As the result of this organism, on a set day, towards the close of October, when the dusk gathered as the school dispersed, the boys who ran down the wide steps from the upper, and the juveniles who ran up from the lower room, instead of darting forward with a “Whoop!” and “Halloo!” through the iron gate on their homeward way, clustered together within the school-yard, and made way for seniors and masters to pass out before them. “Get off home with you, and don’t loiter there!” cried Joshua Brookes, as he turned in at his own gate, and saw the crowd massing together in the outer playground. “Get home yourself, St. Crispin!” shouted Laurence, but not before the house door had closed upon the irascible master. All books and slates not purposely left in school were consigned to three or four of the smallest boys, duly instructed to carry them to Hunt’s Bank in readiness for their owners. For a week or more the College boys had been unmolested; not a forbidden foot had stepped within the wicket. The school-master had remarked to the governor, in the presence of his pupils, that he thought Dr. Smith must have prohibited further intrusion. All the greater was the surprise that dusky October afternoon when a troop of young ruffians, who had stolen quietly one by one through the wicket, and kept under the cavernous shade of the deep gateway until all were within, rushed, with vociferous shouts, from under cover, and tore across the large yard in the direction of the other gate, daring anyone to check them. The College boys, just emerging from their school-room door in the corner, were, for the moment, taken aback. Then, from the mouth of Joshua Brookes’s new Latin scholar, rang, clear and distinct, Humphrey Chetham’s motto—“Quod tuum tene!” (What you have, hold!) and the Blue-coat boys, with one George Pilkington for their leader, threw themselves, at that rallying cry, like a great wave, headlong upon the intruders. They met the shock as a rock meets a wave, and down went many a gallant Blue-coat in the dust. Up they were in an instant, face to face with the besiegers; and then, each singling out an opponent, fought or wrestled for the mastery with all the courage and animosity, if not the skill, of practised combatants. Ben Travis and George Pilkington fought hand to hand, and Jabez—not for the first time—measured his strength with Laurence. Heavier, stronger, older by a few months, Jabez might have overmatched his antagonist; but Laurence had profited by the lessons of Bob the discarded groom, and every blow was planted skilfully, and told. Then Bob’s teaching had been none of the most chivalrous, and Laurence took unfair advantages. He “struck below the belt,” and then tripping Jabez up, like the coward that he was, kicked him as he lay prostrate, with the fury of a savage.