THE CHALLENGE
Myron had quite forgotten Paul Eldredge and the incident of the bread
pellet and only remembered when he seated himself at table and caught
Eldredge's unfriendly stare. As he was late, Eldredge and the others
were nearly through the rather modest repast, and smiles and whispers
across the board appraised him of the unpleasant fact that he was
suspected of having delayed his arrival in order to avoid encountering
his table companions. Being far from the truth, this displeased him
greatly and as a result he bore himself more haughtily than ever,
thereby increasing the disfavour into which he had fallen at noon. Young
Tinkham raised a snigger amongst his cronies by ostentatiously rolling
a bit of biscuit into a pellet, but he didn't throw it. Presently
Myron was left alone, to his satisfaction, Eldredge passing him with a
challenging look that would have given him cause for thought had he seen
it. At the moment, however, Myron was looking into the bottom of his cup
and so had no forewarning of what was to occur.
If Eldredge was in the corridor when he came out ten minutes later Myron
didn't see him. It was not until he was half-way along the walk toward
Sohmer that he again recalled Eldredge's existence. Then he heard his
name spoken and turned. Two fellows came toward him, the lights of Goss
Hall behind them so that it was not until they had reached him that he
recognised them as Eldredge and Rogers. It was Eldredge who had called
and who now spoke.
"Been looking for you ever since dinner, Foster," said Eldredge
accusingly. "Kept sort of scarce, haven't you?"
Rogers laughed softly, nervously. Myron stiffened.
"You couldn't have looked very hard, Eldredge. I was in my room----"
"Oh, no you weren't!" interrupted Eldredge triumphantly. "I looked
there."
"Until half-past three--or three."
"Or half-past two--or two," mocked the other.
"Well, what of it?" asked Myron coldly. He knew now that Eldredge
intended trouble. "What did you want me for?"
"Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to give you something."
"I don't want it, thanks," replied Myron. He turned to go on, but
Eldredge stepped in front of him.
"Don't, eh? Wait till you know what it is, Mister Smug!" Eldredge's
arm shot out. Although he had not guessed the other's intention, Myron
caught sight of the movement and instinctively stepped back. The blow,
aimed at his face, landed lightly on his chest. Prompted by a rage
as sudden as Eldredge's attack, Myron's right hand swept swiftly up
from his side and caught his opponent fairly on the side of the face
with open palm. The sound of the slap and Eldredge's snarl of mingled
surprise and pain came close together. Staggered by the blow, Eldredge
fell back a pace. Then he sprang forward again.
"You--you----" he stammered wildly.
But Rogers, stout and unwieldy, threw himself between in a panic of
entreaty. "Don't, Paul! Not here! Some one's coming! You'll get the very
dickens! You crazy dub, will you quit? _Paul_----"
"No, I won't!" grunted Eldredge, trying to shove Rogers aside. "He can't
hit me and get away with it! I'll show him----"
"Let him alone," said Myron.
"No! Aw, quit, Paul! Honest, some one's coming down the line. It won't
hurt you to wait a minute, will it?" Rogers was panting now from the
double exertion of being a human barrier and a suppliant. But he won,
for Eldredge, almost as angry with his friend for delaying revenge as
with his enemy, but utterly unable to get past him, stopped his efforts
in despair.
"What do you mean, wait a minute?" he demanded, alternately glaring at
Rogers and Myron.
"Well, wait until tomorrow," panted Rogers. "You know what'll happen if
you fight here. Do it regular, Paul."
"Tomorrow! Where'll he be by that time?" asked Eldredge scathingly.
"Shut up!" cautioned Rogers hoarsely. "You'll have a crowd here in a
minute!" Already a group of three fellows had paused a little way off
and were peering curiously through the darkness. "Listen, will you? You
fellows can settle this just as well tomorrow as you can now. Fix it up
for the brickyard at--at what time do you say, Foster?"
"Any time he likes!" answered Myron obligingly. Then, remembering that
there were such things as recitations, he added: "Before breakfast: say
a quarter to seven."
"You won't want any breakfast when I get through with you," growled
Eldredge.
"That all right for you, Paul?" asked Rogers. By this time he was
leading the others by force of example along the walk.
"Sure."
"Good! A quarter to seven, then, at the brickyard. Come on, Paul. So
long, Foster!"
Myron made no answer as he strode on toward Sohmer. His pulses were
still pounding, although he had managed to control his voice fairly
well, and he was experiencing a sort of breathlessness that was novel
and not altogether unpleasant. But, to be truthful, contemplation of
tomorrow morning's engagement with Eldredge at the brickyard, wherever
that might be, did not fill him with unalloyed bliss. In fact, as
excitement dwindled something very much like nervousness took its place.
Myron was not a coward, but, as he climbed the stairs in Sohmer, he
found himself wishing that he had kept his temper and his tongue under
control yesterday noon!
Joe Dobbins, with both lean, sinewy hands desperately clutching his
tousled hair, was bent over a book at the study table. Joe's method of
studying was almost spectacular. First he removed his coat, then his
collar and tie. After that he seated himself on the edge of his chair,
twined his ankles about the legs of it, tilted it forward until his
elbows were on the table, got a fine, firm grip on his hair with each
hand, took a long agonised breath--and plunged in! Studying was just
as hard for him as it looked, and it is greatly to his credit that he
succeeded at it as well as he did. Just now he looked up at Myron's
entrance. For a moment he stared vacantly. Then his hands dropped from
his head, the chair thumped back into normal position and he came out of
his trance.
"Hello," he said vaguely.
"Latin?" asked Myron.
