just been convicted afresh of smoking, which is bad for little
boys who use plug-tobacco, and Lew's contention was that Jakin had
"stunk so 'orrid bad from keepin' the pipe in pocket," that he and
he alone was responsible for the birching they were both tingling
under.

"I tell you I 'id the pipe back o' barracks," said Jakin
pacifically.

"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.