step.

"Let's look," he said.

The bearer of the basket raised his left hand with his fungoid booty,
frankly trusting, and his fellow-pupil delivered a sharp kick at the
bottom of the wicker receptacle--a kick intended to send the golden
chalice-like fungi flying scattered in the air. But George Vane Lee was
as quick in defence as the other was in attack, and his parry was made
in the easiest and most effortless way.

It was just this:--

He let the basket swing down and just passed his right hand forward,
seeming only to brush the assailant's ankle--in fact it was the merest
touch, but sufficient to upset the equilibrium of a kicker on one leg,
and the next moment Lance Distin was lying on his back in a perfect
tangle of brambles, out of which he scrambled, scratched and furious,
amidst a roar of laughter from his companions.

"You beggar!" he cried, with his dark eyes flashing, and a red spot in
each of his sallow cheeks.

"Keep off!" cried the mushroom bearer, backing away. "Lay hold of him,
Gilmore--Aleck!"

The lads addressed had already caught at the irate boy's arms.

"Let go, will you!" he yelled. "I'll let him know."

"Be quiet, or we'll all sit on you and make you."

"I'll half kill him--I'll nearly break his neck."

"No, don't," said the boy with the basket, laughing. "Do you want your
leave stopped? Nice you'd look with a pair of black eyes."

"You can't give them to me," roared the lad, passionately, as he still
struggled with those who held him, but giving them little trouble in
keeping him back.

"Don't want to. Served you right. Shouldn't have tried to kick over my
basket. There, don't be in such a temper about that."

"I'll pay you for it, you miserable cad!"

"Don't call names, Distie," said the lad coolly. "Those who play at
bowls must expect rubbers. Let him go, boys; he won't hurt me."

It was a mere form that holding; but as the detaining pair loosened
their hold, Lance Distin gave himself a violent wrench, as if he were
wresting himself free, and then coloured to the roots of his hair, as he
saw the laugh in his adversary's eyes.

"Distie's got no end of Trinidad sun in him yet.--What a passionate
fellow you are, Cocoa. I say, these are good, really. Come home with
me and have breakfast."

Lance Distin, son of a wealthy planter in the West Indies, turned away
scornfully, and the others laughed.

"Likely," said Fred Gilmore, showing his white teeth. "Why, I wou