Clifford began loosening the straps. “You know, Bonin, that we always do interfere when it goes as far as this against an Englishman or an American.” He laughed good naturedly. “There’s always been a fight over it before, but I hope there won’t be any today.” Bonin grinned and shrugged his shoulders. After vainly fussing with the ropes, Clifford and the others finally cut them and the “nouveau” scrambled to his feet and took an attitude which may be seen engraved in any volume of instruction in the noble art of self-defense. He was an Englishman of the sandy variety. Orange-colored whiskers decorated a carefully scrubbed face, terminating in a red-brown mustache. He had blue eyes, now lighted to a pale green by the fire of battle, reddish-brown hair, and white hands spattered with orange-colored freckles. All this, together with a well made suit of green and yellow checks, and the seesaw accent of the British Empire, answered, when politely addressed, to the name of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq. “I say,” he began, “I’m awfully obliged, you know, and all that; but I’d jolly well like to give some of these cads a jolly good licking, you know.” “Go in, my friend, go in!” laughed Clifford; “but next time we’ll leave you to hang in the air for an hour or two, that’s all.” “Damn their cheek!” began the Englishman. “See here,” cried Elliott sharply, “you’re only a nouveau, and you’d better shut up till you’ve been here long enough to talk.” “In other words,” said Clifford, “don’t buck against custom.” “But I _cahn’t_ see it,” said the nouveau, brushing his dusty trousers. “I don’t see it at all, you know. Damn their cheek!” At this moment the week-weaned Frenchman shoved up to Clifford. “What did you mean by interfering? Eh! You English pig.” Clifford looked at him with contempt. “What do you want, my little Nouveau?” “Nouveau!” spluttered the Gaul, “Nouveau, eh!” and he made a terrific lunge at the American, who was sent stumbling backward, and slipping, fell heavily. The Frenchman gazed around in triumph, but his grin was not reflected on the faces of his compatriots. None of them would have changed places with him. Clifford picked himself up deliberately. His face was calm and mild as he walked up to his opponent, who hurriedly put himself into an attitude of self-defense. “Monsieur Nouveau, you are not wise. But some day you will learn better, when you are no longer a nouveau,” said Clifford, kindly. The man looked puzzled, but kept his fists up. “Now I am going to punish you a little,” proceeded Clifford, in even tones, “not harshly, but with firmness, for your good,” he added, walking straight up to the Frenchman.