It is too interesting by this time for much shouting, and the whole ring is very quiet.
"All right, Tommy," whispers East; "hold on's the horse that's to win.
We've got the last.

Keep your head, old boy." But where is Arthur all this time?
Words cannot paint the poor little fellow's distress.

He couldn't muster courage to come up to the ring, but wandered up and down from the great fives court to the corner of the chapel rails, now trying to make up his mind to throw himself between them, and try to stop them; then thinking of running in and telling his friend Mary, who, he knew, would instantly report to the Doctor.
The stories he had heard of men being killed in prize-fights rose up horribly before him.
Once only, when the shouts of "Well done, Brown!" "Huzza for the School-house!" rose higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring, thinking the victory was won.

Catching sight of Tom's face in the state I have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind; he rushed straight off to the matron's room, beseeching her to get the fight stopped, or he should die.
But it's time for us to get back to the close.

What is this fierce tumult and confusion?
The ring is broken, and high and angry words are being bandied about.