"Did you know him, sir?" The Parson tossed his Polly in the air, and caught her deftly. "Did we know him? did we not? You remember Jacko Gordon, my lady?--and the sands of Calvi?" "That was where the bully fought him!" cried Kit. "Ran him through the fore-arm when he wasn't ready." A dark breeze swept across the other's face. "He was ready; and it was not the fore-arm," he replied with icy chilliness. "It was the wrist; was it not, my own?" bending over his blade.... "Yes; he had a lovely wrist--until she kissed it...." He shrugged. "But what would you?--'Calves!' says he; and it was before the mess-tent--' d'you call those things? yours calves?'--'And what d'you call em yourself?' says I, mighty polite. 'Why, _cows in calf!'_ says he, and swaggers off with a silly guffaw. "After that there was nothing for it but the usual of course. I ran him through the wrist. He dropped his blade.... "'D'you withdraw?' says I, she straining for his heart. "'What I have said, I have said,' he answered, white as silver and steady as the firmament. "Then little man Nelson knocked up my sword-- "'That'll do, Black Cock,' says he. 'A joke's a joke; but a brave man's death's a mighty bad joke. She's a little blood-sucker that lady o yours.' And nobody but Nelson'd ha dared to say it." II The boy was staring hard. "Did they call you Black Cock, sir? Abercromby's Black Cock?" "That's me, sir, at your service," replied the Parson--"Joy of Battle in the Regiment, Abercromby's Black Cock in the Army. What of it?" "I met a man who knew you this morning." The other's eyes leapt. "Chap with a beak on a chestnut!--handsome young scoundrel!-- Frenchified, theatrical, bit o red riband stuck on his stomach." "That's the man, sir." "Well, what of him?--Quick!" Kit repeated the tale of Egypt, as the Gentleman had told it. The other listened with rapt interest. "It's all true," he said, "true as the Bible." He was pacing up and down, his hands behind him. "There was a time in my life," he began at last "when I had--er--the regrettable habit of--er--using foul language, as your Uncle Jacko may have told you. Never filthy language! never that. I always swore like a gentleman. Chucked the d's and b's and g's about a bit too merry. Well, one day--it was in Egypt--I was carrying on a bit, when a pious sort of ass I knew at home, who was standing by, said--'I wonder what your mother'd think if she heard you now, Harry Joy.' So after I'd given him some for imself, I went back to my tent and thought a bit. "You see I'd just heard from home that poor old mother was failing. And I couldn't help thinking--Now supposing she dies, and first thing she hears when she gets to heaven is her boy loosing off on earth!... "So I took an oath Samson-style, and I prayed I and I said--'Look here, Lord, if you'll look over what's past, and help me keep a clean tongue in future, I'll kill you a Frenchman a day for seven days....'