Beyond the fields where cricket was played there was a little wood, and in this wood a circular hollow, like a pond, only there was no water in it. It was a wonderful spot for wild flowers in the spring, and that was probably the reason why some romantic person had named it The Fairies’ Dell. The boys, who were not romantic, as a rule, dropped the Fairies, and called it The Dell. As has been said, this spot was chosen as the arena¹ for the few fistic encounters which the annals of Weston could enumerate², and a better place for the purpose there could hardly be. There was plenty of room for a ring at the bottom, and the gently sloping sides would accommodate a large number of spectators, all of whom had a good sight of what was going on, while the whole party were concealed³ from view.  
At four o’clock on the Saturday afternoon this hollow was thickly studded with Westonians, and all the best places taken. The masters usually took advantage of the half-holiday to go out somewhere for the afternoon, but still ordinary precautions to avoid observation had not been neglected. The boys did not repair to the appointed spot in large noisy bodies, but in small groups, quietly and unostentatiously. Some of them took their bats and balls out, and began playing at cricket, and then stole off to the rendezvous⁴, which was close to them. Saurin was first on the ground; he stood under the trees at the edge of the dell with Edwards and Stubbs, who acted as his seconds, trying to laugh and chat in an unconcerned manner, but he was pale, could hardly keep himself still in one position, and frequently glanced stealthily in the direction by which the other would come. Not to blink matters between the reader and myself, he was in a funk. Not exactly a blue funk, you know, but still he did not half like it, and wished he was well out of it.
 
Presently there was a murmur⁵, and a movement, and Crawley, with Robarts and Tom Buller on each side of him, and a knot of others following, appeared. Without saying a word both boys went down the sides of the dell to the circular space which had been carefully left for them at the bottom, took off their jackets, waistcoats, and braces⁶, and gave them to their seconds, who folded them up and laid them aside, tied pocket-handkerchiefs round their waists, turned up the bottoms of their trousers, and stepped into the middle of the arena.
 
“Won’t you offer to shake hands?” said Stubbs to Saurin. “I believe it is usual on such occasions.”
 
“Pooh!” replied Saurin, “that is in friendly encounters, to show there is no malice⁷. There is plenty of malice here, I can promise you.” He finished rolling up his shirt sleeves to the armpits as he spoke⁸, and walked to the middle of the ring, where Crawley confronted him. All were wrapped in breathless attention as the two put up their hands, and every note of a thrush singing in a tree hard by could be distinctly heard.
 
The two boys were just about the same height and age, but Crawley had a slightly longer reach in the arms, and was decidedly more “fit” and muscular. But, on the other hand, it was evident directly they put their hands up, that Saurin was the greatest adept¹⁰ at the business. The carriage of his head and body, and the way he worked his arm and foot together, showed this. He moved round his adversary¹¹, advancing, retiring, feinting, watching for an opening. Crawley stood firm, with his eyes fixed¹² on those of his antagonist¹³, merely turning sufficiently¹⁴ to face him. At length Saurin, judging his distance, sent out his left hand sharply, and caught Crawley on the right cheekbone. Crawley hit back in return, but beat the air; Saurin was away. Again Saurin came weaving in, and again he put a hit in without a return. The same thing happened a third, a fourth, and a fifth time, and then Crawley, stung by the blows, went at the other wildly, hitting right and left, but, over-reaching himself, lost his balance and rolled over. The lookers on were astonished; they had expected Saurin to be beaten from the first, and though Crawley was so popular, murmurs¹⁵ of applause were heard, such is the effect of success. Buller knelt on his left knee so that Crawley might sit on his right. In the same manner Saurin sat on Edwards’ knee. Saurin’s face had not been touched, while that of Crawley was flushed and bleeding.
 
“You will not be able to touch his face just yet,” said Buller. “Fight at his body and try to hit him in the wind. And never mind what I said yesterday about closing with him, we must risk his cross-buttock, and your superior strength may serve you.”
 
