“Ha!” he exclaimed, complacently, “you do zat, you young men. Try now—evairy one.” Wentworth tried first, kicked high, but did not come within a foot of the mark. Whilt came next, stolid and taciturn, kicked, and tumbled over, amidst general laughter. Vukovich lifted his shapely leg, kicked within half a foot, and split his blue trowsers, at which he looked grieved, and swore softly in Hungarian, while the rest laughed at him. Then came Fisk and Palmer and the others, with poor success, and amidst much merriment. In the quiet that followed, Whilt, who had been as dumb as a skull, suddenly began to shake and whinny so with guttural mirth, that everybody looked at him with surprise. It came out, after some inquiry, that he was laughing at Vukovich for having torn his trowsers, an incident which had just touched his sense of the ludicrous when everybody else had almost forgotten it. Of course there was another obstreperous roar of merriment, and Witherlee told Whilt he laughed too soon—he ought to have waited till next week—with other sarcasms of the same nature, which the slow Dutchman took into sober consideration. “Come, Harrington,” said Wentworth, “you try.” Harrington had stood apart, smiling amusedly, through all this clatter. “Ah, Missr Harrin’ton, he can keek wis me,” exclaimed Bagasse. “He keek sublime.” Harrington laughed, and advancing, took up a bit of chalk from the floor, and marked a line on the post, as much above his own head as the notch had been above the fencing-master’s. Then poising a second, he threw up his leg, and brought away chalk on his boot. There was a general burst of acclamation. “Ah, ha! it is grand—it is superb!” cried Monsieur Bagasse. “Missr Harrin’ton, he can keek wis me, he can fence wis me, he can shoot wis me, he can engage wis me in ze broadsword—ze single-steek, he can do everysing so I can. It is his talent. _Sacrebleu!_ He is for-r-mi-dabble.” Harrington laughed, with an expression and gesture of deprecation. “How many men could you fight together, Monsoor?” asked Palmer. “Me? I fight you all. Evairy one. Togezzer,” replied the Frenchman. “Mawdoo!” ejaculated Palmer. “Isn’t he a trump!” “Come, Bagasse, that will do for the marines,” said Wentworth. “You can’t do it.” “Ah,” replied the fencing-master, “you zink not? Bah! Come, I show you.” In a minute he had seven or eight of them, Wentworth, Vukovich, Palmer and Fisk included, masked and foiled. Then putting his back to the wall, he directed them to set upon him. It was agreed that if he was touched the contest was to end there. On the other hand, every combatant touched was to withdraw. “Pardoo! It is splendid!” exclaimed Palmer. “Mawdoo! It is fine!” returned Fisk. The domestically-pronounced French oaths which prefixed these asseverations, were, of course, borrowed by Messrs. Fisk and Palmer from the “Three Guardsmen,” and figured extensively on all possible occasions in their general conversation.