Skepsey heard, with a nip of spite at his bosom, a small body of them singing in chorus as they walked in step, arm in arm, actually marched: and to the rearward, none of these girls heeding; there were the louts at their burlesque of jigs and fisticuffs! 'Cherry Ripe,' was the song.
'It's delightful to hear them!' said Dartrey.
Skepsey muttered jealously of their having been trained.
The song, which drew Dartrey Fenellan to the quick of an English home, planted him at the same time in Africa to hear it.

Dewy on a parched forehead it fell, England the shedding heaven.
He fetched a deep breath, as of gratitude for vital refreshment.

He had his thoughts upon the training of our English to be something besides the machinery of capitalists, and upon the country as a blessed mother instead of the most capricious of maudlin step-dames.
He flicked his leg with the stick he carried, said: 'Your master's the man to make a change among them, old friend!' and strolled along to a group surrounding two fellows who shammed a bout at single-stick.
Vacuity in the attack on either side, contributed to the joint success of the defense.

They paused under inspection; and Dartrey said: 'You're burning to give them a lesson, Skepsey.' Skepsey had no objection to his hero's doing so, though at his personal cost.
The sticks were handed to them; the crowd increased; their rounders boys had spied them, and came trooping to the scene.

Skepsey was directed to hit in earnest.