Happily, Paul had no knowledge of the reputation of the bully, which the more knowing of the students would have said was only reputation. In his ignorance of the accredited accomplishments of Buck Lamb, Paul was not in the least afraid of him. Possibly, though not probably, if he had known what a bruiser the leader of the six ruffians claimed to be, he would have taken to his heels and escaped in the best way he could, or expressed his willingness to obey the imperative order of his assailant. Buck not only intercepted his intended victim, but he levelled a blow with his iron fist, as he called it, at the modest nose of Paul Bristol. This was enough to satisfy the son of toil, who had often hoed corn and potatoes in the garden near the corner, that his opponent meant business. He parried the blow aimed at him successfully, and it was the right time for him to have returned it; but Paul did not yet mean business, for he was not a fighting character, and despised the whole subject of pugilism. Instead of striking, he looked about him for the means of escape, and discovered two more of the ruffians running with all their might towards the scene of the encounter. They wore the uniform of the barges of the institute, as did Buck and Ham. There was no chance of escape, and Paul was beginning to get a glimmering idea of the purpose of the assault. He concluded that the fellows before and behind him were to punish him for what he had done the day before at Sandy Point. Buck Lamb did not wait for the second pair of the ruffians to join him; and in that he made a bad mistake for himself. His blow had been parried, and he began to think that his antagonist had some skill in the sublime art of pugilism; in this he was again mistaken, for Paul had never learned the first thing about it. He was fully roused, and he aimed a second blow at Paul, which was not as successfully warded off as the first had been, and he received a portion of its force in his right cheek. Perhaps this hit was needed to render Paul fully equal to the needs of the occasion; at any rate, it roused all the tiger of his nature, and then he was ready for anything that might come. He attempted to parry the blow with his left arm; but as soon as the hit was felt on his cheek, he struck a tremendous blow with his right hand. It was the stroke of a son of toil, whose muscles had been hardened by constant labor. It fell between the eyes of the bully, which seemed to be a favorite locality for Paul. The pugilist of the institute reeled backwards, and then fell over into the dirt in the middle of the street. Doubtless he saw all the stars his vision could encompass, and his ideas were awfully confused. At any rate, he did not "come to time," but lay on the ground where he had fallen.