“Now, then, young Mercer, come up to the scratch,” cried Burr. “Stand back, you boys, and make a better ring.”
Then a shuffling of feet, a few suppressed sounds of excitement, and the boys who were to look out turned from the windows.
“Remember old Lom,” I said, feeling very nervous and doubtful as I whispered to my principal. Then the boys were opposite to each other, Dicksee throwing his head about, dancing from leg to leg, and feinting a rush in, while Mercer stood well balanced on his legs, his brow wrinkled, and his fists up in the attitude we had been taught.
“Now, Dicksy, give it up. Go in at him. Look sharp!”
“All right; wait a moment,” cried the boy, dancing and dodging about as if to avoid blows that had not been struck at him.
“Go it, Fatty, go it!” shouted the boys.
“Hush! not so much row,” cried Burr. “Go on, Fatty. Now then.”
“All right; wait—”
But Burr would not wait, for he gave his principal a heavy thrust, sending him forward right on to Tom, who contented himself with thrusting his antagonist back.
“Oh, I say, that ain’t fair,” cried Dicksee. “You wouldn’t like it yourself. You spoiled my plans.”