“Give it to him worse than you did last term, Joe,” called some one on the edge of the circle closing around the two.
“I'm going to,” nodded Joel, every nerve in his body tingling to begin. “Come on, Jenk, if you won't tell where you've put my racket.”
“He's afraid,” said the boy who had advised the more severe pommelling, “old 'fraid-cat!”
Jenkins, his knees knocking together miserably, but with a wild rage in his heart at these words, struck out blindly to meet Joel's sturdy little fists, and to find his Waterloo.
In the midst of the din and confusion that this encounter produced, steps that could never by any possibility be mistaken for those of a schoolboy struck upon their ears.
The circle of spectators flew wide, and before Joel and Jenkins realized what was coming, a good two dozen hands were laid on their collars, and they were dragged apart, and hauled into separate rooms, the rest of the boys scattering successfully. Tom Beresford fled with the rest, and the long hall was cleared.
“Boys!” the voice of the matron, Mrs. Fox, rang down the deserted, long hall, as she looked up from the stairway. “Humph! they are quiet enough now.” She gave a restful sigh, and went down again. Jones and his colic were just so much extra on a terribly busy day.
“What did you fellows touch me for?” roared Joel, lifting a bloody nose. In his own room, Jenkins was in that state that recognizes any interruption as a blessing.
“Old Fox would have caught you, if we hadn't rushed you both,” cried the boys.
Tom Beresford worked his way up to say close to Joel's ear, “Don't speak, get into your room; I'll tell you where it is,” then melted off to the outer circle of boys.