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 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 this row as I was shaving at my
bedroom 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.