“What did you say about me in there?”

“Mayn’t I say what I like?”

“No.”

“Well, I said you were a pro-Boer—­and so you are!”

“You’re a liar!”

“D’you want a row?”

“Of course, but not here; in the garden.”

“All right.  Come on.”

They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching; they climbed the garden railings.  The spikes on the top slightly ripped Val’s sleeve, and occupied his mind.  Jolly’s mind was occupied by the thought that they were going to fight in the precincts of a college foreign to them both.  It was not the thing, but never mind—­the young beast!

They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took off their coats.

“You’re not screwed, are you?” said Jolly suddenly.  “I can’t fight you if you’re screwed.”

“No more than you.”

“All right then.”

Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures of defence.  They had drunk too much for science, and so were especially careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote Val almost accidentally on the nose.  After that it was all a dark and ugly scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no one to call ‘time,’ till, battered and blown, they unclinched and staggered back from each other, as a voice said: 

“Your names, young gentlemen?”

At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden gate, like some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and snatching up their coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up them, and made for the secluded spot whence they had issued to the fight.  Here, in dim light, they mopped their faces, and without a word walked, ten paces apart, to the college gate.  They went out silently, Val going towards the Broad along the Brewery, Jolly down the lane towards the High.  His head, still fumed, was busy with regret that he had not displayed more science, passing in review the counters and knockout blows which he had not delivered.  His mind strayed on to an imagined combat, infinitely unlike that which he had just been through, infinitely gallant, with sash and sword, with thrust and parry, as if he were in the pages of his beloved Dumas.  He fancied himself La Mole, and Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and D’Artagnan rolled into one, but he quite failed to envisage Val as Coconnas, Brissac, or Rochefort.  The fellow was just a confounded cousin who didn’t come up to Cocker.  Never mind!  He had given him one or two.  ‘Pro-Boer!’ The word still rankled, and thoughts of enlisting jostled his aching head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the Boers rolled over like rabbits.  And, turning up his smarting eyes, he saw the stars shining between the housetops of the High, and himself lying out on the Karoo (whatever that was) rolled in a blanket, with his rifle ready and his gaze fixed on a glittering heaven.