Poor Wright awaited with some dread the end of school; and many an angry kick and blow he got, though he disarmed malice by the spirit and heroism with which he endured them. The news of his impudence spread like wildfire, and not five boys in the school approved of what he had done, while most of them were furious at his ill-judged threat of informing Mr. Gordon. There was a general agreement to thrash him after roll-call that afternoon. Eric had lately taken a violent dislike to Wright, though he had been fond of him in better days. He used to denounce him as a disagreeable and pragmatical little muff, and was as loud as any of them in condemning his announced determination to “sneak.” Had he known that Wright had acted under Montagu’s well-meant, though rather mistaken advice, he might have abstained from having anything more to do with the matter, but now he promised to kick Wright himself after the four o’clock bell. Four o’clock came; the names were called; the master left the room. Wright, who perfectly knew what was threatened, stood there pale but fearless. His indifferent look was an additional annoyance to Eric, who walked up to him carelessly, and boxing his ears, though without hurting him, said contemptuously, “Conceited little sneak.” Montagu had been told of the intended kicking, and had determined even single-handed to prevent it. He did _not_, however, expect that Eric would have taken part in it, and was therefore unprepared. The color rushed into his cheeks; he went up, took Wright quietly by the hand, and said with firm determination, “No one in the school shall touch Wright again.” “What? no one! just hark to that,” said Graham; “I suppose he thinks himself cock of the school.” Eric quite misunderstood Montagu’s proceedings; he took it for a public challenge. All the Rowlandites were round, and to yield would have looked like cowardice. Above all, his evil genius Wildney was by, and said, “How very nice! another dictation lesson!” A threatening circle had formed round Montagu, but his closed lips, and flushing brow, and dilated nostrils, betrayed a spirit which made them waver, and he quietly repeated, “No one shall touch you, Wright.” “They _will_, though,” said Eric instantly; “_I_ will, for one, and I should like to see you prevent me.” And so saying he gave Wright another slight blow. Montagu dropped Wright’s hand and said slowly, “Eric Williams, I have taken one unexpected blow from you without a word, and bear the marks of it yet. It is time to show that it was _not_ through cowardice that I did not return it. Will you fight?” The answer was not prompt by any means, though every one in the school knew that Eric was not afraid. So sure was he of this, that, for the sake of “auld lang syne,” he would probably have declined to fight with Montagu had he been left to his own impulses. “I have been in the wrong, Montagu, more than once,” he answered, falteringly, “and we have been friends--”