And Barty was pushed from behind so roughly that he came at me, all his science to the winds and slogging like a French boy; and I, quite without meaning to, in the hurry, hit out just as he fell over me, and we both rolled together over Jolivet's foot--Barty on top (he was taller, though not heavier, than I); and I saw the blood flow from his nose down his lip and chin, and some of it fell on my blouse. Says Barty to me, in English, as we lay struggling on the dusty floor: "Look here, it's no good. I _can't_ fight to-day; poor Mérovée, you know. Let's make it up!" "All right!" says I. So up we got and shook hands, Barty saying, with mock dignity: "Messieurs, le sang a coulé; l'honneur britannique est sauf;" and the combat was over. "Cristi! J'ai joliment faim!" says Barty, mopping his nose with his handkerchief. "I left my crust on the bench outside the réfectoire. I wish one of you fellows would get it for me." "Rapaud finished your crust [ta miche] while you were fighting," says Jolivet. "I saw him." Says Rapaud: "Ah, Dame, it was getting prettily wet, your crust, and I was prettily hungry too; and I thought you didn't want it, naturally." I then produced _my_ crust and cut it in two, butter and all, and gave Barty half, and we sat very happily side by side, and breakfasted together in peace and amity. I never felt happier or hungrier. "Cristi, comme ils se sont bien battus," says little Vaissière to little Cormenu. "As-tu vu? Josselin a saigné tout plein sur la blouse à Maurice." (How well they fought! Josselin bled all over Maurice's blouse!) Then says Josselin, in French, turning to me with that delightful jolly smile that always reminded one of the sun breaking through a mist: "I would sooner bleed on your blouse than on your tomb." (J'aime mieux saigner sur ta blouse que sur ta tombe.) So ended the only quarrel we ever had. Part Third "Que ne puis-je aller où s'en vont les roses, Et n'attendre pas Ces regrets navrants que la fin des choses Nous garde ici-bas!"--Anon. Barty worked very hard, and so did I--for _me_! Horace--Homer--Æschylus--Plato--etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., and all there was to learn in that French school-boy's encyclopædia--"Le Manuel du Baccalauréat"; a very thick book in very small print. And I came to the conclusion that it is good to work hard: it makes one enjoy food and play and sleep so keenly--and Thursday afternoons. The school was all the pleasanter for having fewer boys; we got more intimate with each other, and with the masters too. During the winter M. Bonzig told us capital stories--_Modeste Mignon_, by Balzac--_Le Chevalier de Maison-rouge_, by A. Dumas père--etc., etc.