We may be interrupted." And Richard led the way with a courteous reserve that somewhat chilled Ripton's ardour for the contest.

On the skirts of the wood, Richard threw off his jacket and waistcoat, and, quite collected, waited for Ripton to do the same.

The latter boy was flushed and restless; older and broader, but not so tight-limbed and well-set.

The Gods, sole witnesses of their battle, betted dead against him.

Richard had mounted the white cockade of the Feverels, and there was a look in him that asked for tough work to extinguish.