"And it's my belief, Mr. Hewett," observed the doctor, "that you're the biggest fool of all." "It would serve him right," remarked the governor, quietly, "if somebody were to knock him down." "Knock him down! I should think it would--and kick him too!" As he said this the Major glared at the chaplain with threatening eyes. There was silence again, broken by Warder Slater taking off his cap and then his tunic, which he folded up carefully and placed upon the floor, and turning his shirt-sleeves up above his elbows, revealing as he did so a pair of really gigantic arms. "If any man says I let them men out of the cells, I'm ready to fight that man, either for a gallon of beer or nothing. I don't care if it's the inspector, or who it is." "I suspect," declared the chaplain, "that the inspector's too great a coward to take you on, but if he does I'm willing to back Slater for half-a-crown. I am even prepared to second him." Putting his hands under his coat-tails, the chaplain looked up at the ceiling with a resolute air. "If you do fight Slater, Hardinge, I should certainly commence by giving the chaplain a punch in the eye." So saying, the governor leaned back in his chair, and began drumming on the table with the tips of his fingers. The doctor rose from his seat. He gave the inspector a hearty slap on the back. "Give him beans!" he cried. "You ought to be able to knock an over-fed animal like Slater into the middle of next week before he's counted five." "I've no quarrel with Slater," the inspector growled, "and I've no intention of fighting him; but as the chaplain seems to be so anxious for a row, I'll fight him with the greatest pleasure." "If there's goin' to be any fighting," interposed the chief warder, "don't you think I'd better get a couple of sponges and a pail of water?" "I don't know about the sponges," said the governor; "I don't fancy you will find any just at hand. But you might get a pail of water, I think." The chief warder left the room. "I'm not a fighting man," the chaplain announced; "and in any case, I should decline to soil my hands by touching such an ill-mannered ruffian as Major Hardinge." "I say," exclaimed the doctor, "Hardinge, you're not going to stand that?" The Major sprang from his seat, tore off his coat, and flung it on to the ground with considerably less care than Warder Slater had done. He strode up to the chaplain. "Beg my pardon, or take a licking!" The Major clenched his fists. He assumed an attitude which, if not exactly reminiscent of the pets of the fancy, was at least intended to be pugilistic. The chaplain did not flinch. "You dare to lay a finger on me, you bullying blackguard."