“Just run and tell East to come and back me,” said Tom to a small School-house boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowell’s, just stopping for a moment to poke his head into the School-house hall, where the lower boys were already at tea, and sing out, “Fight!  Tom Brown and Slogger Williams.”

Up start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprats, and all the rest to take care of themselves.  The greater part of the remainder follow in a minute, after swallowing their tea, carrying their food in their hands to consume as they go.  Three or four only remain, who steal the butter of the more impetuous, and make to themselves an unctuous feast.

In another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle, carrying a sponge, and arrive at the scene of action just as the combatants are beginning to strip.

Tom felt he had got his work cut out for him, as he stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and braces.  East tied his handkerchief round his waist, and rolled up his shirtsleeves for him.  “Now, old boy, don’t you open your mouth to say a word, or try to help yourself a bit—­we’ll do all that; you keep all your breath and strength for the Slogger.”  Martin meanwhile folded the clothes, and put them under the chapel rails; and now Tom, with East to handle him, and Martin to give him a knee, steps out on the turf, and is ready for all that may come; and here is the Slogger too, all stripped, and thirsting for the fray.

It doesn’t look a fair match at first glance:  Williams is nearly two inches taller, and probably a long year older than his opponent, and he is very strongly made about the arms and shoulders—­“peels well,” as the little knot of big fifth-form boys, the amateurs, say, who stand outside the ring of little boys, looking complacently on, but taking no active part in the proceedings.  But down below he is not so good by any means—­no spring from the loins, and feeblish, not to say shipwrecky, about the knees.  Tom, on the contrary, though not half so strong in the arms, is good all over, straight, hard, and springy, from neck to ankle, better perhaps in his legs than anywhere.  Besides, you can see by the clear white of his eye, and fresh, bright look of his skin, that he is in tip-top training, able to do all he knows; while the Slogger looks rather sodden, as if he didn’t take much exercise and ate too much tuck.  The time-keeper is chosen, a large ring made, and the two stand up opposite one another for a moment, giving us time just to make our little observations.

“If Tom’ll only condescend to fight with his head and heels,” as East mutters to Martin, “we shall do.”

But seemingly he won’t, for there he goes in, making play with both hands.  Hard all is the word; the two stand to one another like men; rally follows rally in quick succession, each fighting as if he thought to finish the whole thing out of hand.  “Can’t last at this rate,” say the knowing ones, while the partisans of each make the air ring with their shouts and counter-shouts of encouragement, approval, and defiance.