“Not I!” said Bracebridge, proudly; “I can stand a thrashing far better than Ellis. I am pretty well accustomed to your lickings, and they don’t hurt me much. Therefore, again, I ask you, will you promise, or will you not?” As he spoke, he doubled his fists, and advanced on Blackall, whose face was completely exposed to an attack, while Ellis kept battering away at his head, and grasped his arms tighter than ever.
What might have been the consequences I do not know; Bracebridge, in all probability, would pretty severely have handled the bully, and, his anger being excited, would have left some marks not very easily eradicated on his countenance: when a light was seen in the passage, and a quick step advanced towards them. Bracebridge disdained to fly, and Blackall could not, so they waited the result.
“Ah! vat you garçons do there?” exclaimed Monsieur Malin, for it was the French master, holding up his candle. “Let me see! Ah, I understand! You, Blackall, are one very bad boy. You go to bed now. Bracebridge, Ellis, you come with me.”
Ellis on this jumped off Blackall’s back, and glad he was to do so, for his arms were beginning to ache terribly with his exertions.
Blackall sneaked off, vowing vengeance in his craven heart on his adversaries; and the kind-hearted Frenchman led the other two away, and urged them to keep clear of the bully. When, however, he heard how the affair had taken place, he was very much inclined to go and inform the Doctor, to try and get Blackall expelled, but they entreated aim not to do so, and declared that they did not fear him, and would not run the risk of thus injuring his prospects.
“Ah, you are brave garçons, brave garçons!” exclaimed Monsieur Malin.
At all events, they were true, right-feeling English boys.