“But that would only be boxing,” I said.
“Why not make a fight of it?” suggested Mercer.
“But we couldn’t fight without there was a genuine quarrel.”
“Let’s quarrel, then.”
“What about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Anything. You call me a fool, and I’ll hit you, and then you go at me again, and we should know then what we could do.”
“Get out!” I said. “I shan’t call you a fool; but if I did, you wouldn’t be such a beast as to hit me, and if you did, I should be so sorry that I shouldn’t hit you again. That wouldn’t do.”
Tom Mercer scratched his head.
“No,” he said dryly, “that wouldn’t do. It seems precious rum, though.”
“What does?”