"Funked it!" roared all the delighted juniors. "He says he is unwell," said Grim, anger getting the better of him, "but he'll be a jolly sight worse in the morning." There was a hurricane of thunderous cheers at this sally, but Grim managed to shout above the laughing, "I have great pleasure in announcing that John Acton, Esq., will take Fruity's--I mean Cherry's--place and tell you a little tale; even Corker fags will understand it," added Grim, viciously. Acton came on and received his hearty welcome with easy good nature. He plunged right into his contribution: "A London cabby's account of his different fares"--from the double-superfine gilt-edged individual to the fat old dowager who _will_ have the parrot inside with her. Acton gave it perfectly. Grim, who had his ears glued to the exit door, vowed he could almost hear the swell drop his eyeglass. Sharpe stepped on to the stage amid the polite attentions of his natural enemies. "Be a man, Sharpe." "Don't cry." "You'll see mamma soon." "Speak up." "He did it all alone, remember." "No help." "Oh, dear no!" "When on the bosom of the sleeping pool, That's shaded o'er by trees in greenest dress, Upon its breast of snow its gem of gold The water lily swims--" The juniors howled with dismay at this commencement, and Corker juniors instantly began to keep time to Sharpe's delivery in the organ-grinder's fashion. But Sharpe toiled remorselessly on. He compared Biffen's house to a water lily growing in a muddy pond, and again as a Phoenix risen from the ashes; and he gave us, with circumstantial details, every round of the footer housers, their two eleven caps, and the Perry Exhibition, and darkly hinted at Acton's exclusion from the eleven. He wound up his awful farrago in one glorious burst of solemn fury-- "And even Fate girds on her sword, and her right arm she stiffens, As thunders to the icy pole the glorious name of Biffen's." When Sharpe finally made his bow, according to the invariable custom, every junior except a Biffenite imitated with rare fidelity the mixed sensations of channel passengers after a stormy passage. Sharpe, cheered to the echo by the Biffenites on the front row, went proudly off. The Dervishes were received with enthusiasm, and went through their performance to the shouts of "Well wriggled, Java!" "Why don't you oil!" "Do it again--orang-outang!" They amiably smiled acknowledgments as they backed away. Then I myself stepped on to the stage, prepared to judge the two-minutes' rounds. Grim had whipped up sixteen fags, each willing to do battle for the honour of his house. The rounds proceeded to the accompaniment of ear-splitting encouragement, and I had the satisfaction of knowing that not a solitary one of the defeated heroes thought he had really been beaten on points.