The Ordeal of Richard Feverel | Page 6

the well-set straight nose; his
full grey eyes, open nostrils, and planted feet, and a gentlemanly air of
calm and alertness, formed a spirited picture of a young combatant. As
for Ripton, he was all abroad, and fought in school-boy style--that is,
he rushed at the foe head foremost, and struck like a windmill. He was
a lumpy boy. When he did hit, he made himself felt; but he was at the
mercy of science. To see him come dashing in, blinking and puffing
and whirling his arms abroad while the felling blow went straight
between them, you perceived that he was fighting a fight of desperation,
and knew it. For the dreaded alternative glared him in the face that, if
he yielded, he must look like what he had been twenty times
calumniously called; and he would die rather than yield, and swing his
windmill till he dropped. Poor boy! he dropped frequently. The gallant
fellow fought for appearances, and down he went. The Gods favour one
of two parties. Prince Turnus was a noble youth; but he had not Pallas
at his elbow. Ripton was a capital boy; he had no science. He could not
prove he was not a fool! When one comes to think of it, Ripton did
choose the only possible way, and we should all of us have
considerable difficulty in proving the negative by any other. Ripton
came on the unerring fist again and again; and if it was true, as he said
in short colloquial gasps, that he required as much beating as an egg to
be beaten thoroughly, a fortunate interruption alone saved our friend
from resembling that substance. The boys heard summoning voices,
and beheld Mr. Morton of Poer Hall and Austin Wentworth stepping
towards them.
A truce was sounded, jackets were caught up, guns shouldered, and off
they trotted in concert through the depths of the wood, not stopping till
that and half-a-dozen fields and a larch plantation were well behind
them.
When they halted to take breath, there was a mutual study of faces.
Ripton's was much discoloured, and looked fiercer with its natural
war-paint than the boy felt. Nevertheless, he squared up dauntlessly on
the new ground, and Richard, whose wrath was appeased, could not

refrain from asking him whether he had not really had enough.
"Never!" shouts the noble enemy.
"Well, look here," said Richard, appealing to common sense, "I'm tired
of knocking you down. I'll say you're not a fool, if you'll give me your
hand."
Ripton demurred an instant to consult with honour, who bade him catch
at his chance.
He held out his hand. "There!" and the boys grasped hands and were
fast friends. Ripton had gained his point, and Richard decidedly had the
best of it. So, they were on equal ground. Both, could claim a victory,
which was all the better for their friendship.
Ripton washed his face and comforted his nose at a brook, and was
now ready to follow his friend wherever he chose to lead. They
continued to beat about for birds. The birds on the Raynham estates
were found singularly cunning, and repeatedly eluded the aim of these
prime shots, so they pushed their expedition into the lands of their
neighbors, in search of a stupider race, happily oblivious of the laws
and conditions of trespass; unconscious, too, that they were poaching
on the demesne of the notorious Farmer Blaize, the free-trade farmer
under the shield of the Papworths, no worshipper of the Griffin
between two Wheatsheaves; destined to be much allied with Richard's
fortunes from beginning to end. Farmer Blaize hated poachers, and,
especially young chaps poaching, who did it mostly from impudence.
He heard the audacious shots popping right and left, and going forth to
have a glimpse at the intruders, and observing their size, swore he
would teach my gentlemen a thing, lords or no lords.
Richard had brought down a beautiful cock-pheasant, and was exulting
over it, when the farmer's portentous figure burst upon them, cracking
an avenging horsewhip. His salute was ironical.
"Havin' good sport, gentlemen, are ye?"

"Just bagged a splendid bird!" radiant Richard informed him.
"Oh!" Farmer Blaize gave an admonitory flick of the whip.
"Just let me clap eye on't, then."
"Say, please," interposed Ripton, who was not blind to doubtful
aspects.
Farmer Blaize threw up his chin, and grinned grimly.
"Please to you, sir? Why, my chap, you looks as if ye didn't much mind
what come t'yer nose, I reckon. You looks an old poacher, you do. Tall
ye what 'tis'!" He changed his banter to business, "That bird's mine!
Now you jest hand him over, and sheer off, you dam young scoundrels!
I know ye!" And he became exceedingly opprobrious, and uttered
contempt of the name of Feverel.