A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

not understand why the opposing sword was not beaten

down under the assault. Presently, in the midst of the

sword-flashes, I saw a handful of hair skip into the air

as if it had lain loose on the victim’s head and a breath

of wind had puffed it suddenly away.

The seconds cried “Halt!” and knocked up the combatants’

swords with their own. The duelists sat down; a student

official stepped forward, examined the wounded head

and touched the place with a sponge once or twice;

the surgeon came and turned back the hair from the wound–

and revealed a crimson gash two or three inches long,

and proceeded to bind an oval piece of leather and a bunch

of lint over it; the tally-keeper stepped up and tallied

one for the opposition in his book.

Then the duelists took position again; a small stream of

blood was flowing down the side of the injured man’s head,

and over his shoulder and down his body to the floor,

but he did not seem to mind this. The word was given,

and they plunged at each other as fiercely as before;

once more the blows rained and rattled and flashed;

every few moments the quick-eyed seconds would notice

that a sword was bent–then they called “Halt!” struck up

the contending weapons, and an assisting student straightened

the bent one.

The wonderful turmoil went on–presently a bright spark

sprung from a blade, and that blade broken in several pieces,

sent one of its fragments flying to the ceiling.

A new sword was provided and the fight proceeded.

The exercise was tremendous, of course, and in time

the fighters began to show great fatigue. They were

allowed to rest a moment, every little while; they got

other rests by wounding each other, for then they could

sit down while the doctor applied the lint and bandages.

The laws is that the battle must continue fifteen minutes

if the men can hold out; and as the pauses do not count,

this duel was protracted to twenty or thirty minutes,

I judged. At last it was decided that the men were too much

wearied to do battle longer. They were led away drenched

with crimson from head to foot. That was a good fight,

but it could not count, partly because it did not last

the lawful fifteen minutes (of actual fighting), and

partly because neither man was disabled by his wound.

It was a drawn battle, and corps law requires that drawn

battles shall be refought as soon as the adversaries are

well of their hurts.

During the conflict, I had talked a little, now and then,

with a young gentleman of the White Cap Corps, and he

had mentioned that he was to fight next–and had also

pointed out his challenger, a young gentleman who was

leaning against the opposite wall smoking a cigarette

and restfully observing the duel then in progress.

My acquaintanceship with a party to the coming contest

had the effect of giving me a kind of personal interest

in it; I naturally wished he might win, and it was

the reverse of pleasant to learn that he probably

would not, because, although he was a notable swordsman,

the challenger was held to be his superior.

The duel presently began and in the same furious way

which had marked the previous one. I stood close by,

but could not tell which blows told and which did not,

they fell and vanished so like flashes of light. They all

seemed to tell; the swords always bent over the opponents’

heads, from the forehead back over the crown, and seemed

to touch, all the way; but it was not so–a protecting

blade, invisible to me, was always interposed between.

At the end of ten seconds each man had struck twelve

or fifteen blows, and warded off twelve or fifteen,

and no harm done; then a sword became disabled, and a short

rest followed whilst a new one was brought. Early in the

next round the White Corps student got an ugly wound on

the side of his head and gave his opponent one like it.

In the third round the latter received another bad wound