But, for all
that The Young Pole's Sunday-best clothes were covered with filth, and
for all that his polished puttees were soiled and scratched by the
splintery floor of The Enormous Room (he having rolled well off the
blanket upon which the wrestling was supposed to occur), his spirit was
dashed but for the moment. He set about cleaning and polishing himself,
combing his hair, smoothing his cap--and was as cocky as ever next
morning. In fact I think he was cockier; for he took to guying Bill The
Hollander in French, with which tongue Bill was only faintly familiar and
of which, consequently, he was doubly suspicious. As The Young Pole lay
in bed of an evening after _lumieres eteintes_, he would guy his somewhat
massive neighbour in a childish almost girlish voice, shouting with
laughter when The Triangle rose on one arm and volleyed Dutch at him,
pausing whenever The Triangle's good-nature threatened to approach the
breaking point, resuming after a minute or two when The Triangle appeared
to be on the point of falling into the arms of Morpheus. This sort of
_blague_ had gone on for several nights without dangerous results. It
was, however, inevitable that sooner or later something would happen--and
as we lifted our heads on this particular Sunday morn we were not
surprised to see The Hollander himself standing over The Young Pole, with
clenched paws, wringing shoulders, and an apocalyptic face whiter than
Death's horse.
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