"All right, Tommy," whispers East; "hold on's the horse that's to win.
We've got the last. Keep your head, old boy."
But where is Arthur all this time? Words cannot paint the poor little
fellow's distress. He couldn't muster courage to come up to the ring,
but wandered up and down from the great fives court to the corner of the
chapel rails, now trying to make up his mind to throw himself between
them, and try to stop them; then thinking of running in and telling his
friend Mary, who, he knew, would instantly report to the Doctor.
The stories he had heard of men being killed in prize-fights rose up
horribly before him.
Once only, when the shouts of "Well done, Brown!" "Huzza for the
School-house!" rose higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring,
thinking the victory was won. Catching sight of Tom's face in the state
I have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind;
he rushed straight off to the matron's room, beseeching her to get the
fight stopped, or he should die.
But it's time for us to get back to the close. What is this fierce
tumult and confusion? The ring is broken, and high and angry words are
being bandied about. "It's all fair"--"It isn't"--"No hugging!" The
fight is stopped. The combatants, however, sit there quietly, tended by
their seconds, while their adherents wrangle in the middle. East can't
help shouting challenges to two or three of the other side, though he
never leaves Tom for a moment, and plies the sponges as fast as ever.
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