Neptune was the Graeco-Roman fountain in the inner quad, which a former warden had presented to the college.  The sea god with his trident, surrounded by a group of rather dilapidated nymphs, presided over a broad basin, filled with running water and a multitude of goldfish.

There was a shout of laughing assent, and a rush across the grass to Radowitz’s staircase.  College was nearly empty; the Senior Tutor had gone to Switzerland that morning; and those few inmates who still remained, tired out with the ball of the night before, were fast asleep.  The night porter, having let everybody in and closed the gate, was dozing in his lodge.

There was a short silence in the quadrangle.  Then the rioters who had been for a few minutes swallowed up in a distant staircase on the western side of the quadrangle reemerged, with muffled shouts and laughter, bringing their prey with them—­a pale, excited figure.

“Let me alone, you cowardly bullies!—­ten of you against one!”

But they hurried him along, Radowitz fighting all the way, and too proud to call for help.  The intention of his captors—­of all save one—­was mere rowdy mischief.  To duck the offender and his immaculate white flannels in Neptune, and then scatter to their beds before any one could recognise or report them, was all they meant to do.

But when they reached the fountain, Radowitz, whose passion gave him considerable physical strength, disengaged himself, by a sudden effort, from his two keepers, and leaping into the basin of the fountain, he wrenched a rickety leaden shell from the hand of one of Neptune’s attendant nymphs and began to fling the water in the faces of his tormentors.  Falloden was quickly drenched, and Meyrick and others momentarily blinded by the sudden deluge in their eyes.  Robertson, the Winchester Blue, was heavily struck.  In a wild rage he jumped into the fountain and closed with Radowitz.  The Pole had no chance against him, and after a short struggle, Radowitz fell heavily, catching in his fall at a piece of rusty piping, part of some disused machinery of the fountain.

There was a cry.  In a moment it sobered the excited group of men.  Falloden, who had acted as leader throughout, called peremptorily to Robertson.  “Is he hurt?  Let him up at once.”

Robertson in dismay stooped over the prostrate form of Radowitz, and carried him to the edge of the fountain.  There it was seen that the lad had fainted, and that blood was streaming from his right hand.

“He’s cut it on that beastly piping—­it’s all jagged,” gasped Robertson.  “I say, can anybody stop the bleeding?”

One Desmond, an Etonian who had seen one or two football accidents, knelt down, deadly pale, by Radowitz and rendered a rough first-aid.  By a tourniquet of handkerchiefs he succeeded in checking the bleeding.  But it was evident that an artery was injured.

“Go for a doctor,” said Falloden to Meyrick, pointing to the lodge.  “Tell the porter that somebody’s been hurt in a lark.  You’ll probably find a cab outside.  We’ll carry him up.”