my young friend, patrick champion, george's younger brother, is a late arrival among us; has much of the family quality and good-nature; is not in the least a tyrant to the small boys, but is as eager as an amadis to fight. he is boxing his way up the school, emulating his great brother. he fixes his eye on a boy above him in strength or size, and you hear somehow that a difference has arisen between them at football, and they have their coats off presently. he has thrashed himself over the heads of many youths in this manner; for instance, if champion can lick dobson, who can thrash hobson, how much more, then, can he thrash hobson. thus he works up and establishes his position in the school. nor does mr. prince think it advisable that we ushers should walk much in the way when these little differences are being settled, unless there is some gross disparity, or danger is apprehended.

for instance, i own to having seen the row depicted here as i was shaving at my bed-room window. i did not hasten down to prevent its consequences. fogle had confiscated a top, the property of snivins, the which, as the little wretch was always pegging it at my toes, i did not regret. snivins whimpered; and young champion came up, lusting for battle. directly he made out fogle, he steered for him, pulling up his coat-sleeves, and clearing for action.

"who spoke to you, young champion?" fogle said, and he flung down the top to master snivins. i knew there would be no fight; and perhaps champion, too, was disappointed.