“I say, don’t do any,” said the redoubtable Bobbins. “The next time they do it to me I mean to kick!”

The sentiment was loudly applauded, and a regular council of war was held, with the following decision. We four were to go home together that afternoon, and without waiting to be chased, would ourselves give chase to the first bully we saw, and take his cap! The consequences of course might be fearful—fatal; but the blood of the “Jenny Wrenites” was up. Do it we would, or perish in the attempt.

I think we all got a little nervous as the afternoon school wore on and the hour for departing approached. Indeed, when we were about to start, Bates looked very like deserting straight away.

“Oh, you three go on,” he said, “I’ll catch you up; I just want to speak to Jenny.”

“No we don’t,” we all protested; “we’ll wait here, if it takes you till midnight to say what you’ve got to say to Jenny.”

This valiant determination put an end to Bates’s wavering, and with a rueful face he joined us.

“Now, mind,” said Rasper, “the first you see!”

“Well,” exclaimed I, starting suddenly to run, “that’s Cad Prog, the butcher-boy, there; come along.”

So it was! Of all our enemies Cad Prog was the most truculent, and most feared. The sight of his red head coming round the corner was always enough to strike panic into a score of youngsters, and even we bigger boys always looked meek when Prog came out to defy us.

He was strolling guilelessly along, and didn’t see us at first. Then suddenly he caught sight of us approaching, and next moment the blue apron and red head disappeared with a bolt round the corner.

“Come on!” shouted Rasper, who led.

“So we are!” cried we, and hue and cry was made for Cad Prog forthwith.

We sighted him as we turned the corner. He was making straight for the market. Perhaps to get an axe, I thought, or to hide, or to tell my uncle!

“Come on!” was the shout.

It’s wonderful how a short sharp chase warms up the blood even of a small boy of twelve. Before we were half down the street, even Bates had no thought left of deserting, and we all four pressed on, each determined not to be last.

The fugitive Prog kept his course to the market, but there doubled suddenly and bolted down Side Street. That was where he lived; he was going to run into his hole then, like a rabbit.

We gained no end on him in the turn, and were nearly up to him as he reached the door of his humble home.

He bolted in—so did we. He bolted up stairs—so did we. He plunged headlong into a room where was a little girl rocking a cradle—so did we. Then began a wild scuffle.

“Catch him! Take his cap off!” cried Bobbins.

“He hasn’t got a cap!” cried Rasper—“butcher-boys never have!”

“Then pull off his apron!” was the cry.

In the scuffle the little girl was trodden on, and the cradle clean upset. A crowd collected in the street. Cad Prog roared as loud as he could, so did his little sister, so did the baby, so did Jimmy Bates, so did Joe Bobbins, so did Harry Rasper, so did I. I did not care what happened; I went for Cad Prog, and have a vague idea of my hand and his nose being near together, and louder yells still.

Then all of a sudden there was a tramp of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and all I can remember after that was receiving a heavy cuff on my head, being dragged down into the street, where—so it seemed to me for the moment—at least a million people must have been congregated; and, finally, I know not how, I was standing in the middle of my uncle’s study floor, with my coat gone, my mouth bleeding, and my cap, after all, clean vanished!

It was a queer plight to be in. I heard a dinning in my ears of loud voices, and when I looked at the bust on the top of the bookcase it seemed to be toppling about anyhow. Some people were talking in the room, but the only voice I could recognise was my uncle’s. He was saying something about “not wanting to shield me,” and “locking-up,” the drift of which I afterwards slowly gathered, when the village policeman—we only had one at Brownstroke—addressing my uncle as “your honour,” said he would look in in the morning for further orders.

At this interesting juncture the bust began to wobble about again, and I saw and heard no more till I woke next morning, and found Mrs Hudson mopping my forehead with something, and saying, “There now, Master Freddy, lie quite still, there’s a good boy.”

“What’s the matter?” said I, putting up my hand to the place she was washing.

It was something like a bump!

“It’s only a bruise, Master Freddy—no bones broken, thank God!” said she, motioning me to be silent.

But I was in no mood to be silent. Slowly the recollection of yesterday’s events dawned on me.

“Did they get off Cad Prog’s apron,” I inquired, “after all?”

Of course, the good old soul thought this was sheer wandering of the mind, and she looked very frightened, and implored me to lie still.

It was a long time before I perceived any connection between our chase of the redoubtable Cad Prog up Side Street yesterday and my lying here bruised and in a darkened room to-day. At last I supposed Mr Prog must have conquered me; whereat I fired up again, and said, “Did the other fellows finish him up?”

“Oh, dear me, yes,” said the terrified nurse; “all up, every bit—there now—and asked for more!”

This consoled me. Presently a doctor came and looked at my forehead, and left some powders, which I heard him say I was to take in jam three times a day. I felt still more consoled.

In fact, reader, as you will have judged, I was a little damaged by the adventure in Side Street, and the noble exploit of my companions and myself had not ended all in glory.

A day or two after, when I got better, I found out more about it, and rather painfully too, because my uncle landed one day in my bedroom and commenced strongly to arraign me before him.

He bade me tell him what had happened, which I did as well as I could. At the end of it he said, “I suppose you are not aware that for a day or two it was uncertain whether you had not killed that child that was in the room?”

“I?” I exclaimed. “I never touched her! Indeed I didn’t, uncle!”

“You knocked over the cradle,” said my uncle, “and that’s much the same thing.”

I was silent. My uncle proceeded.

“And I suppose you are not aware that the barber who tried to take you down the stairs is now in the hospital with an abscess on his leg, the result of the kick you gave him?”

“Oh, I can’t have done it, uncle—oh, uncle!”

And here I was so overwhelmed with the vision of my enormities and their possible consequences that I became hysterical, and Mrs Hudson was summoned to the rescue.

The fact was, in the account of the fray I appear to have got credit for all the terrible deeds that were there done; and I, Master Freddy Batchelor, was, it appeared, notorious in the village as having been guilty of a savage and felonious assault upon one C. Prog, of having also assaulted and almost “manslaughtered” Miss Prog the younger, and further of having dealt with my feet against the shin of one Moppleton, a barber, in such manner as to render him incapable of pursuing his ordinary avocations, and being chargeable on the parish infirmary; besides sundry and divers damage to carpets, crockery, glass, doorposts, kerb-stones, and the jacket of the aforesaid C. Prog. On the whole, when I arose from my bed and stepped once more into the outer world, I found myself a very atrocious character indeed.

At home I was in disgrace, and abroad I was not allowed to wander beyond my uncle’s garden, except to church on Sunday under a heavy escort. So on the whole I had not a very good time of it. My uncle was terrifically glum, and