A struggling mass bumped against Mike's shins as he rose from his chair;
he emptied his jug onto this mass, and a yell of anguish showed that the
contents had got to the right address.

Then a hand grabbed his ankle and he went down, a million sparks dancing
before his eyes as a fist, flying out at a venture, caught him on
the nose.

Mike had not been well disposed toward the invaders before, but now he
ran amok, hitting out right and left at random. His right missed, but
his left went home hard on some portion of somebody's anatomy. A kick
freed his ankle and he staggered to his feet. At the same moment a
sudden increase in the general volume of noise spoke eloquently of good
work that was being put in by Psmith.

Even at that crisis, Mike could not help feeling that if a row of this
caliber did not draw Mr. Outwood from his bed, he must be an unusual
kind of housemaster.

He plunged forward again with outstretched arms, and stumbled and fell
over one of the on-the-floor section of the opposing force. They seized
each other earnestly and rolled across the room till Mike, contriving to
secure his adversary's head, bumped it on the floor with such abandon
that, with a muffled yell, the other let go, and for the second time he
rose. As he did so he was conscious of a curious thudding sound that
made itself heard through the other assorted noises of the battle.

All this time the fight had gone on in the blackest darkness, but now a
light shone on the proceedings. Interested occupants of other
dormitories, roused from their slumbers, had come to observe the sport.