“I tell you,” said Ricketts to a small knot of his class-fellows, “he could finish him up easily in one round.”
“Yes,” chimed in another knowing one, “Loman’s got such a wretched knack of keeping up his left elbow, that he’s not a chance. A child could get in under his guard, I tell you; and as for wind, he’s no more wind than an old paper bag!”
“I wish myself it was a closer thing, as long as our man won,” said Tom Senior, with a tinge of melancholy in his voice. “It will be such a miserably hollow affair I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry it’s not Wren, or Callonby, or one of them,” said another of these amiable warriors; “there’d be some pleasure in chawing them up.”
At this moment up came Pembury, with a very long face.
“It’s no fight after all, you fellows,” said he. “Loman funks it!”
“What! he won’t fight!” almost shrieked the rest. “It must be wrong.”
“Oh, all right, if it’s wrong,” snarled Pembury. “I tell you there’s no fight; you can believe it or not as you like,” and off he hobbled, in unusual ill-humour.
This was a sad blow to the Fifth. They saw no comfort anywhere. They flocked to Oliver’s study, but he was not there, and Wraysford’s door was locked. The news, however, was confirmed by other reporters, and in great grief and profound melancholy the Fifth swallowed their tea, and wondered if any set of fellows were so unlucky as they.
But their rage was as nothing to that of the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles.