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
fighting--he'll be out in a minute."

"You go to Bath, Bill," is all that that excellent servitor gets by his
advice. And being a man of his hands, and a staunch upholder of the
School-house, can't help stopping to look on for a bit, and see Tom
Brown, their pet craftsman, fight a round.

It is grim earnest now, and no mistake. Both boys feel this, and summon
every power of head, hand, and eye to their aid. A piece of luck on
either side, a foot slipping, a blow getting well home, or another fall,
may decide it. Tom works slowly round for an opening; he has all the
legs, and can choose his own time: the Slogger waits for the attack, and
hopes to finish it by some heavy right-handed blow. As they quarter
slowly over the ground, the evening sun comes out from behind a cloud
and falls full on Williams's face. Tom darts in; the heavy right-hand is
delivered, but only grazes his head. A short rally at close quarters,
and they close; in another moment the Slogger is thrown again heavily
for the third time.

"I'll give you three to two on the little one in half-crowns," said
Groove to Rattle.

"No, thank'ee," answers the other, diving his hands further into his
coat-tails.

Just at this stage of the proceedings, the door of the turret which