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, and kept 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 had 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 were doomed to disappointment this time.  Directly after locking-up, one of the night-fags knocked at Tom’s door.

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

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

“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 plucky fellow.  Sit down and have some supper.”

Tom obeyed, by no means loath.  And the fifth-form boy next filled him a tumbler of bottled beer, and he ate and drank, listening to the pleasant talk, and wondering how soon he should be in the fifth, and one of that much-envied society.

As he got up to leave, Brooke said, “You must shake hands to-morrow morning; I shall come and see that done after first lesson.”

And so he did.  And Tom and the Slogger shook hands with great satisfaction and mutual respect.  And for the next year or two, whenever fights were being talked of, the small boys who had been present shook their heads wisely, saying, “Ah! but you should just have seen the fight between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown!”

And now, boys all, three words before we quit the subject.  I have put in this chapter on fighting of malice prepense, partly because I want to give you a true picture of what everyday school life was in my time, and not a kid-glove and go-to-meeting-coat picture, and partly because of the cant and twaddle that’s talked of boxing and fighting with fists nowadays.  Even Thackeray has given in to it; and only a few weeks ago there was some rampant stuff in the Times on the subject, in an article on field sports.