“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, but he was rather a favorite with the doctor for his openness and plainness of speech; so blurted out, as he walked by the doctor’s side, who had already turned back: 

“Yes, sir, generally.  But I thought you wished us to exercise a discretion in the matter, too—­not to interfere too soon.”

“But they have been fighting this half-hour and more,” said the doctor.

“Yes, sir, but neither was hurt.  And they’re the sort of boys who’ll be all the better friends now, which they wouldn’t have been if they had been stopped any earlier—­before it was so equal.”

“Who was fighting with Brown?” said the doctor.

“Williams, sir, of Thompson’s.  He is bigger than Brown, and had the best of it at first, but not when you came up, sir.  There’s a good deal of jealousy between our house and Thompson’s, and there would have been more fights if this hadn’t been let go on, or if either of them had had much the worst of it.”

“Well but, Brooke,” said the doctor, “doesn’t this look a little as if you exercised your discretion by only stopping a fight when the school-house boy is getting the worst of it?”

Brooke, it must be confessed, felt rather graveled.

“Remember,” added the doctor, as he stopped at the turret-door, “this fight is not to go on—­you’ll see to that.  And I expect you to stop all fights in future 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.

Meantime Tom and the stanchest 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, 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