So we hurled ourselves on the foe, regardless of consequences, and a deadly fight ensued.

Some of the more cautious of our number were lucky enough to be able to drag their men off the prohibited field and engage them on the right side of the fence.
I was not so lucky--indeed, I was doubly unlucky.

For not only was my adversary my dear friend Dicky Brown, whom I loved as a brother, but he edged further and further afield as the combat went on, so that at the last we were cut off from the main body and left to fight our duel conspicuously in the open.
Dicky was not a scientific pugilist, but he had an awkward way of closing in with you and getting you round the middle just at the moment that his left foot got round behind your right calf.

And it grieves me to say that, although I boasted of far more talent in the exercise of the fistic art than he did, he had me on my back on the grass just as Mr Sharpe of all persons walked by.
"What are you two doing ?" demanded the master, stopping short.
"Fighting, sir," said the stalwart Dicky, "and I licked him." "Why are you fighting ?" "Because Flitwick shied mud at Trimble," said I.
The reason did not seem to appeal to Mr Sharpe, who replied,-- "You heard the doctor's orders yesterday, Jones iv., about keeping off the playing field ?" "Yes, sir," said I, realising for the first time that I was well out in the middle of the field, and that the rest of my comrades were looking on from a safe distance.
"Come to me after school for exemplary punishment.

You are the most disorderly boy in the house, and it is evident a lenient punishment is no good in your case." "Please, sir," said the loyal Dicky, "I lugged him on a good part of the way." "No, you didn't," snarled I--taking this as a taunt, whereas it was intended as a "leg-up"-- "I came of my own accord." "Very well," said Mr Sharpe.