"Locked his arms the foeman round."
A moment of straining and heaving, then down, down they came upon the turf, the plainsman atop. And then went up a sudden shout of warning. The next thing Graham knew he was jerked to his feet.
"Run for your life, plebe!" was the cry, as he dimly saw the crowd scattering in every direction, and, led by Connell, rushed he knew not whither.
CHAPTER VIII
"Who whipped? How did it end?" asked a swarm of old cadets of Mr. Ross, on breaking ranks after supper.
"It didn't end," was the gloomy answer. "Allen jumped the fight and nabbed the plebe. He recognized me, too, I reckon, though the rest of us got away."
And so while the Fourth Class men made a rush to find their champion, the elders clustered about the referee for particulars. Geordie was found at his tent, looking very solemn, but quite cool and collected. He had changed back to plebe dress again, and had bathed the bumps and bruises on his brown face, Connell busily aiding him. His hand was swollen and sore from a sprain, but otherwise he was sound as ever.
"We had Woods licked," said Connell, emphatically. "Graham had him down when the rush came. Everybody seemed to know which way to go except ourselves. We ran slap into Lieutenant Allen, and he had to stop and take my name instead of gobbling the others. Yes; we've got to go to the guard-tent, they say. There's no helping that."