‘Oh, couldn’t I?’ said Tom.

‘No—or at twelve!’

‘Oh?’ said Tom. ‘Well, there’s one thing I can do, and that’s draw your cork!’

‘You may try!’ said Jack, casting his own pistol from him, and putting up his fists.

They closed with enthusiasm, far too anxious to get to grips to waste time in taking off their coats. It was rather a scrambling fight, because the coats hampered them, and mingled relief and exasperation made them spar wildly, and soon fall into a clinch, each striving to throw the other a cross-buttock. Since Tom was the larger and the stronger of the two the outcome of that was never in doubt.

‘Damn you!’ panted Jack, picking himself up, and rubbing one elbow.

They looked at one another. Tom’s fists sank. ‘Jack,’ he said uncertainly, ‘we—we came to fight a duel!’

Jack’s mouth quivered. He bit his underlip, but it was to no avail. If Tom had not begun to grin, like the gudgeon he was, he might have kept his countenance, but Tom was grinning, and the huge bubble of laughter which had been growing within him burst.

5

The same thought occurred to both of them, as the gusts of mirth died, and they wiped their streaming eyes. ‘Neither pistol went off!’ Jack said.

‘By God, you’re right!’ Tom said, and swung round to confront the seconds.

Both he and Jack had forgotten the presence of the gentleman from London when they came to fisticuffs. Torn between wrath at his suspected falsity, and dread of his contempt for their schoolboyish behaviour, they glared at him, flushed, and still panting.

Sir Gavin, who was seated negligently on a tree-stump, rose, and strolled forward, saying approvingly: ‘Excellent! Rather glaringly abroad sometimes, perhaps, but I should like to see you both stripped. When you come to London you must tell me of your visit, and I’ll take you to Jackson’s Boxing Saloon.’