‘Mr. Boddy, you were right,’ he cried, ’I find him a prowler, breaking all rules of discipline.  A perverted, impudent rascal!  An example shall be set to my school, sir.  We have been falling lax.  What!  I find the puppy in my garden whistling--he confesses--for one of my servants------ here, Mr. Boddy, if you please.  My school shall see that none insult me with impunity!’ He laid on Heriot like a wind on a bulrush.  Heriot bent his shoulders a trifle, not his head.

‘Hit away, sir,’ he said, during the storm of blows, and I, through my tears, imagined him (or I do now) a young eagle forced to bear the thunder, but with his face to it.  Then we saw Boddy lay hands on him, and in a twinkling down pitched the usher, and the boys cheered—­chirped, I should say, they exulted so, and merely sang out like birds, without any wilfulness of delight or defiance.  After the fall of Boddy we had no sense of our hero suffering shame.  Temple and I clutched fingers tight as long as the blows went on.  We hoped for Boddy to make another attempt to touch Heriot; he held near the master, looking ready to spring, like a sallow panther; we kept hoping he would, in our horror of the murderous slashes of the cane; and not a syllable did Heriot utter.  Temple and I started up, unaware of what we were going to do, or of anything until we had got a blow a-piece, and were in the thick of it, and Boddy had us both by the collars, and was knocking our heads together, as he dragged us back to our seats.  But the boys told us we stopped the execution.  Mr. Rippenger addressed us before he left the school-room.  Saddlebank, Salter, and a good many others, plugged their ears with their fists.  That night Boddy and Catman paced in the bedchambers, to prevent plotting and conspiracy, they said.  I longed to get my arms about Heriot, and thought of him, and dreamed of blood, and woke in the morning wondering what made me cry, and my arms and back very stiff.  Heriot was gay as ever, but had fits of reserve; the word passed round that we were not to talk of yesterday evening.  We feared he would refuse to play in the match.

‘Why not?’ said he, staring at us angrily.  ’Has Saddlebank broken his arm, and can’t bowl?’

No, Saddlebank was in excellent trim, though shamefaced, as was Salter, and most of the big boys were.  They begged Heriot to let them shake his hand.

‘Wait till we win our match,’ said Heriot.

Julia did not appear at morning prayers.

‘Ah,’ said Temple, ‘it’d make her sick to hear old Massacre praying.’  It had nearly made him sick, he added, and I immediately felt that it had nearly made me sick.

We supposed we should not see Julia at the match.  She came, however, and talked to everybody.  I could not contain myself, I wanted so to tell her what had befallen Heriot overnight, while he was batting, and the whole ground cheering his hits.  I on one side of her whispered: