“Well, only let's keep together if we have to bolt.”
They promenaded in lonely dignity for some five minutes, keeping eyes and ears on full strain.
“I tell you what,” said Drysdale, at last, “it isn't fair, these enemies in the camp; what with the 'town' and their stones and fists, and the proctors with their 'name and college,' we've got the wrong end of the stick.”
“Both wrong ends, I can tell you,” said Jervis. “Hello, Brown, your nose is bleeding.”
“Is it?” said Tom, drawing his hand across his mouth; “'twas that confounded little fellow then who ran up to my side while I was squaring at the long party. I felt a sharp crack, and the little rascal bolted into the crowd before I could turn at him.”
“Cut and come again,” said Drysdale, laughing.
“Ay, that's the regular thing in these blackguard street squabbles. Here they come then,” said Jervis. “Steady, all.”
They turned around to face the town, which came shouting down the street behind them in pursuit of one gownsman, a little, harmless, quiet fellow, who had fallen in with them on his way back to his college from a tea with his tutor, and, like a wise man, was giving them leg-bail as hard as he could foot it. But the little man was of a courageous, though prudent soul, and turned panting and gasping on his foes the moment he found himself amongst friends again.
“Now, then, stick together; don't let them get around us,” said Jervis.
They walked steadily down the street, which was luckily a narrow one, so that three of them could keep the whole of it, halting and showing front every few yards, when the crowd pressed too much. “Down with them! Town, town! That's two as was in the show.”