He was right. As the two seniors stood leaning out of the window, the sounds which at first had been little more than a distant murmur increased to a roar.
Willoughby was evidently returning in force, and anything but peacefully.
Cries of “Now then, school!”
“Hack it through, there!”
“Down with the Radicals!”
“Pony for ever!” mingled with yells and cheers and coarser shouts of “Down with the schoolboys!” indicated clearly enough that a lively battle was in progress, and that Willoughby was fighting its way home.
The whole town seemed to be coming at their heels, and more than once a pitched battle had to be decided before any progress could be made. But slowly and surely the discipline of the schoolboys, animated by the familiar words of command of the football-field, asserted itself above the ill-conditioned force of their assailants, and at every forward step the triumphant shout of “Pony for ever!” rose with a mighty cheer, which deafened all opposition cries.
In due time the playground gate was reached, amid tremendous cheering, and next moment, driving before them some of their demoralised opponents, the vanguard of the school burst in.
Even Riddell and Fairbairn, as they looked down on the scene, could hardly forbear a little natural pride on witnessing this triumphant charge home of their truant schoolfellows.
That the battle had been sore and desperate was evident by the limping gait, the torn clothes, and the damaged faces of some of the combatants as they swarmed in in an irresistible tide, amid the applause of their comrades and the howls of the baffled enemy, who raged vainly without like so many wild beasts robbed of their prey.