“H’m,” said the newcomer; “no need to ask which is Wesley.”

His eyes set deep beneath brows bristling like a wire-haired terrier’s—­were on the boy in the farther corner, who sat on his backer’s knee, shoeless, stripped to the buff, with an angry red mark on the right breast below the collar-bone; a slight boy and a trifle undersized, but lithe, clear-skinned, and in the pink of condition; a handsome boy, too.  By his height you might have guessed him under sixteen, but his face set you doubting.  There are faces almost uncannily good-looking:  they charm so confidently that you shrink from predicting the good fortune they claim, and bethink you that the gods’ favourites are said to die young:  and Charles Wesley’s was such a face.  He tightened the braces about his waist and stepped forward for the second round with a sweet and serious smile.  Yet his mouth meant business.

Master Randall—­who stood near three inches taller—­though nicknamed “Butcher,” was merely a dull heavy-shouldered Briton, dogged, hard to beat; the son of a South Sea merchant, retired and living at Barnet, who swore by Walpole and King George.  But at Westminster these convictions—­and, confound it! they were the convictions of England, after all—­met with scurrilous derision; and here Master Randall nursed a dull and inarticulate resentment in a world out of joint, where the winning side was a butt for epigrams.  To win, and be laughed at!  To have the account reopened in lampoons and witticisms, contemptible but irritating, when it should be closed by the mere act of winning!  It puzzled him, and he brooded over it, turning sulky in the end, not vicious.  It was in no viciousness that he had flung a book at young Murray’s head and called him a lousy Jacobite, but simply to provoke Wesley and get his grievance settled by intelligible weapons, such as fists.

He knew his to be the unpopular side, and that even Freind, the Head Master, would chuckle over the defeat of a Whig.  Outside of Hutton’s, who cheered him for the honour of their house, he had few well-wishers; but among them was a sprinkling of boys bearing the great Whig names—­Cowpers, Sackvilles, Osborns—­for whose sake and for its own tradition the ring would give him fair play.

The second round began warily, Wesley sparring for an opening, Randall defensive, facing round and round, much as a bullock fronts a terrier.  He knew his game; to keep up his guard and wait for a chance to get in with his long left.  He was cunning, too; appeared slower than he was, tempting the other to take liberties, and, towards the end of the round, to step in a shade too closely.  It was but a shade.  Wesley, watching his eye, caught an instant’s warning, flung his head far back and sprang away—­not quickly enough to avoid a thud on the ribs.  It rattled him, but did no damage, and it taught him his lesson.