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 stanch upholder of the
school-house, he 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' face. Tom starts 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 doctor's library
suddenly opens, and he steps into the close, and makes straight for the
ring, in which Brown and the slogger are both seated on their seconds'
knees for the last time.

"The doctor! the doctor!" shouts some small boy who catches sight of
him, and the ring melts away in a few seconds, the small boys tearing
off, Tom collaring his jacket and waistcoat, and slipping through the
little gate by the chapel, and round the corner to Harrowell's with his
backers, as lively as need be; Williams and his backers making off not
quite so fast across the close; Groove, Rattle and the other bigger
fellows trying to combine dignity and prudence in a comical manner, and
walking off fast enough, they hope, not to be recognized, and not fast
enough to look like running away.

Young Brooke alone remains on the ground by the time the doctor gets
there, and touches his hat, not without a slight inward qualm.

"Hah! Brooke. I am surprised to see you here. Don't you know that I
expect the sixth to stop fighting?"

Brooke felt much more uncomfortable than he had expected,