"Math," was the sad response. Then, sensing something unusual about his
room-mate, he asked: "What's up?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"You look like some one had dropped a firecracker down your neck, or
something. What's disturbed your wonted calm? Say, how's that? 'Wonted
calm!' Gee, that's going some, ain't it? I mean, is it not?"
"Great," said Myron absently. He went into the bedroom and methodically
changed coat and vest for a grey house jacket. When he emerged Joe was
still unsatisfied.
"Going to study?" asked the latter.
"Yes--no--I don't know. I ought to." But Myron seated himself at the
window instead of at the table and took one leg into his interlaced
hands. Joe watched him solicitously. After a minute Myron asked with
elaborate unconcern: "Did you ever fight any one, Dobbins?"
"Me?" Joe chuckled. "Well, I've been in a couple of scraps in my time.
Why?"
"Just wondered. What--how do you go at it?"
"Me?" Joe leaned precariously back in his chair. "Well, I ain't got but
one rule, Foster, and that's: Hit 'em first and often."
"Oh! I--I suppose boxing is--quite an art."
"Don't know much about boxing, kiddo. Where I come from they don't go in
for rules and regulations. When you fight--you fight: and about the only
thing that's barred is kicking the other fellow in the head when he's
down! A real earnest scrap between a couple of lumber-jacks is about the
nearest thing to battle, murder and sudden death that you're likely to
see outside the movies!"
"I didn't mean that sort of fighting," said Myron distastefully.
"Fellows at--well, say, at school don't fight like that, of course."
"No, I don't suppose so. I guess they stick to their fists. Anyway, they
did where I went to school. We used to have some lively little scraps,
too," added Joe with a reminiscent chuckle. "I remember--But, say,
what's your trouble, Foster? Why are you so interested in fighting?"
"Oh, I was just wondering," answered Myron evasively.
"Yeah, I know all about that. Who you been fighting?"
"No one."
"Who you going to fight?"
"I haven't said I was going to fight, have I? I was just asking about
it. Maybe I might have to fight some time, and----"
"Sure, that's so. You might. You can't ever tell, can you?" Joe picked
up a pencil and beat a thoughtful tattoo on the blotter for a moment.
Then: "Who is he? Do I know him?" he asked.
"Know who?" faltered Myron.
"This guy that's after you. Come on, kiddo, open up! Come across! Let's
hear the story."
So finally Myron told the whole thing, secretly very glad to do it, and
Joe listened silently, save for an occasional grunt. When Myron had
finished Joe asked: "So that's it, eh? Tomorrow morning at a quarter to
seven at the brickyard. Where's this brickyard located?"
"I don't know. I must ask some one."
"Yeah. Now tell me this, kid--I mean Foster: What do you know about
fighting?"
"Not much," owned Myron ruefully. "I saw a couple of fellows at high
school fight once, but that's about all."
"Never fought yourself?"
Myron shook his head almost apologetically. "No, I never had occasion
to."
Joe snorted. "You mean you never had a chance to find an occasion,"
he said derisively. "You were kept tied up to the grand piano in the
drawing-room, I guess. Think of a husky guy like you getting to be
seventeen years old and never having any fun at all! Gee, it's criminal!
Your folks have got a lot to answer for, Foster, believe me! Here, stand
up here and put your fists up and show me what you know--or don't know."
Myron obeyed and faced the other awkwardly. Joe groaned.
"Gee, ain't you the poor fish? Stick that foot out so you can move
about. That's it. Now I'm going to tap you on the shoulder, the left
shoulder. Don't let me!" But Myron did let him, although he thrashed
both his arms about fearsomely. "Rotten! Watch me, not my hands. Now
look out for your face!"
A minute later Joe dropped his hands, shook his head and leaned
dejectedly against a corner of the table. "It's no use, kiddo, it's no
use! You'll be the lamb going to the slaughter tomorrow. Ain't any one
ever taken the least interest in your education? What are you going to
do when that Eldredge guy comes at you?"
Myron smiled wanly. "I guess I'll just have to do the best I can," he
said. "Maybe he isn't much better than I am."
"Don't kid yourself. When a guy picks a quarrel the way he did it means
he knows a bit. Still, at that----" Joe stopped and stared thoughtfully
at the wall. Then: "What's his full name?" he asked.
"Paul Eldredge is all I know of it."
"That'll do. I'll be back in a few minutes." Joe picked up his cap and
made for the door. "Nothing like knowing what you're up against," he
said. "Sit tight, Brother, and leave this to me. If I was you I'd do a
bit of studying, eh?"
Myron followed the advice. Just at first it was hard to get his mind
on lessons, for his thoughts kept recurring to the coming encounter
and when they did he squirmed uneasily in his chair and felt a kind of
tingling sensation at the end of his spine. On the football field Myron
had often taken blows and given them in the excitement of the game.
He had had some hard knocks and had seen plenty of rough playing. He
couldn't remember ever having been afraid of an opponent, although he
had more than once entered a contest with the knowledge that the enemy
was "laying for him." But, somehow, this was different. What resentment
he had felt against Paul Eldredge had passed, and so even the spur of
anger was lacking. He would have to stand up there tomorrow morning
and be knocked around at Eldredge's pleasure, it seemed, for no very
good reason that he could think of. It was rather silly, when you came
to consider it calmly. Eldredge had been rude to him, he had been rude
to Eldredge, Eldredge had struck him, he had struck Eldredge. Now when
things were nicely evened up he must take a licking! Well, he supposed
there was no way out of it short of acting like a coward. He would have
to take what was coming to him, getting off as easily as he could, and
try to like it! Well, he had taken punishment before and could again.
Having reached that conclusion, he managed to get his thoughts back to
his studies and was going very well when Joe returned.