The head of this pleasant sport was one Comber, a large, pale-faced boy, some years older than his place in the school justified, but of a crass stupidity, a greedy stomach and a vicious cruelty. Peter had already met him in football and had annoyed him by collaring him violently on one occasion, it being the boy's habit, owing to his size and reputation, to run down the field in the Lower School game, unattacked. Peter's hatred of him grew more intense week by week; some days after Mid-Term, it had swollen into a passion. He finally told Bobby Galleon one day at luncheon that on that very evening he was going to defy this Comber. Galleon besought him not to do this, pointing out Comber's greater strength and the natural tendency of the Lower School to follow their leader blindly. Peter said nothing in reply but watched, when eight o'clock had struck and the Lower School had assembled in the class room, for his moment. It was a somewhat piteous spectacle. Comber and some half a dozen friends in the middle of the room, and forty boys ranging in years from eight to twelve, waiting with white faces and propitiatory smiles, eager to assist in the Torture if they only might themselves be spared. “Now you chaps,” this from Comber--“we'll have a Gauntlet. I votes we make young Beech run first.” “Rather! Come on, Beech--you've jolly well got to.” “Buck up, you funk!” from those relieved that they were themselves, for the instant, safe. Peter was sitting on a bench at the back of the room--he stood on the bench and shouted, “You're a beast. Comber.” There was immediate silence--every one turned first to Comber, and then back to Peter. Comber paused in the preparation of the string whip that he was making, and his face was crimson. “Oh, it's you, you young skunk, is it? Bring him here some of you fellows.” Eager movements were made in his direction, but Peter, still standing on his bench, shouted: “I claim a fight.” There was silence again--a silence now of incredulity and amazement. But there was nothing to be done; if any one claimed a fight, by all the rules and traditions of Dawson's he must have it. But that Westcott, a new boy and in the bottom form should challenge Comber! Slowly, and as it were against their will, hearts beat a little faster, faces brightened. Of course Westcott would be most hopelessly beaten, but might not this prove the beginning of the end of their tyrant? Meanwhile, Comber between his teeth: “All right, you young devil, I'll give you such a hiding as you damned well won't forget. Then we'll treat you properly afterwards.”