Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned his back to the
smiter and assumed a scientific arrangement of the shoulders with
tense muscles and coyly withdrawn bones. He had been there before....

The dozen were indeed of the Sergeant's best and he was a master. The
boy turned not a hair, though he turned a little pale.... His mouth
grew extraordinarily like that of his grandfather and a little
muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.

"And what do you think of _my_ pleasantries, my young friend?"
inquired Grandfather. "Feeling at all witty _now_?"

"Havlan is failing a bit, Sir," was the cool reply. "I have noticed it
at fencing too--Getting old--or beer perhaps. I scarcely felt him and
so did not see or feel the point of your joke."

"Grandfather's" flush deepened and his smile broadened crookedly. "Try
and do yourself justice, Havlan," he said. "'Nother dozen. 'Tother
way."

Sergeant Havlan changed sides and endeavoured to surpass himself. It
was a remarkably sound dozen.

He mopped his brow.

The bad boy did not move, gave no sign, but retained his rigid,
slightly hunched attitude, as though he had not counted the second
dozen and expected another stroke.

"Let that be a lesson to you to curb your damned tongue," said