“You're another.”“So are you.”“I am, am I?”“Yes; a cocky overbearing bully. You want your comb cut, Gil Vincent.”“Cut it, then, you miserable humbug. Take that.” Crack—thud!My fist went home on Morton's cheek, and almost simultaneously his flew out and struck me in the ribs. Crack—thud! Morton's return sounding like an echo of my blow.There was a buzz of excitement. Coats flew off; two of our fellows eagerly pressed forward to act as seconds; my shirt-sleeves were rolled up over my thin arms, and in another instant we two fellow-pupils were squaring at each other, and I was gathering myself up to deliver as hard a blow as I could when—“Stop! halt!” came in a sharp harsh voice, and General Crucie, with the great scar upon his white forehead looking red and inflamed as it always did when he was angry, strode up, thumped down his thick malacca cane, so that the ferule went into the grass and it stood alone, while he looked from one to the other fiercely.“Upon my word!” he cried. “Very pretty! Two gentlemen flying at each others' throats like a couple of street boys. A regular blackguardly fight. I'm ashamed of you, gentlemen. What does it all mean?”“Well, sir, it was like this,” began Hendry, my second.