'Perkins told me to go and get him some grub from the shop. I was doing some work, so I couldn't. Besides, I'm not his fag. If Perkins wants to go for me, why doesn't he do it himself, and not get about a hundred fellows to help him?' 'Exactly,' said the Bishop. 'A very sensible suggestion. Perkins, fall upon Wilson and slay him. I'll see fair play. Go ahead.' 'Er--no,' said Perkins uneasily. He was a small, weedy-looking youth, not built for fighting except by proxy, and he remembered the episode of Wilson and Skinner. 'Then the thing's finished,' said Gethryn. 'Wilson walks over. We needn't detain you, Wilson.' Wilson departed with all the honours of war, and the Bishop turned to Monk. 'Now perhaps you'll tell me,' he said, 'what the deuce you and Danvers are doing here?' 'Well, hang it all, old chap--' The Bishop begged that Monk would not call him 'old chap'. 'I'll call you "sir", if you like,' said Monk. A gleam of hope appeared in the Bishop's eye. Monk was going to give him the opportunity he had long sighed for. In cold blood he could attack no one, not even Monk, but if he was going to be rude, that altered matters. 'What business have you in the day-room?' he said. 'You've got studies of your own.' 'If it comes to that,' said Monk, 'so have you. We've got as much business here as you. What the deuce are you doing here?' Taken by itself, taken neat, as it were, this repartee might have been insufficient to act as a _casus belli_, but by a merciful dispensation of Providence the senior day-room elected to laugh at the remark, and to laugh loudly. Monk also laughed. Not, however, for long. The next moment the Bishop had darted in, knocked his feet from under him, and dragged him to the door. Captain Kettle himself could not have done it more neatly. 'Now,' said the Bishop, 'we can discuss the point.' Monk got up, looking greener than usual, and began to dust his clothes. 'Don't talk rot,' he said, 'I can't fight a prefect.' This, of course, the Bishop had known all along. What he had intended to do if Monk had kept up his end he had not decided when he embarked upon the engagement. The head of a House cannot fight by-battles with his inferiors without the loss of a good deal of his painfully acquired dignity. But Gethryn knew Monk, and he had felt justified in risking it. He improved the shining hour with an excursus on the subject of bullying, dispensed a few general threats, and left the room. Monk had--perhaps not unnaturally--not forgotten the incident, and now that public opinion ran strongly against Gethryn on account of his M.C.C. match manoeuvres, he acted. A mass meeting of the Mob was called in his study, and it was unanimously voted that field-outs in the morning were undesirable, and that it would be judicious if the team were to strike. Now, as the Mob included in their numbers eight of the House Eleven, their opinions on the subject carried weight.