"What’s this bet of yours, Lumsden?" asked Bob Shirley, lieutenant in Jack’s company. "Oh, a little affair with Pomeroy! He’s so desperately cocksure of everything, and what is worse, he will talk, you know. Said he’d hold me at boxing, at wrestling, at swimming, at every mortal thing, including fencing, so I bet him before we left Alcantara that I’d give him points at them all, and we’re going to begin with the foils." "What are the stakes?" asked Shirley. "Why didn’t I hear of this?" "It’s a guinea to a Bath bun. Pomeroy’s amazing fond of Bath buns; and as at present I haven’t a guinea, at least to spare, and he hasn’t a bun, we’re going to settle up when we get back to London, and you fellows can come to Gunter’s and see Pommy shell out twopence, if you like." "No time like the present," said Smith. "We’ve half an hour before supper, and nothing to do. If you fellows are game we’ll make a ring now." "I’m ready," said Pomeroy, pulling off his jacket, "if the corn-dealer is." "By all means," retorted Jack, laughing; "but I hope, for the sake of the company, your riposte is better than your repartee." "No more cackle!" cried Smith. "Let’s get to business. Where are the foils?" At a word from Jack, a tall, strapping Rifleman, who had followed him into the room, disappeared for half a minute, and returned with a couple of foils in his hands. He handed one to his master, who had meanwhile peeled, and the other to Reginald Pomeroy. The two faced one another; they were of equal height, but otherwise presented a strong contrast. Both were tall, but Jack was slight and lissom, with dark hair, brown eyes, and clear-cut features, while Reginald Pomeroy was heavier in build, fresh-complexioned, with blue eyes and light curly hair. In brief, if Jack was Norman, Pomeroy was as clearly Saxon, and as they stood there, they were worthy representatives of the two fine strains of our present English race. They were always sparring, always girding at each other, but at bottom they were the best of friends, and had indeed been inseparable chums ever since they entered the Charterhouse together. "Gad, reminds me of the mill between Jones of Jesus and De Crespigny of the House, in Merton meadow," said Dugdale with his capacious chuckle. "’His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire, Shows spirit proud, and prompt to ire,’" quoted Shirley, amid a chorus of groans. "Shut up, Shirley!" cried Jack; "if you begin spouting poetry you’ll shatter my nerve." "Yes, by George," said Smith, "we had enough of _Marmion_ on the way out. Shirley’s a long way too fond of poetry. Now, you two, are you ready? Buttons on the foils? That’s right. Now then!" "Charge, Chester, charge; on, Stanley, on!’" shouted Shirley, who was irrepressible, and who, indeed, was said to have got _Marmion_ by heart a week after it was issued, in February of this year.