"Oh, I say!" struck in Dugdale, "never mind about a scrubby gipsy. I wish Lumsden would hurry up. I want to see Pomeroy lick him." "You’ll lose this time," said Smith. Dugdale made a wry face. "Didn’t know he was such a paragon. Speaks Spanish as well as the Don. Learnt it for a bet, I suppose." "No," said Pomeroy, laughing. "He lived at Barcelona till he was eleven." "Where on earth’s Barcelona? Is it where the nuts grow?" "Yes—in the big square!" said Smith with a smile. Dugdale grunted. "But what was Lumsden doing there?" he asked. "Eating, and growing, and learning the lingo, of course," said Pomeroy. "His father’s a partner in some Spanish firm whose head-quarters are at Barcelona, and lived there, as I say, until Jack was eleven. Then, as the kid was more or less running wild, I suppose, Mr. Lumsden returned to London as head of the branch there, and sent Jack to the Charterhouse, and that’s where I licked him first—" "Now, Pommy, at it again!" said Jack’s voice. Dugdale chuckled, and Pomeroy looked aggressive; but immediately behind Jack, as he re-entered the room, came a figure at the sight of which the whole group broke out in exclamations of welcome. "Peter!" said Smith to Dugdale in a stage whisper. The new-comer was a tall man of some thirty-six years, wearing a big greatcoat and a peaked cap drawn over his brow. His face was particularly ugly, but redeemed by a pair of bright good-tempered-looking eyes. He stood for a moment quizzing the company, while the water streamed from his coat and made a pool on the floor. "Bedad," he said, observing the pasty mixture there, "sure if it’s roast beef that it is, it’s myself that’s thankful; but the flure’s a queer place to mix the Yorkshire." "No such luck," said Pomeroy. "No chance of that this side of Portsmouth; it’s only a toad-in-the-hole this time." Captain Peter O’Hare laughed when they told him of the regidor’s plight. "And who was the blackguard that did it?" he asked, suddenly looking serious. "Such conduct is terribly unbecoming an officer and a gentleman." "It was Pepito," exclaimed Jack; "that little scamp of a gipsy who’s been shadowing me since we left Lisbon. I found him crouching in the regidor’s stable, smothered in flour from head to foot. It appears he had made for the loft as the only dry place, and emptied a bag of flour on the regidor in sheer self-defence, being afraid of a walloping if he was caught. He jumped out of the upper door and slid down a gutter-pipe. I’m afraid that young man will prove a thorn in my side." Captain O’Hare having by this time removed his dripping garments, Smith took the opportunity to introduce his friend Dugdale. "He’s just escaped from Oxford, O’Hare; heard the bugles sounding and couldn’t sit still." "What regiment, sir?" said the captain, shaking hands. "I knew a Dugdale in the 85th." Dugdale chuckled.