below the level of the beasts (fortunate beasts) that perish.

"Now you've _got_ to fight him, of course," said Delorme, and fled to
spread the glad tidings far and wide.

"I--I--don't feel well now," mumbled Harberth. "I'll fight him when
I'm better," and shambled away, outraged, puzzled, disgusted. What was
the world coming to? The little brute! He had a punch like the kick of
a horse. The little cad--to _dare_! Well, he'd show him something if
he had the face to stand up to his betters and olders and biggers in
the ring....

News of the affair spread like wild-fire, and the incredible conduct
of the extraordinary Funky Warren--said to be no longer Funky--became
the topic of the hour.

At tea, Dam was solemnly asked if it were true that he had cast
Harberth from a lofty window and brought him to death's door, or that
of the hospital; whether he had strangled him with the result that he
had a permanent squint; if he had so kicked him as to break both his
thigh bones; if he had offered to fight him with one hand.

Even certain more or less grave and reverend seniors of the upper
school took a well-disguised interest in the matter and pretended that
the affair should be allowed to go on, as it would do Harberth a lot
of good if de Warrenne could lick him, and do the latter a lot of good
to reinstate himself by showing that he was not really a coward in
essentials. Of course they took no interest in the fight as a fight.
Certainly not (but it was observed that Flaherty of the Sixth stopped
the fight most angrily and peremptorily when it was over, and that no