After taking his final exam for seventh grade, Richie arrived at fencing practice not in a good mood, as he should have been, but tired, haggard, and irritated.
The boy was like a container of gasoline - any spark was enough to burst into a bright flame.
When there's fuel, there's always a fool to light a match. That person was the new coach, replacing the ailing and familiar Mr. McCormick.
A young man with blond hair lined up all the children. He looked like a strutting peacock. Looking at his charges as if they were the fruits of an animal's labor, he exclaimed in a loud, shrill voice:
"You're a flock of sheep! But I, Stanley Vince, silver medalist in international fencing competitions, will make champions out of you."
Richard didn't like the idea of anyone addressing him like that. Accustomed to everyone dancing on tiptoes and generally treating him with respect, he couldn't stand the insult.
"Sir, what year are you champion?" he asked calmly.
Richie, a fencing enthusiast, naturally followed the world championships in that sport. With his excellent memory, he perfectly remembered the names of all the medalists over the past ten years. Since 1979, not a single British competitor had won even a bronze medal. The coach looked twenty-seven years old at most, so there was no way he could have won a medal.
"In 1986!" Mr. Vince answered the question pompously.
"Hmm..." Richard was overwhelmed with irony. He asked sarcastically, "Sir, in '86, at the International Fencing Championship, Spaniard Miklos Bodóczy won silver in the individual event. The USSR team won the group event. Sir, are you Russian, or did you change your name from Miklos to Stanley, have plastic surgery, and dye your hair?"
"No, I'm British," Mr. Vince said sheepishly. "Um... I was mistaken. I meant the '85 championship."
At this, Richie chuckled meaningfully and said sarcastically:
- The group classification was silver for Italy. The individual classification was Jaroslav Jurka, Czechoslovakia. It seems to me, mister, that you're a notorious liar.
The children, their faces hidden by fencing masks, began to laugh. It was obvious to anyone that the coach was lying.
Mr. Vince didn't like this. In fact, he got furious.
"Shut up, brat!" he yelled sharply at Richard. "You made this whole thing up to humiliate me. But it won't work, brat!"
"Sir, do you know who you're talking to?" Richie asked, sympathetically and in a soft tone, as if he were mentally retarded. "I'm Richard Rich. You could get into serious trouble for insulting me like that."
"Are you going to threaten me again?!" Mr. Vince's nostrils flared, his eyes bloodshot. "Show me what you've learned, puppy. I'll give you a personal lesson!"
- Sir, I am not threatening you, I am merely presenting you with a fait accompli.
Despite his fatigue, Richard remained a nobleman and kept his composure. Much as he wanted to curse the braggart who couldn't handle children, the boy remained polite.
The substitute coach was already brandishing a practice rapier. He froze in an attack stance and pointed the sword at Richard.
- Puppy, are you just going to stand there? Come out here quickly!
"Ah..." Richard let out a heavy sigh. "Sir, I'll ask my father not to let you teach anywhere else."
"Even if your father were a prince, his word wouldn't mean anything!" Mr. Vince said confidently.
"Not at all, sir," Richie drew his sword and trudged into the arena. "Even though my father isn't a prince, just a duke, he has enough influence to never let you near children on British soil."
"Ha-ha-ha!" Vince laughed impossibly loudly. "Little liar! You can tell those tales about your rich and all-powerful father, who's also a duke, to someone else. I'll knock the desire to lie to people out of you!"
Even though Vince himself was the liar in this case, and Richard was telling the truth, nothing stopped the substitute coach from carrying out his threat. He might not have been a champion, but he had far more fencing experience under his belt. Plus, he had the strength and reflexes of an adult... In short, the weight class was clearly too much for a nine-year-old boy.