"Shut up, cheap-jack!" cried Trimble defiantly. We had given ourselves away at last! "Hullo," cried Flitwick, "there's somebody here! I wonder if those little cads of Sharpe's have found out our place?" "_Your_ place!" thundered Warminster. "You knew it was ours. And we mean to kick you out." "Ho! ho! when are you going to begin?" shouted the twenty Urbans. "Now," yelled the twenty Philosophers. A battle now seemed imminent, as fierce and disastrous as that fought four centuries before on the adjoining heath. The blood of both parties was up, and I might even have found myself engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with my old chum Dicky, had not Tempest unexpectedly appeared on the scene, like a bolt out of the blue. He was pushing along his bicycle, and had evidently been attracted to the Bottom by the noise. "What's up?" he inquired, taking advantage of the temporary silence. "Those day-boy cads have come and bagged our places and spoiled our fun," said we. "No, it's your kids who have come and stopped ours," protested the enemy. "And you're all going down into the middle to have a mill," said Tempest. "Just as you like. But why don't you try a tug of war across instead? You're pretty evenly matched, and I'll umpire!" It was not a bad idea, and took beautifully. The only drawback was, that Tempest being a Sharper, was presumably prejudiced in favour of the Philosophers. However, he had the reputation of being addicted to fair play. "The side that's pulled down," said he, "clears out, and goes somewhere else; and the side that wins I'll photograph in a group." It was a tremendous prize to offer, and served to stimulate both teams to the uttermost. We had a rope with us which easily stretched across the dell, and admitted the twenty pairs of hands on either side to grasp it. Tempest carefully saw that neither side started with the least advantage, and waited till we were all ready before giving the signal. A tug of war in which each side is ranged up the steep slope of a hollow is very different work from a tug on the level, as we soon found out. Indeed, as soon as the rope was stretched, those lowest down were hanging on to it by their finger tips, while those higher up were obliged to sit down to get within anything like reach. Under these circumstances the contest was short and sharp, and ended in a draw. For each side lost its footing the moment the strain was applied, and almost before Tempest had given the signal, the whole forty of us were sprawling in a confused heap on the grassy floor of the Bottom. This abortive contest had the effect (which probably Tempest intended) of smoothing over, to some extent, the angry dispute which was on foot, and which was still further allayed by his undertaking to take a monster joint photograph of the two clubs, provided we stood or sat still for the process.