He won't stand above two more." "Time's up!" The boys rise again and face one another.

Brooke can't find it in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the Slogger waiting for Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should he come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be stopped, or his sponge will soon go up in the air.
And now another newcomer appears on the field, to wit, the under-porter, with his long brush and great wooden receptacle for dust under his arm.
He has been sweeping out the schools.
"You'd better stop, gentlemen," he says; "the Doctor knows that Brown's fighting--he'll be out in a minute." "You go to Bath, Bill," is all that that excellent servitor gets by his advice; and being a man of his hands, and a stanch upholder of the School-house, can't help stopping to look on for a bit, and see Tom Brown, their pet craftsman, fight a round.
It is grim earnest now, and no mistake.

Both boys feel this, and summon every power of head, hand, and eye to their aid.

A piece of luck on either side, a foot slipping, a blow getting well home, or another fall, may decide it.

Tom works slowly round for an opening; he has all the legs, and can choose his own time.