I had never told my mother a word about these frequent strivings, because she was soft-hearted; neither had I told by father, because he had not seen it.  Therefore, beholding me still an innocent-looking child, with fair curls on my forehead, and no store of bad language, John Fry thought this was the very first fight that ever had befallen me; and so when they let him at the gate, “with a message to the headmaster,” as one of the monitors told Cop, and Peggy and Smiler were tied to the railings, till I should be through my business, John comes up to me with the tears in his eyes, and says, “Doon’t thee goo for to do it, Jan; doon’t thee do it, for gude now.”  But I told him that now it was much too late to cry off; so he said, “The Lord be with thee, Jan, and turn thy thumb-knuckle inwards.”

It was not a very large piece of ground in the angle of the causeways, but quite big enough to fight upon, especially for Christians, who loved to be cheek by jowl at it.  The great boys stood in a circle around, being gifted with strong privilege, and the little boys had leave to lie flat and look through the legs of the great boys.  But while we were yet preparing, and the candles hissed in the fog-cloud, old Phoebe, of more than fourscore years, whose room was over the hall-porch, came hobbling out, as she always did, to mar the joy of the conflict.  No one ever heeded her, neither did she expect it; but the evil was that two senior boys must always lose the first round of the fight, by having to lead her home again.

I marvel how Robin Snell felt.  Very likely he thought nothing of it, always having been a boy of a hectoring and unruly sort.  But I felt my heart go up and down as the boys came round to strip me; and greatly fearing to be beaten, I blew hot upon my knuckles.  Then pulled I off my little cut jerkin, and laid it down on my head cap, and over that my waistcoat, and a boy was proud to take care of them.  Thomas Hooper was his name, and I remember how he looked at me.  My mother had made that little cut jerkin, in the quiet winter evenings.  And taken pride to loop it up in a fashionable way, and I was loth to soil it with blood, and good filberds were in the pocket.  Then up to me came Robin Snell (mayor of Exeter thrice since that), and he stood very square, and looking at me, and I lacked not long to look at him.  Round his waist he had a kerchief busking up his small-clothes, and on his feet light pumpkin shoes, and all his upper raiment off.  And he danced about in a way that made my head swim on my shoulders, and he stood some inches over me.  But I, being muddled with much doubt about John Fry and his errand, was only stripped of my jerkin and waistcoat, and not comfortable to begin.

“Come now, shake hands,” cried a big boy, jumping in joy of the spectacle, a third-former nearly six feet high; “shake hands, you little devils.  Keep your pluck up, and show good sport, and Lord love the better man of you.”