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“Thought you said it was warm,” he shouted to Gorrick.

“So it is; hot as anything. Come on in.”

And Spencer came on in. Not because he wanted to–for, by rights, there were some twelve more movements to be gone through before he should finally creep in at the shallow end–but because a cold hand, placed suddenly on the small of his back, urged him forward. Down he went, with the water fizzing and bubbling all over and all round him. He swallowed a good deal of it, but there was still plenty left; and what there was was colder than one would have believed possible.

He came to the surface after what seemed to him a quarter of an hour, and struck out for the side. When he got out, Phipps and Thomas had just got in. Gorrick was standing at the end of the cocoanut matting which formed a pathway to the spring-board. Gorrick was blue, but determined.

“I say! Did I go in all right then?” inquired Gorrick.

“How the dickens do I know?” said Spencer, stung to fresh wrath by the inanity of the question.

“Spencer did,” said Thomas, appearing in the water below them and holding on to the rail.

“Look here!” cried Spencer; “did you shove me in then?”

“Me! Shove!” Thomas’s voice expressed horror and pain. “Why, you dived in. Jolly good one, too. Reminded me of the diving elephants at the Hippodrome.”

And he swam off.

“That kid,” said Gorrick, gazing after him, “wants his head smacked.”

“Badly,” agreed Spencer. “Look here! did he shove me in? Did you see him?”

“I was doing my dive. But it must have been him. Phipps never rags in the bath.”

Spencer grunted–an expressive grunt–and, creeping down the steps, entered the water again.

It was Spencer’s ambition to swim ten lengths of the bath. He was not a young Channel swimmer, and ten lengths represented a very respectable distance to him. He proceeded now to attempt to lower his record. It was not often that he got the bath so much to himself. Usually, there was barely standing-room in the water, and long-distance swimming was impossible. But now, with a clear field, he should, he thought, be able to complete the desired distance.

He was beginning the fifth length before interruption came. Just as he reached halfway, a reproachful voice at his side said: “Oh, Percy, you’ll tire yourself!” and a hand on the top of his head propelled him firmly towards the bottom.

Every schoolboy, as Honble. Macaulay would have put it, knows the sensation of being ducked. It is always unpleasant–sometimes more, sometimes less. The present case belonged to the former class. There was just room inside Spencer for another half-pint of water. He swallowed it. When he came to the surface, he swam to the side without a word and climbed out. It was the last straw. Honour could now be satisfied only with gore.

He hung about outside the baths till Phipps and Thomas appeared, then, with a steadfast expression on his face, he walked up to the latter and kicked him.

Thomas seemed surprised, but not alarmed. His eyes grew a little rounder, and the pink on his cheeks deepened. He looked like a choir-boy in a bad temper.

“Hullo! What’s up, you ass, Spencer?” inquired Phipps.

Spencer said nothing.

“Where shall we go?” asked Thomas.

“Oh, chuck it!” said Phipps the peacemaker.

Spencer and Thomas were eyeing each other warily.

“You chaps aren’t going to fight?” said Phipps.

The notion seemed to distress him.

“Unless he cares to take a kicking,” said Spencer suavely.

“Not to-day, I think, thanks,” replied Thomas without heat.

“Then, look here!” said Phipps briskly, “I know a ripping little place just off the Lelby Road. It isn’t five minutes’ walk, and there’s no chance of being booked there. Rot if someone was to come and stop it half-way through. It’s in a field; thick hedges. No one can see. And I tell you what–I’ll keep time. I’ve got a watch. Two minute rounds, and half-a-minute in between, and I’m the referee; so, if anybody fouls the other chap, I’ll stop the fight. See? Come on!”