They had no sooner succeeded in setting him at a distance when an incident occurred which brought them once more into violent collision with the enemy.
The pavilion, which has already been mentioned as standing on the match ground, was a handsome wooden structure, surrounded by some low palings, in front of which was a small oblong patch of gravel.

On the second Saturday morning of the term Noaks and Mouler were lounging across this open space, when Oaks, the prefect, emerged from the pavilion, carrying in his hand a pot of paint he had been mixing for the goal-posts, which were just being put up.

On reaching the paling he suddenly ejaculated, "Bother! I've forgotten the brush;" and resting the can on the top of the little gate-post, hurried back up the short flight of steps, and disappeared through the open door.
"I say, there's a good cock-shy," said Noaks, nodding his head in the direction of the paint.
"Umph! shouldn't like to try," answered Mouler.
"Why not ?" "Because Oaks would jolly well punch both our heads." "Well, here's a new kid coming; let's set him on to do it.

You speak to him; he knows me.

His name's Mugford." The two cronies both picked up a handful of stones, and began throwing at the can, taking good care that their shots should fly wide of the mark.
Mugford, who, as we have already seen, was not blessed with the sharpest of wits, paused for a moment to watch the contest.