"Glad! How do you mean?"
"Why, if it was through me you got that blow, your quarrel's with me, and not Moncrief. What's the use of trying to pay back to him what you owe to me?"
This was a novel way of looking at the dispute which had not occurred to Newall. As he was not ready with an answer, Paul went on:
"Besides, it was you who got me to speak to Moncrief on—excuse me saying so—false pretences. I thought you wanted to end the quarrel, to shake hands with him, and have done with it. It wasn't shaking hands you wanted, it seems, but clenched fists. I brought him here on a fool's errand; so the quarrel's mine, not his."
Stanley wished to step in again, but Paul gently yet firmly held his ground.
"I don't understand quite what you're driving at," said Newall. "It's a bit of a riddle; but if you want a thrashing as well as your friend, I dare say you can be obliged, but he comes first. Let him speak for himself. You can speak for yourself after. Now, Moncrief, no more shirking."
"It's my quarrel, I say," Paul answered in the same firm tone, and still keeping Stanley back. "Of course, you think different, and Moncrief here thinks different, so let's appeal to the Form."
"What's that?" cried Newall.
"Appeal to the Form. The fellows will see things clearer than we can."
The suggestion took Newall's breath away.