“Time! time!” cried the boys, and the antagonists¹⁶ jumped up from their seconds’ knees, and met again. Saurin had lost all his nervousness now; his superiority was evident, and he felt nothing but triumph and gratified malice. He did not stop to spar now, but directly he was within reach hit out with confidence. Crawley took the blow without flinching¹⁷ or attempting to parry it, and sent his right fist with all his strength into Saurin’s ribs¹⁹, just as Buller had directed him. Saurin recovered himself, and the round went on, Crawley being further mauled about the face, neck, and head, but getting a hit in now on the other’s body, now a round right-hander on his side or the small of his back. In the end they grappled, wrestled²⁰, and rolled over together, and were then helped by their seconds to their respective corners. Saurin’s face was still untouched, but he puffed²¹ and panted for breath, and seemed to feel the effect of the body blows.
 
“That is capital,” said Buller to Crawley; “stick to that for the present, he will soon begin to tire.”
 
“Why, Buller, you seem to be quite up to this sort of thing!” said Robarts in surprise.
 
“My elder brother went in for the Queensbury cups, and is always talking about boxing and fighting: that’s how I know,” replied Buller quietly.
 
“And that is why you wished to be my second?” asked Crawley, who, though his face was a pitiable object, was perfectly²² cool and self-possessed, and not a bit blown or tired.
 
“Yes,” replied Buller; and “Time!” was again called.
 
The mass of the spectators looked upon the fight as won by Saurin already, and all the cheering was for him now. This opinion was further strengthened presently, for Crawley, seeing his antagonist panting, thought that at last he might get on equal terms with him, and rushed in to fight at close quarters, but he was met by a straight blow from Saurin’s left fist right between the eyes, which knocked him fairly down on the broad of his back, where he lay quite dazed for a moment, till Robarts and Buller assisted him to his corner. The cheering and the cries of “Bravo, Saurin!” “Well hit, Saurin!” were loud and long; many thought that Crawley would not come up again. But though puffed about both eyes, and with a considerably²³ swollen²⁴ nose, Crawley was soon all right again, and as lively as when he began.
 
“If I only could mark him!” he said to his seconds. “It is so absurd to see him with his face untouched.”
 
“Wait a bit,” replied Buller. “Keep on pegging²⁵ at his body and wrestling; I’ll tell you when to go for his face. He is getting weaker for all that hit last round.”
 
This was true, for Saurin’s blows, though they got home, had no longer the force they had at first. In one round, after a severe struggle, he threw Crawley heavily, but the exertion²⁶ told more upon himself than upon the one thrown. And he began to flinch¹⁸ from the body blows, and keep his hands down. Loafing, beer-drinking, and smoking began to tell their tale, in fact, and at last Buller said, “Now you may try to give him one or two in the face.”
 
They had been at it nearly half an hour, and Crawley, who had been taking hard exercise daily and leading a healthy temperate²⁷ life, was as strong as when he first took his jacket off. He could hardly see out of his right eye, and his face and neck were so bruised²⁸ and tender that every fresh blow he received gave him exquisite²⁹ pain. But his wits were quite clear, he had not lost his temper, and when down, in a few minutes he was ready to stand up again. He easily warded³⁰ off a nerveless blow of his antagonist, returned it with one from his left hand on the body, and then sent his right fist for the first time straight into Saurin’s face. Saurin got confused and turned half round; Crawley following up his advantage, followed him up step by step round the ring, and at last fairly fought him down amidst cheers from the boys, the tide of popularity turning in his favour again.
 
