“I say,” he said, “aren’t we going to make fools of ourselves?”
“I don’t know,” was the reply, “but I’ll show you I’m not a coward.”
“I never thought you were a coward, but you’d say I was one if I told you that I didn’t want to fight.”
“No, I shouldn’t,” said the middy, “because I can’t help feeling that it is stupid, and I don’t want to fight either.”
“Then, why should we fight?”
“Oh,” said the middy, “there are times when a gentleman’s bound to stand upon his honour. We ought to fight now with pistols; but as we have none why, of course, it has to be fists. Besides, I don’t suppose you could use a pistol, and it wouldn’t be fair for me to shoot you.”
“I daresay I know as much about pistols as you do,” said Aleck. “I’ve shot at a mark with my uncle. But we needn’t argue about that.”
“No, we’ve got our fists, so let’s get it done.”
But they did not begin, for the idea that they really were about to make fools of themselves grew stronger, and as they dropped their hands to raise them again as fists, neither liked to strike the first blow.
Suddenly an idea struck Aleck as he glanced sidewise to see their shadows stretched out in a horribly grotesque, distorted form upon the dark water, and he smiled to himself as he saw his fists elongated into clubs, while he said, suddenly: