“You're a bloomin' liar,” said Lew without heat. “You're a bloomin' little barstard,” said Jakin, strong in the knowledge that his own ancestry was unknown. Now there is one word in the extended vocabulary of barrack-room abuse that cannot pass without comment. You may call a man a thief and risk nothing. You may even call him a coward without finding more than a boot whiz past your ear, but you must not call a man a bastard unless you are prepared to prove it on his front teeth. “You might ha' kep' that till I wasn't so sore,” said Lew sorrowfully, dodging round Jakin's guard. “I'll make you sorer,” said Jakin genially, and got home on Lew's alabaster forehead. All would have gone well and this story, as the books say, would never have been written, had not his evil fate prompted the Bazar-Sergeant's son, a long, employless man of five-and-twenty, to put in an appearance after the first round. He was eternally in need of money, and knew that the boys had silver. “Fighting again,” said he. “I'll report you to my father, and he'll report you to the Colour-Sergeant.” “What's that to you?” said Jakin with an unpleasant dilation of the nostrils. “Oh! nothing to me. You'll get into trouble, and you've been up too often to afford that.” “What the Hell do you know about what we've done?” asked Lew the Seraph. “You aren't in the Army, you lousy, cadging civilian.” He closed in on the man's left flank. “Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' their diff'rences with their fistes you stick in your ugly nose where you aren't wanted. Run 'ome to your 'arf-caste slut of a Ma--or we'll give you what-for,” said Jakin. The man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys' heads together. The scheme would have succeeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently in the stomach, or had Lew refrained from kicking his shins. They fought together, bleeding and breathless, for half an hour, and, after heavy punishment, triumphantly pulled down their opponent as terriers pull down a jackal. “Now,” gasped Jakin, “I'll give you what-for.” He proceeded to pound the man's features while Lew stamped on the outlying portions of his anatomy. Chivalry is not a strong point in the composition of the average drummer-boy. He fights, as do his betters, to make his mark. Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was the wrath of the Bazar-Sergeant. Awful too was the scene in Orderly-room when the two reprobates appeared to answer the charge of half-murdering a “civilian.” The Bazar-Sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his son lied. The boys stood to attention while the black clouds of evidence accumulated. “You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the Regiment put together,” said the Colonel angrily. “One might as well admonish thistledown, and I can't well put you in cells or under stoppages. You must be birched again.” “Beg y' pardon, Sir. Can't we say nothin' in our own defence, Sir?” shrilled Jakin.