Winton, still writhing, growled.  Vernon leaning on the desk somehow shook it again.  Then he laughed.

‘What are you grinning at?’ Winton asked.

‘I was only thinkin’ of you being sent up to take a lickin’ from Pot.  I swear I don’t think it’s fair.  You’ve never shirked a game in your life, and you’re as good as in the First Fifteen already.  Your Cap ought to have been delivered last week, oughtn’t it?’

It was law in the school that no man could by any means enjoy the privileges and immunities of the First Fifteen till the black velvet cap with the gold tassel, made by dilatory Exeter outfitters, had been actually set on his head.  Ages ago, a large-built and unruly Second Fifteen had attempted to change this law, but the prefects of that age were still larger, and the lively experiment had never been repeated.

‘Will you,’ said Winton very slowly, ’kindly mind your own damned business, you cursed, clumsy, fat-headed fool?’

The form-room was as silent as the empty field in the darkness outside.  Vernon shifted his feet uneasily.

‘Well, I shouldn’t like to take a lickin’ from Pot,’ he said.

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Winton asked, as he paged the sheets of lines with hands that shook.

‘No, I shouldn’t,’ said Vernon, his freckles growing more distinct on the bridge of his white nose.

’Well, I’m going to take it’—­Winton moved clear of the desk as he spoke.  ‘But you’re going to take a lickin’ from me first.’  Before any one realised it, he had flung himself neighing against Vernon.  No decencies were observed on either side, and the rest looked on amazed.  The two met confusedly, Vernon trying to do what he could with his longer reach; Winton, insensible to blows, only concerned to drive his enemy into a corner and batter him to pulp.  This he managed over against the fire-place, where Vernon dropped half-stunned.  ’Now I’m going to give you your lickin’,’ said Winton.  ’Lie there till I get a ground-ash and I’ll cut you to pieces.  If you move, I’ll chuck you out of the window.’  He wound his hands into the boy’s collar and waistband, and had actually heaved him half off the ground before the others with one accord dropped on his head, shoulders, and legs.  He fought them crazily in an awful hissing silence.  Stalky’s sensitive nose was rubbed along the floor; Beetle received a jolt in the wind that sent him whistling and crowing against the wall; Perowne’s forehead was cut, and Malpass came out with an eye that explained itself like a dying rainbow through a whole week.

‘Mad!  Quite mad!’ said Stalky, and for the third time wriggled back to Winton’s throat.  The door opened and King came in, Hartopp’s little figure just behind him.  The mound on the floor panted and heaved but did not rise, for Winton still squirmed vengefully.  ’Only a little play, sir,’ said Perowne. ‘’Only hit my head against a form.’  This was quite true.