fireplace,
shook on his lethargy as Stanley struck the blow which felled Paul to
the ground, and at once left his favourite spot by the fireplace and
went to his assistance.

"Hurt, Percival?" he asked as, heedless of Newall's remarks, he wiped
away the blood that was trickling down Paul's cheek.

Paul had been momentarily dazed by the unexpected blow; but he was
strong, and soon shook the feeling off.

"Thanks, Waterman. No; I'm not hurt," he whispered, rising slowly to his
feet.

The boys gathered round. The excitement had grown from the moment Paul
had entered the room. From that instant the storm-clouds had begun to
gather, and with the blow struck by Moncrief major they had burst.

What would happen?

"Steady yourself, Percival," whispered Waterman. "So--Are you sure you
are all right?"

"Quite."

Waterman let go his arm. The blood still trickled down Paul's face, but
he walked steadily up to Stanley, who had thrown up his arms in defence,
as though expecting a return of the blow.

"You can put down your hands, Stanley. I'm not going to fight you," said
Paul calmly.

"He's moulting again--more feathers!" cried Newall.

"And aren't they white ones?" added Parfitt.

"I'm not going to fight you," repeated Paul, looking Stanley squarely in
the face; "but I'll pay you back again--some day."

Stanley did not attempt to stop him this time; so Paul made his way back
to his room, and sank upon his bed thin