after all--met with scurrilous derision; and here Master Randall
nursed a dull and inarticulate resentment in a world out of joint,
where the winning side was a butt for epigrams. To win, and be
laughed at! To have the account reopened in lampoons and witticisms,
contemptible but irritating, when it should be closed by the mere act
of winning! It puzzled him, and he brooded over it, turning sulky in
the end, not vicious. It was in no viciousness that he had flung a
book at young Murray's head and called him a lousy Jacobite, but
simply to provoke Wesley and get his grievance settled by
intelligible weapons, such as fists.

He knew his to be the unpopular side, and that even Freind, the Head
Master, would chuckle over the defeat of a Whig. Outside of
Hutton's, who cheered him for the honour of their house, he had few
well-wishers; but among them was a sprinkling of boys bearing the
great Whig names--Cowpers, Sackvilles, Osborns--for whose sake and
for its own tradition the ring would give him fair play.

The second round began warily, Wesley sparring for an opening,
Randall defensive, facing round and round, much as a bullock fronts a
terrier. He knew his game; to keep up his guard and wait for a
chance to get in with his long left. He was cunning, too; appeared
slower than he was, tempting the other to take liberties, and,
towards the end of the round, to step in a shade too closely. It was
but a shade. Wesley, watching his eye, caught an instant's warning,
flung his head far back and sprang away--not quickly enough to avoid
a thud on the ribs. It rattled him, but did no damage, and it taught
him his lesson.

Round 3. Tempted in turn by his slight success, Randall shammed slow