again. But once bitten is twice shy, and this time he overreached
himself, in two senses. His lunge, falling short, let in the little
one, who dealt him a double knock--rap, rap, on either side of the
jaw--before breaking away. Stung out of caution he rushed and
managed to close, but took a third rap which cut his upper lip.
First blood to Wesley. The pair went to grass together, Randall on
top. But it was the Tories who cheered.

Round 4. Randall, having bought his experience, went back to sound
tactics. This and the next two rounds were uninteresting and quite
indecisive, though at the end of them Wesley had a promising black
eye and Randall was bleeding at mouth and nose. The old gentleman
rubbed his chin and took snuff. This Fabian fighting was all against
the lighter weight, who must tire in time.

Yet he did not look like tiring, but stepped out for Round 7 with the
same inscrutable smile. Randall met it with a shame-faced grin--
really a highly creditable, good-natured grin, though the blood about
his mouth did its meaning some injustice. And with this there
happened that which dismayed many and puzzled all. Wesley's fists
went up, but hung, as it were impotent for the moment, while his eyes
glanced aside from his adversary's and rested, with a stiffening of
surprise, on the corner of the ring where the old gentleman stood.
A cry went up from the King's Scholars--a groan and a warning.
At the sound he flung back his head instinctively--as Randall's left
shot out, caught him on the apple of the throat, and drove him
staggering back across the green.

The old gentleman snapped down the lid of his snuffbox, and at the
same moment felt a hand gripping him by the elbow. "Now, how the--"