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"Be pleased to wreck no more of my orchid-houses and to exercise your great wit on your equals and juniors," he added. Dam budged not an inch and relaxed not a muscle. "You may go," said "Grandfather".... "Well what are you waiting for?" "I was waiting for Sergeant Havlan to begin," was the reply. "I thought I was to have a second dozen."
I'll reciprocate to the best of my poor ability," he remarked silkily, and his mouth set in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone. "A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant," he added, turning to Sergeant Havlan. "Coat off, Sir," remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy who could touch him almost as he would with the foil.
"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.
As young Havlan was a year his senior, a trained infant prodigy, and destined for the Prize Ring, there was plenty for him to learn and to do. With foil or sabre the boy was beneath Dam's contempt. Daily the children were in Sergeant Havlan's charge for riding and physical drill, Dam getting an extra hour in the evening for the more manly and specialized pursuits suitable to his riper years.
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.
Taking no denial from Butterson, he forced his way into the presence of his master and clamoured for instant retributive justice or the acceptance of his resignation forthwith, and him twanty-twa years in the ane place. "Grandfather," roused from slumber, gouty, liverish, ferociously angry, sent for Dam, Sergeant Havlan, and Sergeant Havlan's cane.
He rolled up his right sleeve, drew the sword, and made one or two passes like Sergeant Havlan always did before he began fencing. The other two men, meantime, had been behaving somewhat similarly talking together earnestly and one of them undressing.
He knocked Harberth clean out, they say. Perhaps his father has had him properly taught and he can really box. Ever seen him play footer? Nippiest little devil I ever saw. Staunch too. Rum go," commented his friend. Dam thought of Sergeant Havlan and his son, the punching-ball, and the fighting days at Monksmead. Perhaps he could "really" box, after all.
Sergeant Havlan soon found that he had little need to begin at the beginning with Damocles de Warrenne in the matter of riding, fencing or boxing, and was unreasonably annoyed thereat. In time, it became the high ambition and deep desire of Dam to overcome Sergeant Havlan's son in battle with the gloves.
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