Even at that crisis, Mike could not help feeling that if a row of this
calibre did not draw Mr. Outwood from his bed, he must be an unusual
kind of house-master.
He plunged forward again with outstretched arms, and stumbled and fell
over one of the on-the-floor section of the opposing force. They
seized each other earnestly and rolled across the room till Mike,
contriving to secure his adversary's head, bumped it on the floor with
such abandon that, with a muffled yell, the other let go, and for the
second time he rose. As he did so he was conscious of a curious
thudding sound that made itself heard through the other assorted
noises of the battle.
All this time the fight had gone on in the blackest darkness, but now
a light shone on the proceedings. Interested occupants of other
dormitories, roused from their slumbers, had come to observe the
sport. They were crowding in the doorway with a candle.
By the light of this Mike got a swift view of the theatre of war. The
enemy appeared to number five. The warrior whose head Mike had bumped
on the floor was Robinson, who was sitting up feeling his skull in a
gingerly fashion. To Mike's right, almost touching him, was Stone. In
the direction of the door, Psmith, wielding in his right hand the cord
of a dressing-gown, was engaging the remaining three with a patient
smile.
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