Into the story at this point comes the narrative of Charles MereweatherCook, aged fourteen, a day-boy.

　　Cook arrived at the school on the tenth of March, at precisely nineo'clock, in a state of excitement.

　　He said there was a row on in the town.

　　Cross-examined, he said there was no end of a row on in the town.

　　During morning school he explained further, whispering his tale intothe attentive ear of Knight of the School House, who sat next to him.

　　What sort of a row, Knight wanted to know.

　　Cook deposed that he had been riding on his bicycle past the entranceto the Recreation Grounds on his way to school, when his eye wasattracted by the movements of a mass of men just inside the gate. Theyappeared to be fighting. Witness did not stop to watch, much as hewould have liked to do so. Why not? Why, because he was late already,and would have had to scorch anyhow, in order to get to school in time.

　　And he had been late the day before, and was afraid that old Appleby(the master of the form) would give him beans if he were late again.

　　Wherefore he had no notion of what the men were fighting about, but hebetted that more would be heard about it. Why? Because, from what hesaw of it, it seemed a jolly big thing. There must have been quitethree hundred men fighting. (Knight, satirically, "_Pile_ it on!")Well, quite a hundred, anyhow. Fifty a side. And fighting likeanything. He betted there would be something about it in the_Wrykyn_ _Patriot_ tomorrow. He shouldn't wonder if somebodyhad been killed. What were they scrapping about? How should _he_know!

　　Here Mr Appleby, who had been trying for the last five minutes to findout where the whispering noise came from, at length traced it to itssource, and forthwith requested Messrs Cook and Knight to do him twohundred lines, adding that, if he heard them talking again, he wouldput them into the extra lesson. Silence reigned from that moment.

　　Next day, while the form was wrestling with the moderately excitingaccount of Caesar's doings in Gaul, Master Cook produced from hispocket a newspaper cutting. This, having previously planted a forcibleblow in his friend's ribs with an elbow to attract the latter'sattention, he handed to Knight, and in dumb show requested him toperuse the same. Which Knight, feeling no interest whatever in Caesar'sdoings in Gaul, and having, in consequence, a good deal of time on hishands, proceeded to do. The cutting was headed "Disgraceful Fracas",and was written in the elegant style that was always so marked afeature of the _Wrykyn Patriot_.

　　"We are sorry to have to report," it ran, "another of those deplorableebullitions of local Hooliganism, to which it has before now been ourpainful duty to refer. Yesterday the Recreation Grounds were made thescene of as brutal an exhibition of savagery as has ever marred thefair fame of this town. Our readers will remember how on a previousoccasion, when the fine statue of Sir Eustace Briggs was found coveredwith tar, we attributed the act to the malevolence of the Radicalsection of the community. Events have proved that we were right.