"Not a bit."
"Not beat at all?"
"Bless you, no! heaps of fight in him. Ain't there, Tom?"
Tom looks at Brooke and grins.
"How's he?" nodding at Williams.
"So, so; rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won't stand above two more."
"Time's up!" the boys rise again and face one another. Brooke can't find it in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the slogger waiting for Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should he come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be stopped, or his sponge will soon go up in the air.
And now another newcomer appears on the field, to-wit, the under-porter, with his long brush and great wooden receptacle for dust under his arm. He has been sweeping out the schools.
"You'd better stop, gentlemen," he says; "the doctor knows that Brown's fighting—he'll be out in a minute."
"You go to Bath, Bill," is all that that excellent servitor gets by his advice. And being a man of his hands, and a stanch upholder of the school-house, he can't help stopping to look on for a bit, and see Tom Brown, their pet craftsman, fight a round.