"Of course it's unfair, Ross. What's more, the plebe's shoes are new and stiff, and the soles are slippery. This thing can't go on until that's settled."
Mr. Ross frowned. Time was precious, but down in his heart he knew the adjutant was right. More than that, he felt somehow that Mr. Glenn was there in the interests of fairer play than he himself considered necessary, but there was no running counter to Glenn's dictum. A yearling was despatched for Woods's uniform shoes, and it was some minutes before he got back. Then the exchange was quickly made, and a second time the foemen faced each other, the yearling's skin as white and firm as satin-wood, Geordie's face and neck brown as autumn acorns, his broad chest and shoulders pink and hard.
"Are you ready?" asked Ross. "Fall back, Mr. Jennings."
Woods instantly dropped into an easy, natural pose, his guard well advanced, his right hand low and close to the body.
"Watch that right, Graham," muttered Connell, as he backed away; and Geordie took a similar stand—clumsier, perhaps, but well meant.
And then the simple word, "Go!"
It would have baffled an expert reporter to describe what followed. Something like a white flash shot from Woods's shoulder to start with, and then for just twenty seconds there was a confused intermingling of white and brown. All over that springy sward, up and down, over and across, bounding, dancing, darting, dodging, Woods active and wary, Graham charging and forcing the fight, despite heavy blows planted thick and fast.
"Isn't he a young mountain-lion?" muttered Glenn, below his breath.
"He'll be worse than a grizzly if he gets Woods in a hug," was the reply. "Look! he's grappled!"
Reckless of punishment as was ever stalwart Roderick, Geordie had backed his lighter foe up the slope, then