Consistently enough with his notions about the rod and the gallows, Old Bob not only allowed, but encouraged his boys to settle their disputes by fighting. After the battle he usually enquired who was the aggressor; and if Right had triumphed, he often gave the victor a shilling. Two boys who, for talking in the hall at breakfast, had been made to stand on the form together, contrived to quarrel while thus exalted, and came to blows. Old Bob being present with his cane (misdoers were commonly ‘given up’ to be ‘spatted’ at breakfast-time), rushed instantly from his table to the scene of action. But instead of using the instrument of correction to visit this aggravated breach of discipline, he actually employed it in keeping order during the combat, forgetting the offence in the delight which it afforded him. Our fistic encounters were managed strictly in accordance with the laws of the ‘noble art of self-defence.’ They had the regular accessories of seconds, and a ring, added to the superintendence of ‘Sheep,’ and sometimes, too, the paternal countenance of Old Bob himself! They were divided into rounds, they lasted as long as real prize-fights, and issued, mostly, in similar results to the combatants, who generally pummelled each other so severely that they were forced to retire afterwards to the sick-room. There, strangely enough, they often became great friends. I recollect one desperate contest occurring between the son of a celebrated comic actor and a boy whose family resided in the neighbourhood. The spectators from the public road which skirted the field—they were mostly farmers on horseback, it being market-day—discovered who were the combatants, and exhorted them by name to ‘go it.’ The heroes, I think, fought for upwards of an hour. Both were severely punished—of course I do not mean by Old Bob. On another occasion I was present when a boy in fighting was knocked down. His leg, as he fell, bent under him and was broken. I heard the bone snap.