ice thing for a big boy to do to a small one? whether his
conscience didn't tell him he erred? and whether he wouldn't go and
retire for a quiet hour to his study, and think the matter over with the
said conscience? Then, if, at the end of that time he still felt
disposed to use physical force towards the little new boy, would he
allow him, Dick, on this occasion to bear the punishment in his young
friend's place?

I say, I might, perhaps begin my chapter in this fashion, were it not
for two trifling difficulties--one being that I should be a humbug,
which it is not my ambition to be; the other, that Dick, too, would have
been a humbug, which he certainly was not.

The truth about fighting is--if one must express an opinion on so
delicate a subject--that its right and wrong depend altogether on what
you fight about. There are times when to fight is right, and there are
a great many more times when to fight is wrong. And for Dick at the
present moment to hold up his hands and say, "Oh, no, thank you," when
Culver asked him if it was a fight, would have been as bad every bit, as
if he had picked a quarrel and fought with the man who caught him out at
cricket.

Having relieved our minds so far, let us, reader, accompany Basil the
son of Richard, as he strides; surrounded by his myrmidons, and most of
all by the faithful Heathcote, to the Templeton "cock pit," where
already the large-boned Culver, hemmed in no more by the envious grip of
the toga of his mothers sister's son, awaits the fray.

For him Gosse holds the sponge, and bids him hit low, and walk his
foeman over the tapes.

And now a score of officious voices cry out "A ring!" and the surging
waves fall back, as when a whirlpool opens in mid-ocean.

Tall amid the crowding juniors stalks Birket, at sight of whom Dick's
heart rejoices, and Gosse's countenance falls. For Birket will see fair
play.

And now the faithful Heathcote staggers under the weight of his friend's
discarded garments, and whispers words of brotherly cheer as the snowy
sleeves of the hero roll up his arm, and his chafing collar falls from
his swelling neck.

The crowd grows dumb and hearts beat quick, as those two stand there,
face to face, the large-boned, solid Culver, and the compact, light-
footed Dick, with his clean, fresh skin, and well-poised head, and
tight, determined lips; and the signal goes forth that the battle has
begun.

The knowing ones are there, who, with Birket,