Fortunately for Finch a more resolute champion now appeared upon the scene. It was Kit Wilson—on his way across the Gymnasium. Quick as a flash he took in the situation, and, crossing the room with a leap and a stride, he landed in the midst of the party of “horsers.” He grabbed one small boy by the collar of his coat and sent him spinning out into the middle of the Gymnasium, another he pushed out of his way with something of his football manner, and ended by applying a kick to Ducky Thornton that even that well-cushioned individual was apt to remember. “Here, you infernal cads!” he cried, “cut this out! what the deuce do you think you’re up to?” The crowd of small boys scattered instantly, leaving poor Ducky, with rueful face and painful limp, to hobble away by himself, pursued by a volley of Kit’s variegated vocabulary that was more picturesque than elegant. Finch stood still where Kit had found him as if transfixed. He was relieved, thankful for the rescue, but incapable of saying so. His face looked hideous in the bright glare of the electric light, drawn as it was by anguish and blazing with what seemed like superhuman hate. Kit stared at him a moment, amazed by the passion of the boy’s face; almost shocked by its weird uncanny venom. Conquering the instinctive feeling of revulsion, he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You poor little duffer,” he said, “I’m sorry for you. Don’t take it too hard. They’re a crowd of little curs, but their bark is worse than their bite.” “I hate them,” snarled the boy. “I hate them.” Then his face relaxed, and the light faded in his little blue eyes, as they suffused with tears. “Thank you all the same,” he added, his voice still trembling with passion. “What’s your name?” asked Kit. “Jacob Finch.” “Oh! you’re the new boy, eh? Where do you come from?” “Coventry. I wish I was back. I can’t stand it here.” “Rot!” exclaimed Kit, with the easy-going philosophy of popularity and success. “Cut along to the schoolroom now, and let me know if Ducky Thornton bothers you again.” “All right,” Finch murmured, and dropping his head, he stole off through the cloister, keeping well within the shadow of the wall until he reached the schoolroom. There he was received by Mr. Roylston, who showed him a seat, and immediately afterwards called the room to order. Kit, having watched Finch out of sight, stalked off grandly across the Gymnasium, dropping a word of warning here and there to the groups of small boys who had watched the encounter from a safe distance. Ducky Thornton witnessed his departure from an angle in the wall, whither he had retired with a few of his satellites. His face, at no time very attractive, wore now a most repulsive expression of contempt. “By golly,” was his comment, “he’s the swell head, ain’t he? I wonder if he hurts?” “Not as much as you do, Ducky, I guess,” squeaked a premature wit and got his ears cuffed for his effort.