If he were at this time a little mad the wonder is that he was still on the right side of the Lunatic Asylum gates.

Mad or not, he was happy—­and the one thing wanting was the presence of Lucille at the fight.  How he would have loved to show her that he was not really a coward—­given a fair chance and a tangible foe.

If only Lucille could be there—­dancing from one foot to the other, and squealing. (Strictly between, and not during, the rounds, of course.)

“Buck up, Dammy!  Ginger for pluck!  Never say croak!”

A very large and very informal committee took charge of the business of the fight, and what was alluded to as “a friendly boxing contest between Bully Harberth of the Fifth and de Warrenne—­late Funky—­” was arranged for the following Saturday afternoon.  On being asked by a delegate of the said large and informal committee as to whether he would be trained by then or whether he would prefer a more distant date, Dam replied that he would be glad to fight Harberth that very moment—­and thus gained the reputation of a fierce and determined fellow (though erstwhile “funky”—­the queer creature).

Those who had been loudest in dubbing him Funky Warrenne were quickest in finding explanations of his curious conduct and explained it well away.

It was at this time that Dam’s heart went wholly and finally out to Ormonde Delorme who roundly stated that his father, a bemedalled heroic Colonel of Gurkhas, was “in a blind perishing funk” during a thunderstorm and always sought shelter in the wine cellar when one was in progress in his vicinity.

Darn presented Delorme with his knife and a tiger’s tooth forthwith.  Saturday came and Dam almost regretted its advent, for, though a child in years, he was sufficiently old, weary, and cynical in spirit to know that all life’s fruit contains dust and ashes, that the joys of anticipation exceed those of realization, and that with possession dies desire.

With the fight would end the glorious feeling of successful revolt, and if he overcame one emissary of the Snake there would be a million more to take his place.

And if Providence should be, as usual, on the side of the “big battalions,” and the older, taller, stronger, heavier boy should win?  Why—­then he would bully the loser to his heart’s content and the limit of his ingenuity.

Good!  Let him!  He would fight him every day with the greatest pleasure.  A chance to fight the Snake on fair terms was all he asked....

Time and place had been well chosen and there was little likelihood of interference.

Some experienced youth, probably Cokeson himself, had made arrangements as to seconds, time-keeper, judges, and referee; and, though there was no ring of ropes and stakes, a twenty-four-foot square had been marked out and inclosed by forms and benches.  Seating was provided for the “officials” and seniors, and two stools for the principals.  A couple of bowls of water, sponges, and towels lent a business-like air to the scene.