indeed, and trying to
bear ourselves as scientifically as we could, with a keen expression
of the eye.

When I looked into Barty's face I felt that nothing on earth would
ever make me hit such a face as that--whatever he might do to mine.
My blood wasn't up; besides, I was a coarse-grained, thick-set,
bullet-headed little chap with no nerves to speak of, and didn't mind
punishment the least bit. No more did Barty, for that matter, though
he was the most highly wrought creature that ever lived.

At length they all got impatient, and d'Orthez said:

"Allez donc, godems--ce n'est pas un quadrille! Nous n'sommes pas a
La Salle Valentino!"

And Barty was pushed from behind so roughly that he came at me, all
his science to the winds and slogging like a French boy; and I,
quite without meaning to, in the hurry, hit out just as he fell over
me, and we both rolled together over Jolivet's foot--Barty on top
(he was taller, though not heavier, than I); and I saw the blood
flow from his nose down his lip and chin, and some of it fell on my
blouse.

Says Barty to me, in English, as we lay struggling on the dusty
floor:

"Look here, it's no good. I _can't_ fight to-day; poor Merovee, you
know. Let's make it up!"

"All right!" says I. So up we got and shook hands, Barty saying,
with mock dignity:

"Messieurs, le sang a coule; l'honneur britannique est sauf;" and
the combat was over.

"Cristi! J'ai joliment faim!" says Barty, mopping his nose with his
handkerchief. "I left my crust on the bench outside the refectoire.
I wish one of you fellows would get it for me."

"Rapaud finished your crust [ta miche] while you were fighting,"
says Jolivet. "I saw him."

Says Rapaud: "Ah, Dame, it was getting prettily wet, your crust, and
I was prettily hungry too; and I thought you didn't want it,
naturally."

I then produced _my_ crust and cut it in two, butter and all, and
gave Barty half, and we sat very happily side by side, and
breakfasted together in peace and amity. I never felt happier or
hungrier.

"Cristi, comme ils se sont bien battus," says little Vaissiere to
little Cormenu. "As-tu vu? Josselin a saigne tout plein sur la
blouse a Maurice." (How well they fought! Josselin bled all over
Maurice's blouse!)

Then says Josselin, in French, turning to me with that delightful
jolly smile that always reminded one of the sun breaking through a
mist:

"I would sooner bleed on your blouse than on your tomb." (J'aime
mieu