“We dare you to come up and have your hair curled!” shouted they.
We accepted the invitation, and stormed the hill. The battle was short and sharp. We were fifteen to ten, and had a grievance. I found myself engaged with Dicky Brown, who, though he did himself credit, was hampered by a satchelful of stones, which he fondly hoped might turn out to be fossils, on his back. I grieve to say I made mincemeat of Dicky on this occasion. In a few minutes the hill was ours, and the enemy in full retreat.
We remained a short time to celebrate our victory, and then adjourned to the school, a little solaced in our spirits.
The day’s troubles, however, were not over, for at the door of Sharpe’s house, reinforced by half a dozen recruits, stalked the Urbans, thirsting for reprisals, and longing to wipe out scores.
Then ensued a notable battle. We failed to dislodge the enemy by a forward attack, and for some time it seemed as if our flank movements would be equally unsuccessful. At length, by a great effort, we succeeded in cutting off a few of them from the main body, and were applying ourselves to the task of annihilating the rest when Tempest appeared on the scene.
He looked fagged and harassed, and was evidently not much interested in our battle. A row was now too common a thing in Sharpe’s to be an event, and he allowed it to proceed with complete unconcern.
Just, however, as he was turning to enter the house, Mr Jarman came up.
It was almost the first time we had met officially since our encounter in the magistrate’s room, and as with one accord we ceased hostilities and stared at him, one or two of the more audacious of our party indulged in a low hiss.
“Come in, you fellows, at once,” said Tempest, turning on his heel.
“Wait, you boys,” said Mr Jarman, taking out his pencil. “Wait, Tempest.”