“The missile, describing a parabola, struck its subjective with fearful impact, Sir,” replied the bad boy imperturbably, misquoting from his latest fiction (and calling it a “parry-bowler,” to “Grandfather’s” considerable and very natural mystification).
“What?” roared that gentleman, sitting bolt upright in astonishment and wrath.
“No. It’s _ob_jective,” corrected Dam. “Yes. With fearful impact. Fearful also were the words of the Mon Sandy.”
“Grandfather” flushed and smiled a little wryly.
“You’d favour me with pleasantries too, would you? I’ll reciprocate to the best of my poor ability,” he remarked silkily, and his mouth set in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.
“A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant,” he added, turning to Sergeant Havlan.
“Coat off, Sir,” remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy who could touch him almost as he would with the foil.
Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned his back to the smiter and assumed a scientific arrangement of the shoulders with tense muscles and coyly withdrawn bones. He had been there before….
The dozen were indeed of the Sergeant’s best and he was a master. The boy turned not a hair, though he turned a little pale…. His mouth grew extraordinarily like that of his grandfather and a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.
“And what do you think of my pleasantries, my young friend?” inquired Grandfather. “Feeling at all witty now?”