“You have marked him now, and no mistake,” said Buller to Crawley as he sat on his knee. And there could be no doubt about that. The revulsion of feeling Saurin had gone through was great. After establishing his superiority, and feeling confident of an easy victory, to find his adversary refuse so persistently³¹ to know when he was beaten! To see him come up time after time to take more hammering without flinching was like a nightmare. And he felt his own strength going from the sheer exertion of hitting; and when he knocked Crawley down he hurt his left hand, which it was painful to strike with afterwards. Again, the body blows he received and thought little of at first began to make him feel queer, and now, when the other took a decided⁹ lead, he lost his head and got wild. For he was not thoroughly³² “game:” he had not got that stubborn, somewhat sullen³³ spirit of endurance which used to be so great a characteristic of the English, and we will hope is not extinct yet, for it would be sad indeed to think that it had passed away. A brilliant act of daring with plenty of spectators and high hope of success is one thing; but to stand at bay when all chance seems gone, determined³⁴ to die hard and never give in, is quite another. I like to see a fellow spurting³⁵ when he is distanced; catching³⁶ his horse, remounting, and going in pursuit after a bad fall; going back to his books and reading harder than ever for another try directly the list has come out without his name in it—never beaten, in short, until the last remotest chance is over. That is the spirit which won at Agincourt, at Waterloo, at Meeanee, at Dubba, at Lucknow, at Rorke’s Drift. It was this that Saurin was deficient³⁷ in, and that would have now stood him in such stead. Edwards was not the one to infuse any of it into him, for he was as much dismayed by the effects of the last round as his friend himself. Stubbs, indeed, tried to cheer him, inciting³⁸ him to pull himself together, spar for wind, and look out for a chance with his sound right hand, but he was not a youth to carry influence with him.
 
In the next round Crawley closed with his adversary, who, when he at last struggled loose, rolled ignominiously³⁹ over on the ground, and in point of beauty there was nothing to choose now between the visages of the two combatants.
 
“I—I can’t fight any more,” said Saurin, as he was held up on Edwards’ knee, to which he had been dragged with some difficulty.
 
“Oh! have another go at him,” urged Stubbs; “he is as bad as you are, and you will be all right presently if you keep away a bit, and get down the first blow. Just get your wind, and science must tell.”
 
“But I’m so giddy, I—I can’t stand,” said Saurin.
 
“Time!” was called, and Crawley sprang off his second’s knee as strong as possible, but he stood in the middle of the ring alone.
 
“It’s no good; he can’t stand,” cried Edwards. And then a tremendous cheering broke out, and everybody pressed forward to congratulate Crawley and pat him on the back. But he made his way over to Saurin, and offered to shake hands.
 
“It all luck,” he said. “You are better at this game than I am, and you would have licked me if you had not hurt your left hand. And look here, I had no right to speak as I did. And—and if you thought I wanted to get you out of the eleven you were mistaken.”
 
Saurin was too dazed to feel spiteful just then; he had a vague idea that Crawley wanted to shake hands, and that it would be “bad form” to hold back, so he put his right hand out and murmured something indistinctly.
 
“Stand back, you fellows,” said Crawley, “he is fainting. Give him a chance of a breath of air.”
 
And indeed Saurin had to be carried up out of the dell, laid on his back under the trees, and have water dashed in his face, before he could put on his jacket and waistcoat and walk back to his tutor’s house. And when he arrived there he was in such pain in the side that he had to go to bed. Crawley himself was a sorry sight for a victor. But his discomforts⁴⁰ were purely⁴¹ local, and he did not feel ill at all; on the contrary, he was remarkably⁴² hungry. Buller was with him when he washed and changed his shirt, for he had been applying a cold key to the back of his neck to stop the nose-bleeding, and now remained, like a conscientious⁴³ second, lest it should break out again.
 
“I say, Buller,” said Crawley suddenly, “you never go to Slam’s, I hope?”
 
“Not I.”
 
“Then how do you know such a lot about prize-fighting?”
 
“I told Robarts; my elder brother is very fond of everything connected with sparring, and has got a lot of reports of matches, and I have read all the prize-fights that ever were, I think. I used to take great interest in them, and thought I might remember something which would come in useful. There is a great sameness in these things, you know, and the principles are simple.”
 
“I am sure I am much obliged to you for offering to be my second; I should have been licked but for you.”
 
