Step by step Jim was being forced back. If he were to make a rush into any of the houses he would be trapped still more surely. He was safer in the open. But when he reached the wall, and could retire no farther, the end must come, for the wall was unscalable, and he could not break his way through this pack of human wolves. Still, Jim was lashing out as furiously as ever with the belt, and the curses of the Hooligans gave proof of the execution the heavy buckle wrought amongst them. His hat was off, his face was bleeding, his breath was coming in short, sharp gasps; they were all round him, hemming him in, and in a few seconds he must have been down, when of a sudden there was a great, boisterous cry, and Jim knew that help had come. "_Matt’s! Matt’s to the rescue! Hold up, Jim! Matts!_" This was the call as the sixteen men from Matt’s, headed by the Welshman and Deadwood, came streaming into the court. Unseen by the Hooligans, the small boy who had fetched Jim to his mother, witnessing Jim’s perilous situation, had crept out of the court, and, encountering the students on their march down Mount Street, had, in a few breathless words, informed them of the "doctor’s" plight. If it had been any other doctor they would have flown to the rescue, but they guessed it was Jim, and, directed by the urchin, made a frantic rush for Pine Court. The Hooligans left Jim to face the new danger. The students and the Mount Street ruffians met with a crash, and there was a short, sharp _mêlée_. But it was quite short. The Hooligans--under-sized wretches as many of them were--had no chance against the students, most of whom were athletes, and a few, like Deadwood, skilled fighters. Jim’s assailants were knocked down in all directions, and thrashed with their own belts. When they got up it was to make a dash for the entrance of the court, where they ran into the arms of the stout sergeant and his merrie men. Each policeman held tight to a Hooligan, and the students, pursuing hotly, captured others, but several got away. Among the captured was the chief of the gang. "This ’ll mean five years for you, Jack Smith," said the stout sergeant, "and serve you right, you dirty scoundrel!" Mr Smith’s reply need not be recorded. But among those who remained at large was the big brute Jim had felled to the ground. This man, in falling, had sustained a severe scalp wound, and had crept out of the fight and up a dark staircase, where he lay until the police disappeared, writhing with pain and vowing eternal vengeance on Jim Mortimer. *CHAPTER XX.* *AFTER THE PLAY.* "Dear old man!" said the red-haired student, wringing Jim’s hand. "I’m so glad we got here in time!" The red-haired one then briefly recapitulated the events of the evening, and just as he concluded his story the stout sergeant touched him on the shoulder.