"You silly duffer! As if we couldn't deal with them ourselves. Wait till lunch. There's a rod in pickle for them, and they know it."
Yes, the day-boys had a suspicion that there was a lively time approaching, but so set-up were they by their recent victory that they quite looked forward to it.
Jack was less happy. He read the resolve in the boarders' faces, and knew that they saw no joke in that morning's events. And he wondered where the war would end. It seemed the final upset of all those little efforts towards harmony and good-temper to which he had given himself from the hour of his arrival at Brincliffe.
Among the junior scholars sat a dark-complexioned boy with very white teeth. It was the March Hare. To-day there was a queer gleam in his eyes, and a flush of carmine in his sallow cheeks. His English Conversation was not to be found when wanted, and the fact called down upon him a sharp rebuke from a master, but his face expressed no regret.
"There must have been a ringleader in this," remarked another boarder in his hearing during a momentary absence of the master. "I wish to goodness we knew who it was!"
"A reng-lidder?" repeated the March Hare. "I don' know zat word. But if you mean ze boy who done ze much most—ze baddest of all ze bads—ah, I know him! Yes, I mark him long, long time. An' I wait."
"What d'ye mean, Harey? Who is it?"
"Nev-er mat-ter," said the March Hare mysteriously; and at that point Mr. Anderson re-entered the room.
On went the hands of the clock. At one minute to eleven all was peaceful and orderly. At eleven the masters departed for the usual brief interval. At one minute past eleven all was war and tumult!
How, where, with whom the conflict commenced it is impossible to say. There was no warning, no formal outbreak—only in a moment the quiet room became a battle-field, filled with a seething crowd of furious, struggling lads.