The crowd outside fell back in haste, and a burly fellow at that instant appearing on the scene with a small cask of ale on his shoulder, a diversion was caused.  The fight was transferred to the circle round the ale barrel, the already half-crazy fellows struggling desperately to get at the liquor.

“By Jupiter!” cried George, seeing his opportunity in a moment, “now is our chance!  Let them get fully occupied and we have them.  Let them once return and they will be madder and more reckless than ever.”

And seizing every man his weapon, the little party in the shed prepared to sally forth, old Saunders whispering to his next neighbour, “The lad is a game ’un, if ever I saw one.”

Just as George was preparing to draw the bolts he caught sight of young Blackett.  His old schoolfellow was haranguing the men, gesticulating violently, and pointing excitedly towards the large shed.  Matthew had in reality just heard of the fray, and had at once run up to do what he could to stop it.  But George Fairburn did not know this.  “The knave!” he exclaimed, beside himself with anger, “he’s the very ringleader of the party!  He’s kept himself till now in the background.  But he shall pay for his pains!”

Flinging back the bars, George dashed forth upon the ale-drinking group his little band following at his heels.  With a shout they swooped down upon the foe, and in an instant a score of heads were broken, the luckless owners flung in all directions around the cask.  One of the prostrate ones held the spigot in his hand, and the remainder of the liquor bubbled itself merrily to the ground.

So utterly unprepared were the fellows for the onset, and so mauled were they in the very first rush, that a general alarm was raised.  In the darkening they imagined themselves surrounded by a strong reinforcement of the Fairburn party, and at once there was a wild stampede from the premises.  Men and hobbledehoys stumbled off in hot haste, pursued by the victorious handful under George.

Not that George himself gave any heed to all this.  At the very first he had dashed to the spot where Matthew Blackett was excitedly shouting to the rioters.

“Coward!” cried Fairburn, “to set on your scoundrelly fellows—­”

“Set on the fellows!” Matthew began in amazement, but he got no farther.

“Up with your fists!” cried George, “and we will see which is the better man!”

There was no time for explanations, though young Blackett opened his mouth to speak.  He had in truth but time to throw up his hands to ward off George’s vigorous blow, and the next moment the fight was in full swing.  Matthew was no coward, and once in for warm work, he played his part manfully.  At it the two boys went, each hitting hard, and both coming in for a considerable share of pummelling.  For a time none heeded them, every man having enough to do in other quarters.  But at length they were surrounded by a small group of the Fairburn men who had now driven off the enemy and remained masters of the field.