or "ALL'S WELL AT ST NETHERFIELDS"
Take that, you young cub!" roared the lout, punctuating each word with a kidney punch. It was Steggs, the dunderhead of 5X, bullying poor little Miggs again.
"I'll teach you to burn my toast, you beastly little fag," he mouthed with a frightful oath, and, again fixing the poor young chap's ear firmly between his decaying teeth, he set about him once more.
Suddenly the door was flung open and there stood Chalmers, hero of the younger crowd (flexing his muscles), his blue hair blazing with fury and his fetching fair eyes parted into a neat quiff.
"Here, enough of that rot, Steggs," he murmured politely, as he stepped lightly into the filthy den. Then, turning to Miggs, he added quietly "Here, cut along young 'un, and report to Matron." Miggs' eyes filled with tears of gratitude, but a chap must not blubber, so merely nodding his thanks, the plucky child picked up his ear and fled.
Steggs, who until now had watched speechless with amazement, now turned the full fury of his rage against our hero.
"What the hell d'you think you are on, Sir Flippin' Galahad?" he choked, and rushed at Chalmers.
But Chalmers, neatly sidestepping, gave him a smart clip on the jaw. "So, it's a brawl you want is it?" sneered Steggs, spitting out the odd molar. "No, not at all," riposted his potential contestant, "I merely disapprove of violence, save in defense of a just cause." (Well said, lad!)
With this, the impetuous and headstrong bully rushed forward once again. And so the famous fight was joined – Steggs committing every foul trick that his white-haired papa had thought to teach him; Chalmers adroitly parrying every time, each of his blows landing with telling effect.
Soon Steggs began to tire. He now regretted those moments behind the cricket pavilion, when he had idled his time away drinking fizz and smoking cheap cigars. Why had he not joined the Scout Troop, he groaned to himself. However, it was not this intense spiritual interrogation, but a crashing blow from Chalmers that finally caused him to sink defenseless to the ground.
"OK, enough," he blubbered. "I'm sorry. Help me up, will ya?"
"Certainly old chap," replied the other with a friendly smile. Then the rotter, as our hero approached, lashed out treacherously with his boot. After this incident, Chalmers made short work of Steggs, leaving him senseless. Chalmers turned to go, then stopped, for there stood the Head, the Rev. Scheckthorpe-Johnson, his head on one side, nodding wisely. "I saw everything," he muttered. "You are a credit to the school, Chalmers," he mused pathetically. "We are all proud of you. Remember as you sail majestically down the lane of life . . . ah . . . um . . ." then he turned and shuffled off down the dusty passage, gibbering to himself: "Haec otia studia fovent" (Liverpool, Geography, 1905–15, failed).
Chalmers, left to himself at last, poured himself a large whisky. "Aw hell!" he growled, as he grabbed viciously for the terrified chambermaid in the corner.
