“The missile, describing a parabola, struck its subjective with fearful impact, Sir,” replied the bad boy imperturbably, misquoting from his latest fiction (and calling it a “parry-bowler,” to “Grandfather’s” considerable and very natural mystification).

“What?” roared that gentleman, sitting bolt upright in astonishment and wrath.

“No.  It’s objective,” corrected Dam.  “Yes.  With fearful impact.  Fearful also were the words of the Mon Sandy.”

“Grandfather” flushed and smiled a little wryly.

“You’d favour me with pleasantries too, would you?  I’ll reciprocate to the best of my poor ability,” he remarked silkily, and his mouth set in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.

“A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant,” he added, turning to Sergeant Havlan.

“Coat off, Sir,” remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy who could touch him almost as he would with the foil.

Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned his back to the smiter and assumed a scientific arrangement of the shoulders with tense muscles and coyly withdrawn bones.  He had been there before....

The dozen were indeed of the Sergeant’s best and he was a master.  The boy turned not a hair, though he turned a little pale....  His mouth grew extraordinarily like that of his grandfather and a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.

“And what do you think of my pleasantries, my young friend?” inquired Grandfather.  “Feeling at all witty now?”

“Havlan is failing a bit, Sir,” was the cool reply.  “I have noticed it at fencing too—­Getting old—­or beer perhaps.  I scarcely felt him and so did not see or feel the point of your joke.”

“Grandfather’s” flush deepened and his smile broadened crookedly.  “Try and do yourself justice, Havlan,” he said. “’Nother dozen.  ’Tother way.”

Sergeant Havlan changed sides and endeavoured to surpass himself.  It was a remarkably sound dozen.

He mopped his brow.

The bad boy did not move, gave no sign, but retained his rigid, slightly hunched attitude, as though he had not counted the second dozen and expected another stroke.

“Let that be a lesson to you to curb your damned tongue,” said “Grandfather,” his anger evaporating, his pride in the stiff-necked, defiant young rogue increasing.

The boy changed not the rigid, slightly hunched attitude.

“Be pleased to wreck no more of my orchid-houses and to exercise your great wit on your equals and juniors,” he added.

Dam budged not an inch and relaxed not a muscle.

“You may go,” said “Grandfather"....  “Well—­what are you waiting for?”

“I was waiting for Sergeant Havlan to begin,” was the reply.  “I thought I was to have a second dozen.”

With blazing eyes, bristling moustache, swollen veins and bared teeth, “Grandfather” rose from his chair.  Resting on one stick he struck and struck and struck at the boy with the other, passion feeding on its own passionate acts, and growing to madness—­until, as the head gardener and Sergeant rushed forward to intervene, Dam fell to the ground, stunned by an unintentional blow on the head.