“I have been in the wrong, Montagu, more than once,” he answered, falteringly, “and we have been friends—­”

But it was the object of many of the worst boys that the two should fight—­not only that they might see the fun, but that Montagu’s authority, which stood in their way, might be flung aside.  So Brooking whispered in an audible voice—­

“Faith! he’s showing the white feather.”

“You’re a liar!” flung in Eric; and turning to Montagu, he said—­“There!  I’ll fight you this moment.”

Instantly they had stripped off their coats and prepared for action.  A ring of excited boys crowded round them.  Fellows of sixteen, like Montagu and Eric, rarely fight, because their battles have usually been decided in their earlier school-days; and it was also but seldom that two boys so strong, active, and prominent, took this method of settling their differences.

The fight began, and at first the popular favor was entirely on the side of Eric, while Montagu found few or none to back him.  But he fought with a fire and courage which soon won applause; and as Eric, on the other hand, was random and spiritless, the cry was soon pretty fairly divided between them.

After a sharp round they paused for breath, and Owen, who had been a silent and disgusted spectator of such a combat between boys of such high standing, said with much, feeling—­

“This is not a very creditable affair, Montagu.”

“It is necessary,” was Montagu’s laconic reply.

Among other boys who had left the room before the fracas had taken place, was Vernon Williams, who shrank away to avoid the pain of seeing his new friend Wright bullied and tormented.  But curiosity soon took him back, and he came in just as the second round began.  At first he only saw a crowd of boys in the middle of the room, but jumping on a desk he had a full view of what was going on.

There was a tremendous hubbub of voices, and Eric, now thoroughly roused by the remarks he overheard, and especially by Wildney’s whisper that “he was letting himself be licked,” was exerting himself with more vigor and effect.  It was anything but a noble sight; the faces of the combatants were streaked with blood and sweat, and as the miserable gang of lower school-boys backed them on with eager shouts of—­“Now Eric, now Eric,” “Now Montagu, go it, sixth, form,” etc., both of them fought under a sense of deep disgrace, increased by the recollections which they shared in common.

All this Vernon marked in a moment, and, filled with pain and vexation, his said in a voice which, though low, could be heard amid all the uproar, “Oh Eric, Eric, fighting with Montagu!” There was reproach and sorrow in the tone, which touched more than one boy there, for Vernon, spite of the recent change in him, could not but continue a favorite.

“Shut up there, you little donkey,” shouted one or two, looking back at him for a moment.