at once."

"Very well, sir," said young Brooke, touching his hat, and not sorry
to see the turret-door close behind the Doctor's back.

EVENING AFTER THE FIGHT.

Meantime Tom and the staunchest of his adherents had reached
Harrowell's, and Sally was bustling about to get them a late tea,
while Stumps had been sent off to Tew, the butcher, to get a piece of
raw beef for Tom's eye, which was to be healed off-hand, so that he
might show well in the morning. He was not a bit the worse except a
slight difficulty in his vision, a singing in his ears, and a sprained
thumb, which he kept in a cold water bandage, while he drank lots of
tea, and listened to the Babel of voices talking and speculating of
nothing but the fight, and how Williams would have given in after
another fall (which he didn't in the least believe), and how on earth
the Doctor could have got to know of it--such bad luck! He couldn't
help thinking to himself that he was glad he hadn't won; he liked it
better as it was, and felt very friendly to the Slogger. And then poor
little Arthur crept in and sat down quietly near him, looking at him
and the raw beef with such plaintive looks that Tom at last burst out
laughing.

"Don't make such eyes, young un," said he, "there's nothing the
matter."

"Oh, but, Tom, are you much hurt? I can't bear thinking it was all for
me."

"Not a bit of it, don't flatter yourself. We were sure to have it out,
sooner or later."

"Well, but you won't go on, will you? You'll promise me you won't go
on?"

"Can't tell about that--all depends on the Houses. We're in the hands
of our countrymen, you know. Must fight for the School-house flag, if
so be."

However, the lovers of the science[44] were doomed to disappointment
this time. Directly after locking-up, one of the night-fags knocked at
Tom's door.

[44] #The science#: "the manly science of self-defence."

"Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth-form room."

THE SHAKE-HANDS.

Up went Tom to the summons, and found the magnates[45] sitting at
their supper.

[45] #Magnates#: here, the upper class boys.

"Well, Brown," said young Brooke, nodding to him, "how do you feel?"

"Oh, very well, thank you; only I've sprained my thumb, I think."

"Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn't the worst of it, I could
see. Where did you learn that throw?"

"Down in the country, when I was a boy."

"Hullo! why, what are you now? Well, never mind, you're a p