He waved at me an uncertain hand.  “Go ’way, slight man!” he muttered.  “Grace Sheraton pretties’ girl in whole C’federate States America.”

According to our creed it was not permissible for a gentleman, drunk or sober, to mention a lady’s name in a place like that.  I rose and put my hand across Harry’s mouth, unwilling that a stranger should hear a girl’s name mentioned in the place.  No doubt I should have done quite as much for any girl of our country whose name came up in that way.  But to my surprise Harry Singleton was just sufficiently intoxicated to resent the act of his best friend.  With no word of warning he drew back his hand and struck me in the face with all his force, the blow making a smart crack which brought all the others running from within.  Still, I reflected, that this was not the act of Harry Singleton, but only that of a drunken man who to-morrow would not remember what had been done.

“That will be quite enough, Harry,” said I.  “Come, now, I’ll take you home.  Sanderson, go get his horse or wagon, or whatever brought him here.”

“Not home!” cried Harry.  “First inflict punishment on you for denyin’ Miss Gracie Sheraton pretties’ girl whole C’fedrate States America.  Girls like John Cowles too much!  Must mash John Cowles!  Must mash John Cowles sake of Gracie Sheraton, pretties’ girl in whole wide worl’!”

He came toward me as best he might, his hands clenched.  I caught him by the wrist, and as he stumbled past, I turned and had his arm over my shoulder.  I admit I threw him rather cruelly hard, for I thought he needed it.  He was entirely quiet when we carried him into the room and placed him on the leather lounge.

“By Jove!” I heard a voice at my elbow.  “That was handsomely done—­handsomely done all around.”

I turned to meet the outstretched hand of my new friend, Gordon Orme.

“Where did you learn the trick?” he asked.

“The trick of being a gentleman,” I answered him slowly, my face red with anger at Singleton’s foolishness, “I never learned at all.  But to toss a poor drunken fool like that over one’s head any boy might learn at school.”

“No,” said my quasi-minister of the gospel, emphatically, “I differ with you.  Your time was perfect.  You made him do the work, not yourself.  Tell me, are you a skilled wrestler?”

I was nettled now at all these things which were coming to puzzle and perturb an honest fellow out for a morning ride.

“Yes,” I answered him, “since you are anxious to know, I’ll say I can throw any man in Fairfax except one.”

“And he?”

“My father.  He’s sixty, as I told you, but he can always beat me.”

“There are two in Fairfax you cannot throw,” said Orme, smiling.

My blood was up just enough to resent this challenge.  There came to me what old Dr. Hallowell at Alexandria calls the “gaudium certaminis.”  In a moment I was little more than a full-blooded fighting animal, and had forgotten all the influences of my Quaker home.