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--"
he began, turning as he supposed to address a Westminster boy, and
found himself staring into the face of a lady.

He had no time to take stock of her. And although her fingers
pinched his arm, her eyes were all for the fight.

It had been almost a knock-down; but young Wesley just saved himself
by touching the turf with his fingertips and, resting so, crouched
for a spring. What is more, he timed it beautifully; helped by
Randall himself, who followed up at random, demoralised by the happy
fluke and encouraged by the shouts of Hutton's to "finish him off."
In the fall Wesley had most of his remaining breath thumped out of
him; but this did not matter. He had saved the round.

The old gentleman nodded. "Well recovered: very pretty--very pretty
indeed!" He turned to the lady. "I beg your pardon, madam--"

"I beg yours, sir." She withdrew her hand from his arm.

"If he can swallow that down, he may win yet."

"Please God!"

She stood almost a head taller than he, and he gazed up into a
singularly noble face, proud and strong, somewhat pinched about the
lips, but having such eyes and