THE AFFAIR AT THE FORT.
The two began cautiously, like a pair of skillful generals sending out a
skirmish line to test the enemy's strength and resource. This was no
such battle as Texas', a wild rush, a few mighty blows, and then
victory. Williams was wary as a cat, sparring lightly, and taking no
risks, and the other saw the plan and its wisdom.
"Playing easy," muttered the referee, noting the half minute on his
watch. "Know their business, it seems."
"Wow!" growled Texas. "What's the good o' this yere baby business? Say,
Parson, ain't they never goin' to hit? Whoop!"
This last exclamation was caused by the real beginning of the battle.
Williams saw an unguarded face, and quick as thought his heavy arm shot
out; the crowd gasped, and Mark saw it. A sudden motion of his head to
one side was enough to send the blow past him harmlessly, and a moment
later the yearling's forward plunge was checked by an echoing crack upon
his ribs. Then for the rest of the round the excited cadets were
treated to an exhibition of sparring such as they had never seen in
their lives. Feinting, dodging and parrying, the springing pair seemed
everywhere at once, and their fists in a thousand places. The crowd was
thrilled; even the imperturbable Fischer was moved to exclamation, and
Texas in half a minute had seen more skill than his whole experience had
shown him in his life.
"Look a thar! Look a thar! He's got him--no--gad! Whoop!"
Texas did as much dancing as the fighters themselves, and more talking
than the whole crowd. Captain Fischer had to stop watching him long
enough to tell him that the camp, with its sleeping "tacs," was only a
few yards away. And then, as Powers subsided, the cadet glanced at his
watch, called "Time!" and the two fighters went to their corners,
panting.
"What did ye stop for?" inquired Texas, while the Parson set diligently
to work at bathing several red spots on his friend's body. "What kind o'
fightin' is this yere? Ain't give up, have you? Say, Mark, now go in
nex' time an' do him. What's the use o' layin' off?"
"A very superior exhibition of--lend me that court-plaster,
please--pugilistic ability," commented the Parson, bustling about like
an old hen.
And then a moment later the referee gave the word and they were at it
again.
This round there was no delay; both went at it savagely, though warily
and skillfully as ever. Blow after blow was planted that seemed fairly
to shake the air, driven by all the power that human muscle could give.
"Won't last long at this rate," said the referee, sagely shaking his
head. "Give 'em another round--gee!"
Fischer's "gee" was echoed by the yearlings with what would have, but
for the nearness of the camp, been a yell of triumph and joy. Williams
had seen a chance, and had been a second too quick for Mark; he had
landed a crushing blow upon the latter's head, one which made him
stagger. Quick to see his chance, the yearling had sprung in, driving
his half-dazed opponent backward, landing blow after blow. Texas gasped
in horror. The yearlings danced--and then----
"Time!" said the imperturbable Fischer.
Texas sprang forward and led his bewildered friend to a seat; Texas was
about ready to cry.
"Old man!" he muttered, "don't let him beat you. Oh! It'll be the death
of me. I'll go jump into the river!"
"Steady! Steady!" said the Parson; "we'll be all right in a moment."
Mark said nothing, but as his reeling brain cleared he gritted his
teeth.
"Time," said the referee.
And Williams sprang forward to finish the work, encouraged by the
enthusiastic approval of his half-wild classmates. He aimed another blow
with all his might; Mark dodged; the other tried again, and again the
plebe leaped to one side; this repeated again and again was the story of
the next minute, and the yearlings clinched their hands in
disappointment and rage.
"He's flunking!" cried one of them--Bull Harris--"He's afraid!"
"He's fighting just as he ought," retorted Captain Fischer, "and doing
it prettily, too. Good!"
And then once more the crowd settled into an anxious silence to watch.
The story of that minute was the story of ten. Mark had seen that in
brute force his adversary was his equal, and that skill, coolness and
endurance were to win. He made up his mind on his course, and pursued
it, regardless of the jeers of the yearlings and their advice to Billy
to "go in and finish him off." Billy went, but he could not reach Mark,
and occasionally his ardor would be checked by an unexpected blow which
made his classmates groan.
"It's a test of endurance now," observed Fischer, "and Billy ought to
win. But the plebe holds well--bully shot, by Jove! Mallory's evidently
kept in training. Time!"
That was for the seventh round.
"He's getting madder now," whispered Mark to Stanard, as he sat down to
rest. "He wants to finish. If those fellows keep at him much more he'll
sail in for a finish--and then, well, I'm pretty fresh yet."
Goaded on by his impatient classmates, Williams did "sail in," the very
next round. Mark led him a dance, from corner to corner, dodging,
ducking and twisting, the yearling, thinking the victory his, pressing
closer and closer and aiming blow after blow.
"Watch out, Billy, watch out," muttered the vigilant Fischer to himself,
as he caught the gleam in Mark's eye.
Just then Williams paused, actually exhausted; Mark saw his chest
heaving, and, a still surer sign, his lip trembling.
"Now, then!" whispered the Parson at his back, and Mark sprang forward.
The yearling dodged, Mark followed rapidly. There was a moment of
vicious striking, and then the cadets gasped to see Williams give way.
It was only an inch, but it told the story--Williams was tired. Fischer
gazed at his watch and saw that there was yet half a minute, and at the
same moment he heard a resounding thump. Mark had planted a heavy blow
upon his opponent's chest, he followed almost instantly with another,
and the yearlings groaned.
Williams rallied, and made a desperate fight for his life, but at the
close of that round he was what a professional reporter would have
termed "groggy." He came up weakly at the call.
"Don't be afraid of hitting him," the Parson had said, afraid that
Mark's kind-heartedness would incline him to mercy. "There's too much at
stake. Win, and win in a hurry"--the Parson forgot to be classical when
he was excited.
Obedient to command, Mark set out, though it was evident to him that he
had the fight. While Texas muttered and pranced about for joy, Mark
dealt his opponent another blow which made him stagger; he caught
himself upon one knee, and Mark stepped back and waited for him to rise.
And then suddenly a pair of strong arms were flung about the plebe's
waist and he felt himself shoved hurriedly along; at the same moment a
voice shouted in his ear:
"Run, plebe, run for your life!"
Mark glanced about him in dimly-conscious amazement. He saw that the
ring had melted into a number of cadets, skurrying away in every
direction at the top of their speed. He heard the words, "a tac! a tac!"
and knew the fight had been discovered by an army officer.
A figure dashed up behind Mark and caught him by the arm. It was
Fischer.
"Run for your life! Get in barracks!" he cried.
And with that he vanished, and Mark, obeying, rushed across the cavalry
plain and was soon lying breathless and exhausted in his room, where
the wildly-jubilant Texas joined him a moment later, just as reveille
was sounded.
"Victory! Victory!" he shouted. "Wow!"
And by breakfast time that morning every cadet in the corps was
discussing the fight. And Mark was the hero of the whole plebe class.