Then, as when the swelling torrent breaks with one furious bound into the vale below, does the crowd burst into the ring, and, with mighty shouts, proclaim a victory to the light-footed son of Richard. And, behold, as they do so, the towering form of Cresswell comes in view and bears down upon the scene.
Never did swarm of mice, spying Grimalkin afar, scamper quicker to their holes than do the youths of Templeton vanish before the distant view of Cresswell. Victor and vanquished, knowing and unknowing—all but one, fade to sight, and ere the monitor can stop the fight, the fight is over.
Birket alone remained to meet the senior.
“Well,” said the latter, “is it all over?”
“Rather,” said the Fifth-form boy. “I’m awfully glad you didn’t come sooner.”
“Bless you,” said Cresswell, “I’ve been watching it for the last five minutes, so I ought to know when to turn up.”
“You have? Then you saw the finish? The youngster made as neat a job of it as I ever saw.”
“It was rather pretty,” said Cresswell. “He’d something to make up for, though, after making such an ass of himself in the second round. By-the-way, was that last shot of Culver’s below the belt?”
“It was precious close to the wind, anyhow. You leave that to me, though. I’ll make that all right.”
“Thanks,” said the monitor. “Something ought to be said about it, or we shall have more of it. Well, I suppose they’ll shake hands after a bit. You might see to that, too. Ponty’s sure to ask, and there ought to be an end of it.”