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Polkinghorne was beginning to feel worried, because seen together it was plain that the big Doughty overtopped Ishmael by nearly a head. Suddenly he had an inspiration and threw himself between them as Doughty swung out at the younger boy, thereby incidentally getting the blow himself. "I'll lick you for that later, Doughty," he ejaculated. "Meanwhile, kindly shut up while I say something.
I can see Polkinghorne and Carminow and Polkinghorne minor and Moss minor and yes, it's Doughty. I hope you don't mind fearfully, Hilaria?" She threw a queer little look at him. "It's not for me," she said slowly; "it's only that I don't think he likes you, Ishmael. He tried to tell me something funny about you the other day.
Ruan can't fight you " "Can't he? Then what did he hit me for?" "I can fight him all right, thanks," said Ishmael. "But he can wrestle you," went on Polkinghorne imperturbably, "because he's a clever wrestler and he'll stand a fair chance. You can take it or leave it, but if you leave it I'll give you a thrashing for the honour of the school."
Ishmael had scrambled up; his blood was still singing in his veins; he felt no dismay at the sight of the looming Doughty. "Don't be an ass, Doughty," said Polkinghorne sharply; "and if you can't help being a cad, wait till Miss Eliot isn't present." "Oh, never mind about me; I want to see you kill him, Ishmael!" cried Hilaria viciously.
If Killigrew had died when they were both young, Ishmael would have felt a more passionate grief an emptiness, a resentment that never again would he see and talk with him; but part of himself would not have died too. As he lay, there suddenly came into his mind the first two occasions on which he had heard of deaths that affected him at all intimately the deaths of Polkinghorne and of Hilaria.
"Well, but what like is he?" "Oh, as to that, Sir, a man of ordinary shape, like yourself, in a plain blue coat and a wig shorter than ordinary; nothing about him to prepare you for the language he lets fly." "And," put in Arch'laus Spry, "he's taken lodgings down to Durgan with the Widow Polkinghorne, and eaten his dinner a fowl and a jug of cider with it.
"Isn't it, funny," she went on, "that we're all going to be something, some kind of a person, and don't really know a bit what kind? Yet I feel very much me already...." "I'm going to be a soldier," said Polkinghorne, serenely missing any metaphysical proposition.
"Oh, I must stay, Polkinghorne," she pleaded, feeling for the first time a terrible sensation of not being wanted, of an unimportance essential to her sex and beyond her power to alter whatever her tastes or her justifiable reliance on her own nerves. But Polkinghorne, backed by Killigrew and Ishmael himself, was adamant, though Carminow saw no reason why she should not stay if it interested her.
Polkinghorne made a quick survey of the place, then placed his men so that the light fell sideways, not directly upon either face. "Shoes off, Doughty!" he ordered. "None of your nasty Devonshire ways here!" For the Devon rules admit kicking, and that with shoes, while Cornish, though allowing leg-play, insist it should be in stocking-feet, and consist of tripping and locking only.
"Well, why did you want to laugh when Doughty said that?" asked Polkinghorne judicially. "Said what?" asked Ishmael. "Why, that he was just going to be a gentleman." "Did he say that? I didn't hear him. But I should have laughed if I had...." Killigrew stared at his friend in amazement.
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