The usual lively scene ensued, at the end of which the door suddenly opened, and a boy entered.
“Look sharp,” he cried: “it’s half over by now. They were—”
But what the end of his sentence was to be, history recordeth not. With a simultaneous yell the youngsters rushed headlong from the room, down the passages, out at the door, across the quadrangle, and into the gymnasium. Alas! it was empty. Only the gaunt parallel bars, and idle swings, and melancholy vaulting-horse.
With a yelp of anger the pack cried back, and made once more for the school-house. At the door they met Stephen.
“Where’s the fight, young Greenfield?” shouted Bramble.
“Nowhere,” replied Stephen.
“What! not coming off?” shrieked the youngsters.
“No,” laconically answered Stephen.
“Has your brother funked it again?” demanded Bramble, in his usual conciliatory way.
“He never funked, you young cad!” retorted the young brother.