“Oh!” said Bosher, rather alarmed, “I don’t want to fight.”

“I knew you were a beastly funk!” said Telson, scornfully.

“No, I’m not,” said Bosher, meekly.

“Get out of the way!” cried the majestic Telson, brushing past him towards King, who now stood with his coat off and a very apologetic face, ready for the young bantam’s disposal.

Telson and King fought there and then. It was not a very sanguinary contest, nor was it particularly scientific. It did Telson good, and it did not do King much harm. The only awkward thing about it was that neither side knew exactly when to stop. Telson claimed the victory after every round, and King respectfully disputed the statement. Telson thereupon taunted his adversary with “funking it,” and went at him again, very showy in action, but decidedly feeble in execution. King, by keeping one arm over his face and working the other gently up and down in front of his body, was able to ward off most of the blows aimed, and neither aspired nor aimed to hit out himself.

The “fight” might have lasted a week had not Game, coming up that way from the boats, caught sight of it. As it was neither an exciting combat nor a profitable one, the Parrett’s monitor considered it a good case for interfering, as well as for calling in the authority of the popular captain.

“King and Telson,” he said, stepping between the combatants, “stop it, and come to Bloomfield’s study after chapel. You know fighting in the ‘Big’ is against rules.”

“What are we to go to Bloomfield for?” demanded Telson, whose temper was still disturbed.

“For breaking rules,” said Game, as he walked on.

“Shall you go?” said Telson to King as the two slowly put on their coats.

“Yes, I suppose so, or he’ll give us a licking.”

“I shan’t go; he’s not the captain,” said Telson.

“I say, you’ll catch it if you don’t,” said King, with apprehension in his looks. “They’re always down on you if you don’t go to the captain when you’re told.”

“I tell you he’s not the captain,” replied Telson, testily, “and I shan’t go. If they want to report me they’ll have to do it to Riddell.”

With which virtuous decision he went his way, slightly solaced in his mind by the fight, and still more consoled by the prospects of a row ahead.

Telson was quite cute enough to see he had a strong position to start with, and if only he played his cards well he might score off the enemy with credit.

He therefore declined an invitation to Parson’s to partake of shrimps and jam at tea, and kept himself in his own house till the time appointed for reporting himself to the captain. Then, instead of going to Bloomfield, he presented himself before Riddell.

“Well?” said the captain, in his usual half-apologetic tone.

“Oh!” said Telson, “I’m reported, please, Riddell.”

“What for? Who reported you?” asked Riddell.

“Game — for fighting,” replied Telson.

“He hasn’t told me of it. You’d better come in the morning.”

“Oh! it’s all right,” said Telson. “I was fighting King in the ‘Big’ this afternoon.”

Riddell looked perplexed. This was the first case of a boy voluntarily delivering himself up to justice, and he hardly knew what to do.

However, he had found out thus much by this time — that it didn’t so much matter what he did as long as he did something.

“You know it’s against rules,” said he, as severely as he could, “and it’s not the first time you’ve done it. You must do fifty lines of Virgil, and stop in the house on Monday and Tuesday.”

“All right! Thanks,” said Telson, rapidly departing, and leaving Riddell quite bewildered by the apparent gratitude of his fag.

Telson betook himself quietly to his study and began to write his lines. It was evident from the restless way in which he looked up at every footstep outside he did not expect to remain long undisturbed at this harmless occupation. Nor was he disappointed.

In about ten minutes King entered and said, “I say, Telson, you’re in for it! You’re to go to Bloomfield directly.”

“What’s he given you?”

“A licking!” said King; “and stopped my play half a week. But I say, you’d better go — sharp!”

“I’m not going,” said Telson.

“What!” exclaimed King, in amazement.

“Cut it,” said Telson; “I’m busy.”

“He sent me to fetch you,” said King.

“Don’t I tell you I’m not coming? I’ll lick you, King, if you don’t cut it!”

King did “cut it” in a considerable state of alarm at the foolhardiness of his youthful comrade.

But Telson knew his business. No sooner had King gone than he took up his Virgil and paper, and repaired once more to Riddell’s study.

“Please, Riddell,” said he, meekly, “do you mind me writing my lines here?”

“Not a bit,” said Riddell, whose study was always open house to his youthful fag.

Telson said “Thank you,” and immediately deposited himself at the table, and quietly continued his work, awaiting the result of King’s message.

The result was not long in coming.

“Telson!” shouted a voice down the passage in less than five minutes.

Telson went to the door and shouted back, “What’s the row?”

“Where are you?” said the voice.

“Here,” replied Telson, shutting the door and resuming his work.

“Who’s that?” asked Riddell of his fag.

“I don’t know, unless it’s Game,” said Telson.

“Now then, Telson,” cried the voice again, “come here.”

“I can’t — I’m busy!” shouted Telson back from where he sat. At the same moment the door opened, and Game entered in a great state of wrath.

The appearance of a Parrett monitor “on duty” in the schoolhouse was always a strange spectacle; and Game, when he discovered into whose study he had marched, was a trifle embarrassed.

“What is it, Game?” asked Riddell, civilly.

“I want Telson,” said Game, who, by the way, had scarcely spoken to the new captain since his appointment.

“What do you want?” said Telson, boldly.

“Why didn’t you come when you were sent for?” demanded Game.

“Who sent for me?”

“Bloomfield.”

“I’m not Bloomfield’s fag,” retorted Telson. “I’m Riddell’s.”

“What did I tell you this afternoon?” said Game, beginning to suspect that he had fallen into a trap.

“Told me to go to the captain after chapel.”

“And what do you mean by not going?”

“I did go — I went to Riddell.”

“I told you to go to Bloomfield,” said Game, growing hot.

“Bloomfield’s not the captain,” retorted Telson, beginning to enjoy himself. “Riddell’s captain.”

“You were fighting in the ‘Big,’” said Game, looking uneasily at Riddell while he spoke.

“I know I was. Riddell’s potted me for it, haven’t you, Riddell?”

“I’ve given Telson fifty lines, and stopped his play two days,” said Riddell, quietly.

“Yes, and I’m writing the lines now,” said Telson, dipping his pen in the ink, and scarcely smothering a laugh.

Game, now fully aware of his rebuff, was glad of an opportunity of covering his defeat by a diversion.

“Look here,” said he, walking up to Telson, “I didn’t come here to be cheeked by you, I can tell you.”

“Who’s cheeking you?” said Telson. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” said Game. “I’m not going to be humbugged about by you.”

“I don’t want to humbug you about,” replied the junior, defiantly.

“I think there’s a mistake, you know,” said Riddell, thinking it right to interpose. “I’ve given him lines for fighting in the ‘Big,’ and there’s really no reason for his going to Bloomfield.”

“I told him to come to Bloomfield, and he ought to have come.”

“I don’t think you had any right to tell him to go to Bloomfield,” replied Riddell, with a boldness which astonished himself. “I’m responsible for stopping fights.”

“I don’t want you to tell me my business,” retorted Game, hotly; “who are you?”

Game could have thrashed the captain as easily as he could Telson, and the thought flashed through Riddell’s mind as he paused to reply. He would much have preferred saying nothing, but somehow the present seemed to be a sort of crisis in his life. If he gave in now, the chance of asserting himself in Willoughby might never return.