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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.