small gate at the end of the chapel. The Schoolhouse faction rush to him. "Oh, hurra! now we shall get fair play."
"Please, Brooke, come up, they won't let Tom Brown throw him."
"Throw whom?" says Brooke, coming up to the ring. "Oh! Williams, I see. Nonsense! of course he may throw him, if he catches him fairly above the waist."
Now, young Brooke, you're in the sixth you know, and you ought to stop all fights. He looks hard at both boys. "Anything wrong?" says he to East, nodding at Tom.
"Not a bit."
"Not beat at all?"
"Bless you, no! Heaps of fight in him. Ain't there, Tom?"
Tom looks at Brooke and grins.
"How's he?" nodding at Williams.
"So, so; rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won't stand above two more."
"Time's up!" The boys rise again and face one another. Brooke can't find it in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the Slogger waiting for Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should he come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be stopped, or his sponge will soon go up in the air.
And now another new comer appears on the field, to wit, the under-porter, with his long brush and great wooden receptacle for dust under his arm. He has been sweeping out the schools.
"You'd better stop, gentlemen," he says; "the Doctor knows that Brown's fightin—he'll be out in a minute."
