eing this amazing champion put up suddenly to defend
him, while Cuff's astonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our late
monarch George III., when he heard of the revolt of the North American
colonies; fancy brazen Goliath when little David stepped forward and
claimed a meeting; and you have the feeling of Mr. Reginald Cuff when
this encounter was proposed to him.

"After school," says he, "of course," after a pause and a look, as much
as to say, "Make your will, and communicate your last wishes to your
friends between this time and that."

"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle-holder, Osborne."

"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see his papa kept a
carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his champion.

Yes, when the hour of battle came he was almost ashamed to say, "Go it,
Figs"; and not a single other boy in the place uttered that cry for the
first two or three rounds of this famous combat; at the commencement of
which the scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on his face, and as
light and as gay as if he was at a ball, planted his blows upon his
adversary, and floored that unlucky champion three times running. At each
fall there was a cheer, and everybody was anxious to have the honour of
offering the conqueror a knee.

"What a licking I shall get when it's over," young Osborne thought,
picking up his man. "You'd best give in," he said to Dobbin; "it's only a
thrashing, Figs, and you know I'm used to it." But Figs, all whose limbs
were in a quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his little
bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time.

As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that were aimed at
himself, and Cuff had begun the attack on the three preceding occasions
without ever allowing his enemy to strike, Figs now determined that he
would commence the engagement by a charge on his own part; and,
accordingly, being a left-handed man, brought that arm into action, and
hit out a couple of times with all his might--once at Mr. Cuff's left
eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose.

Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the assembly. "Well hit,
by Jove," says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clapping
his man on the back. "Give it to him with the left, Figs, my boy."

Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the combat. Cuff
went down every time. At the sixth round there were almost as many
fellows shouting o