They had 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' barricks," 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 in need of money, and knew that the boys had silver.
"Fighting again," said he. "I'll report you to my father, and he'll report you to the Colour-Sergeant."
"What's that to you?" said Jakin, with an unpleasant dilation of the nostrils.
"Oh nothing to me. You'll get into trouble, and you've been up too often to afford that."
"What the Hell do you know about what we've done?" asked Lew the Seraph. "You aren't in the Army, you lousy, cadging civilian."
He closed in on the man's left flank.
"Jes' 'cause you find two gentlemen settlin' their diff'r-
