"You've got it!" came the slow, firm answer—"to the bitter end!"
CHAPTER XI
FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM
Paul was grieved at the turn things had taken. Just at the moment when he thought the quarrel ended it had burst out again in a deadlier form. Stanley was very pale. His hands were clenched, as were the hands of Newall, and the passion that distorted the one face was reflected in a lesser degree in the other. Hate never was, and never will be, a beautifier of the face. Like some subtle acid, it makes ugly lines. You will never see those lines in a beautiful or noble face, boys and girls. So, if you want to keep from getting ugly, never hate.
Stanley was not only angry at the jibes of Newall, but angry at being led into a false position.
"I really had no wish to shake hands with you. I'm just as keen on fighting it out as you are," he began.
"One minute," interrupted Paul, stepping between them. "Let me have a word."
"You get out of it, and speak when you're spoken to!" cried Newall roughly. "It was through you coming between us that I got this beauty-spot yesterday"—pointing to his swollen lip. "Hadn't you poked your nose in where it wasn't wanted this wouldn't have happened, and I would have given a good account of myself."
"Sorry, and yet, come to think of it, I'm rather glad," answered Paul calmly, and not receding an inch from the position he had taken up.