"Go it, Smithson! Now then, Cetchy! Ah! He's got it! Shut up, you fellows. We'll have Medlicott in directly if you kick up such a row," and so forth. But just then, Anthony, who, if he hadn't science, assuredly had all the fierce fighting valour of his race, woke up to a mighty effort, and dashing out with both hands and hurling himself forward at the same time, landed his adversary full in the face, and down went Smithson minor, and with him two other fellows who were pressing him too close behind. In the midst of which shindy the door opened, and in walked Haviland. "What's all this about?" he cried, turning the gas full up and revealing the whole scene of disorder--the panting combatants and the now sheepish-looking spectators, some of whom were making desperate efforts to appear as if they had never left their beds. "Come here, Smithson. What d'you mean by it, eh?" Smithson, who recognised in this formula a certain preamble to condign punishment, thought he might as well try to say something for himself. "Please, Haviland, he cheeked me," he faltered. "Cheeked you, did he? I wonder you haven't had Sefton up here with his cane, and of course that wouldn't have meant a thousand lines for me for not keeping order, would it?" "He tell me he smack my head," cut in Anthony. "I tell him he can't do it. Then he try. Ha!" The room tittered. Haviland was mollified. "Did he do it?" he said. "No fear. I knock him over. Then you come in." And the speaker stood with his head in the air, and the light of battle in his eyes, albeit one of them was rather swollen, looking for all the world a youthful reproduction of one of his warrior sires. "Well, I know jolly well that Cetchy didn't begin the row," pronounced Haviland, throwing down his square cap, and beginning to take off his coat and vest with a yawn. "Get into bed, Smithson. If I hear anything about this to-morrow from Sefton, I'll sock your head off. If not, I'll let you off this time. Now shut up, you fellows. No more talking." There was no need to repeat the order. Silence prevailed in that dormitory forthwith. CHAPTER EIGHT. JARNLEY AGAIN. If the practical joke played upon the keeper in Hangman's Wood ever transpired in the immediate neighbourhood of that ill-omened locality, the tidings thereof did not reach as far as Saint Kirwin's--nor had its perpetrators any opportunity of revisiting the place, by reason of the distance, and the difficulty of so soon again obtaining leave from call-over. But other coverts were levied upon in like fashion, all, or nearly all, we regret to say, under equally forbidden conditions.