4th July, early evening; Red & green

He hesitated a moment, darting a glance at the skinny Rifleman, then made a hasty escape, entirely forgetting that his shako was not on his head. It had been knocked off in the brief scuffle.

"This ain't straight, not a bit." Mayden couldn't help the comment. He ignored the scowl from Jack. For once, his mate would just have to lump it.

"I didn't say it was. There ain't no need to knockin' folks about, arter all." And if the Captain did find out, he was going to go spare.

"Is alla you Sixtief lads cock robins, or izzit jes' you?" Jack asked with a sneer.

"I'd ask whether all the Sweeps open their mouths without thinkin' first, but I know Mayden here don't, for one, so it must be just you," Cotton replied, thinking that he really really needed to back off now and get out while the going was good.

That was rich. It really was.

" 'E also knows when words is gotta be lef' out, don't 'e, like when there's a goose from the Thirty-third round wot needs sortin' out. Then's the time fer usin' 'is fists, ain't it, an' that's jes' wot 'e done. Like any Rifleman wurf 'is jacket woulda." He looked the 60th man over pointedly. "But then, we's Sweeps."

Cotton eased his rifle on his shoulder and shrugged. "An' I'm a Jagger. So what? We'm all greenjackets, ain't we? Takes someone with brains to be a greenjacket." Not that they'd know it, lookin' at you.

He carried on. "Last I saw, he was thumpin' you. I reckon I'm jus' goin' to get on an' let him get on with it - might beat some sense inta your skull."

That was nearly more than Jack was prepared to tolerate. "Brains, mebbe, but it ain't nuffin wivvout balls."

He ignored Mayden's subtle shifting away from the immediate scene.

He really needed to get out of here now, before he did something really stupid. "Like I said, you got brains, ain't you? I don't reckon it's so clever to go millin' for no good reason, jus' cause the fancy takes you thataway."

"It's a good reason when the enemy's sniffin' round. Or mebbe yer fergettin' wot they is, an' wot they done." It shouldn't need elaborating on who 'they' were, but there was no telling with these 60th boys.

Jack eyed the toady up again and added, "Make a body wonder 'bout the real colour of yer jacket, you does."

"Wasn't all of 'em, y'know," Cotton pointed out, not forgetting that he had a bone to pick with a certain member of the 33rd's Light Company himself. He narrowed his eyes at Kirridge. "What're you tryin' to suggest?" he asked pointedly, not liking the way the man was eyeing him.

"Ain't suggestin' nuffin, swing-tail," answered Jack blandly. "On'y seems yer loyal'ies mebbe ain't right. But fer a 'obnail wiv the Sixtief..."

"My loyalties is jus' fine, much you'd bleedin' know about it," Cotton replied. He was not going to be provoked into throwing the first punch, he wasn't. "You'm a bleedin' eyesore, is what you am."

"Is they?" Jack moved in half a step, innately sensing blood. "I fink they's back'ards. If they's there t'all. Make a body fink you's a nose, cully, you does. Or worse."

"I s'pose you got sent 'ere 'cause it was that or dance the hempen jig," Cotton said, holding his rifle out to Mayden to get it out of harm's way. "Which means you don't even know what side your bread's buttered, so don't you come all hog-headed with me, mate."

This joskin didn't know the half of it. The reasons for Jack leaving London were severe enough to mean he could almost certainly never go back. "Oh I were s'posed to take the ride up 'Olborn 'Ill, weren't I, but 'ere I be instead."

He shook his head. "Git you, playin' it the 'ard man. Wot you say, Sammy. This'n finks 'e's a game cock."

"Leastways I ain't no black-tan." He really really ought to leave it alone now - he should have just left Mayden to deal with it and let the captain know, as unofficially as he could, that Kirridge was trouble.

"If that were proper talkin', mebbe I'd know it," sneered Jack. He glanced at Mayden, who was beginning to look uneasy. "The sow 'ere finks 'e kin 'ave a go at the pedlar's French, like 'e's a rum cove. Lissen 'ere, y'chatt-ridden milestone. 'Less you gonna bing off an' split to yer cap'n, mebbe you best stash it, eh?"

"I dessay you'd be glad to see the backwent of me, and no more I'd like to see yourn an' all, but we'm both in this comp'ny f'r now and jus' 'cause you can't cotton along ain't no reason to go argifyin' with folks you don't like the looks of. I never knowed such a rookery as this is!"

Whatever Kirridge had just said completely escaped Cotton, but none of it sounded particularly complimentary.

"Like to you t'bed wiv a shovel," was all Jack had to say in answer to that. He flexed his hands and added "I fink you's a nocky, right 'nuff, on'y 'ere still 'cause yer cap'n needs 'is buttock."

That did it! Cotton balled his fists, reckoning he'd only get in one good punch and he'd best make a it a good one, and swung hard at Kirridge's breastbone. That ought to take the wind out of his sails good and proper...

About time. He'd been starting to wonder if this goose was worth the effort, but it seemed he was. The punch, when it came, was thrown hard. Jack had expected it to come but not aimed as it was. He was not quick enough to deflect it, which only served to stoke his temper.

The blow had driven some air from his lungs, however, and setting his feet to swing back was not easy. Neither was his answering punch the best he'd ever produced. Christ but this hobnail had an arm on him.

Should he go for his knife? Maybe after a punch or two. It would be no end of lovely to sort this bastard out the way he deserved. Jack sucked in a mouthful of air and swung at the Sixtieth man's ribs.

"Jesus," Mayden said, sounding exasperated. He was wisely staying well removed from the two combatants.

A thump to the ribs that Cotton didn't mange to deflect, though he twisted away a little which lessened the impact - though barely! - and he returned the favour with his left fist, planting his feet solidly. Being an ex-farm labourer meant he had solid muscle and could take a pounding - though he didn't particularly relish going toe-to-toe with this bastard for a proper milling.

He kept his eyes on his opponent's face, trying to anticipate his next move.

One thing became instantly clear to Jack when the goose landed another blow. He was not going to stand up long at all against the other Rifleman. Not with the bastard swinging like that. Which meant he would have to improvise.

His slight build gave him an advantage though. He fully intended to use it. Jack lifted his hands nearly chest-high, then feinted to his left. He was swinging with his right fist nearly at the same time, ready to duck away if the hobnail managed to counter the punch.

Damn but the man was fast - faster than Cotton was used to his opponents being. A blow from his right was countered but it was immediately followed by a thump to his left breast.

He replied with a feint of his own, following the swing of his left fist with a swipe from his right.

It was like a gentleman's hunter against a cart-horse - the one might have the more speed over a short span of time but the other could keep going. Cotton's only real option was to keep standing long enough to wear the slighter Rifleman down.

And hope like blazes that nobody in authority came along too soon.