It was a custom with the larger pupils to return to the playground after school, and play baseball until sundown. The town authorities had prohibited ball-playing on the Square, and, there being no other available place, the boys fell back perforce on the school-yard. Just at this crisis a dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, seeing at a glance the belligerent status of Conway and myself, dropped bat and ball, and rushed to the spot where we stood. “Is it a fight?” asked Phil Adams, who saw by our freshness that we had not yet got to work. “Yes, it's a fight,” I answered, “unless Conway will ask Wallace's pardon, promise never to hector me in future--and put back my hair!” This last condition was rather a staggerer. “I sha'n't do nothing of the sort,” said Conway, sulkily. “Then the thing must go on,” said Adams, with dignity. “Rodgers, as I understand it, is your second, Conway? Bailey, come here. What's the row about?” “He was thrashing Binny Wallace.” “No, I wasn't,” interrupted Conway; “but I was going to because he knows who put Meeks's mortar over our door. And I know well enough who did it; it was that sneaking little mulatter!” pointing at me. “O, by George!” I cried, reddening at the insult. “Cool is the word,” said Adams, as he bound a handkerchief round my head, and carefully tucked away the long straggling locks that offered a tempting advantage to the enemy. “Who ever heard of a fellow with such a head of hair going into action!” muttered Phil, twitching the handkerchief to ascertain if it were securely tied. He then loosened my gallowses (braces), and buckled them tightly above my hips. “Now, then, bantam, never say die!” Conway regarded these business-like preparations with evident misgiving, for he called Rodgers to his side, and had himself arrayed in a similar manner, though his hair was cropped so close that you couldn't have taken hold of it with a pair of tweezers. “Is your man ready?” asked Phil Adams, addressing Rodgers. “Ready!” “Keep your back to the gate, Tom,” whispered Phil in my ear, “and you'll have the sun in his eyes.” Behold us once more face to face, like David and the Philistine. Look at us as long as you may; for this is all you shall see of the combat. According to my thinking, the hospital teaches a better lesson than the battle-field. I will tell you about my black eye, and my swollen lip, if you will; but not a word of the fight. You'll get no description of it from me, simply because I think it would prove very poor reading, and not because I consider my revolt against Conway's tyranny unjustifiable.