there was any real danger of such savagery as was implied in sending challenges, they hastened, by mutual concessions, to climb down from these perilous places, where loss of balance might possibly occur. For which of them could be absolutely certain that next time the other of them might not be more courageous?...
They were coming up from the tram-station one November evening, both fizzing and fuming a good deal, and the Major was extremely lame, lamer than Puffin. The rattle of the tram had made argument impossible during the transit from the links, but they had both in this enforced silence thought of several smart repartees, supposing that the other made the requisite remarks to call them out, and on arrival at the Tilling station they went on at precisely the same point at which they had broken off on starting from the station by the links.
“Well, I hope I can take a beating in as English a spirit as anybody,” said the Major.
This was lucky for Captain Puffin: he had thought it likely that he would say just that, and had got a stinger for him.
“And it worries you to find that your hopes are doomed to disappointment,” he swiftly said.
Major Flint stepped in a puddle which cooled his foot but not his temper.
“Most offensive remark,” he said. “I wasn’t called Sporting Benjy in the regiment for nothing. But never mind that. A worm-cast—”
“It wasn’t a worm-cast,” said Puffin. “It was sheep’s dung!”
Luck had veered here: the Major had felt sure that Puffin would reiterate that utterly untrue contention.
“I can’t pretend to be such a specialist as you in those
