Round 3.  Tempted in turn by his slight success, Randall shammed slow again.  But once bitten is twice shy, and this time he overreached himself, in two senses.  His lunge, falling short, let in the little one, who dealt him a double knock—­rap, rap, on either side of the jaw—­before breaking away.  Stung out of caution he rushed and managed to close, but took a third rap which cut his upper lip.  First blood to Wesley.  The pair went to grass together, Randall on top.  But it was the Tories who cheered.

Round 4.  Randall, having bought his experience, went back to sound tactics.  This and the next two rounds were uninteresting and quite indecisive, though at the end of them Wesley had a promising black eye and Randall was bleeding at mouth and nose.  The old gentleman rubbed his chin and took snuff.  This Fabian fighting was all against the lighter weight, who must tire in time.

Yet he did not look like tiring, but stepped out for Round 7 with the same inscrutable smile.  Randall met it with a shame-faced grin—­ really a highly creditable, good-natured grin, though the blood about his mouth did its meaning some injustice.  And with this there happened that which dismayed many and puzzled all.  Wesley’s fists went up, but hung, as it were impotent for the moment, while his eyes glanced aside from his adversary’s and rested, with a stiffening of surprise, on the corner of the ring where the old gentleman stood.  A cry went up from the King’s Scholars—­a groan and a warning.  At the sound he flung back his head instinctively—­as Randall’s left shot out, caught him on the apple of the throat, and drove him staggering back across the green.

The old gentleman snapped down the lid of his snuffbox, and at the same moment felt a hand gripping him by the elbow.  “Now, how the—­” he began, turning as he supposed to address a Westminster boy, and found himself staring into the face of a lady.

He had no time to take stock of her.  And although her fingers pinched his arm, her eyes were all for the fight.

It had been almost a knock-down; but young Wesley just saved himself by touching the turf with his fingertips and, resting so, crouched for a spring.  What is more, he timed it beautifully; helped by Randall himself, who followed up at random, demoralised by the happy fluke and encouraged by the shouts of Hutton’s to “finish him off.”  In the fall Wesley had most of his remaining breath thumped out of him; but this did not matter.  He had saved the round.

The old gentleman nodded.  “Well recovered:  very pretty—­very pretty indeed!” He turned to the lady.  “I beg your pardon, madam—­”

“I beg yours, sir.”  She withdrew her hand from his arm.

“If he can swallow that down, he may win yet.”

“Please God!”