“I don’t know that. I think you would have thought of fighting at his wind when you could not reach his face for yourself, and tired him out anyhow. But if I have been useful I am glad. You took pains to try my bowling⁴⁴ when most fellows would have laughed at the idea; and there is the honour of the house too. What I feared was that you would not follow what I said, but persist in trying to bore in.”
 
“Why,” replied Crawley, laughing, “Saurin backed up your advice with such very forcible and painful examples of the common sense of it, that I should have been very pig-headed not to catch your meaning. But what rot it all is!” he added, looking in the glass. “A pretty figure I shall look at Scarborough, with my face all the colours of the prism, like a disreputable damaged rainbow!”
 
“There are three weeks yet to the holidays; you will be getting all right again by then,” said Buller.
 
“I doubt it; it does not feel like it now, at all events,” replied Crawley; and when supper-time came he was still more sceptical of a very speedy restoration to his ordinary comfortable condition. It was an absurd plight⁴⁵ to be in; he felt very hungry, and there was the food; the difficulty was to eat it. It hurt his lips to put it in his mouth—salt was out of the question—and it hurt his jaws⁴⁶ to masticate⁴⁷ it, and it hurt his throat to swallow it. But he got it down somehow, and then came prayers, conducted as usual every evening by Dr Jolliffe, who, when the boys filed out afterwards, told him to remain.
 
“By a process of elimination⁴⁸ I, recognising all the other boys in my house, have come to the conclusion that you are Crawley,” said the doctor solemnly.
 
“Yes, sir,” replied Crawley.
 
“Quantum mutatus ab illo! I should not have recognised you. Circumstantial evidence seems to establish the fact that you have engaged in a pugilistic encounter.”
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“And with whom?”
 
“I beg your pardon, sir; I hope that you will not insist on my telling. It was my fault; we had a dispute, and I spoke very provokingly.”
 
“Your mention of his name would not make much difference, if you were as busy with your fists as he seems to have been. But I am disappointed in you, Crawley; it vexes⁴⁹ me that a boy of your age and standing⁵⁰ in the school, and whose proficiency⁵¹ in athletic⁵² sports gives you a certain influence, should brawl⁵³ and fight like this.”
 
“It vexes me too, sir, I assure you.”
 
“You should have thought of that before.”
 
“So I did, sir, and also of the figure I should cut when I went home.”
 
“Well, certainly,” said the doctor, unable to help smiling, “I do not advise you to have your photograph taken just at present. But you know,” he added, forcing himself to look grave again, “I cannot overlook fighting, which is a very serious offence. You must write a Greek theme of not less than two pages of foolscap, on the Blessings⁵⁴ of Peace, and bring it me on Tuesday. And apply a piece of raw meat, which I will send up to your room, to your right eye.”
 
Crawley ran up-stairs rejoicing, for he had got off easier than he expected, and the application of raw meat gave him great relief, so that next day the swellings had very much subsided⁵⁵, though his eyes were blood-shot, and his whole face discoloured. But Saurin did not come round so soon: there were symptoms of inflammation which affected⁵⁶ his breathing, and induced his tutor, Mr Cookson, to send for the doctor, who kept his patient in bed for two days. He soon got all right again in body, but not in mind, for he felt thoroughly humiliated⁵⁷. This was unnecessary, for it was agreed on all sides that he had made a first-rate fight of it, and he decidedly rose in the estimation of his school-fellows. But Saurin’s vanity was sensitive to a morbid⁵⁸ degree, and he brooded over his defeat. A fight between two healthy-minded boys generally results in a close friendship, and Crawley made several overtures⁵⁹ to his late antagonist; but as they were evidently not welcome, he soon desisted, for after all Saurin was not one of “his sort.” And the term, as it is the fashion now to call a “half,” came to an end, and though his wounds were healed, and his features restored to their original shape, Crawley had to go to Scarborough like one of Gibson’s statues, tinted⁶⁰.