"Anywhere you like," replied Ripton.

"A little more into the wood, I think. We may be interrupted." And
Richard led the way with a courteous reserve that somewhat chilled
Ripton's ardour for the contest. On the skirts of the wood, Richard
threw off his jacket and waistcoat, and, quite collected, waited for
Ripton to do the same. The latter boy was flushed and restless; older
and broader, but not so tight-limbed and well-set. The Gods, sole
witnesses of their battle, betted dead against him. Richard had mounted
the white cockade of the Feverels, and there was a look in him that asked
for tough work to extinguish. His brows, slightly lined upward at the
temples, converging to a knot about the well-set straight nose; his full
grey eyes, open nostrils, and planted feet, and a gentlemanly air of calm
and alertness, formed a spirited picture of a young combatant. As for
Ripton, he was all abroad, and fought in school-boy style--that is, he
rushed at the foe head foremost, and struck like a windmill. He was a
lumpy boy. When he did hit, he made himself felt; but he was at the
mercy of science. To see him come dashing in, blinking and puffing and
whirling his arms abroad while the felling blow went straight between
them, you perceived that he was fighting a fight of desperation, and knew
it. For the dreaded alternative glared him in the face that, if he
yielded, he must look like what he had been twenty times calumniously
called; and he would die rather than yield, and swing his windmill till
he dropped. Poor boy! he dropped frequently. The gallant fellow fought
for appearances, and down he went. The Gods favour one of two parties.
Prince Turnus was a noble youth; but he had not Pallas at his elbow.
Ripton was a capital boy; he had no science. He could not prove he was
not a fool! When one comes to think of it, Ripton did choose the only
possible way, and we should all of us have considerable difficulty in