THE FIGHT.
“Gently, men, lift him up gently. That’s it. Now, help in the other.
What a dive that was!”
“Clean as a whistle. Best I ever saw. And think of the distance. Say,
Masters, he’s a hero from Heroville.”
The lieutenant in charge of the cutter smiled and nodded his head.
“Ready! Pull away, men!” he ordered. “Take us back to the ship,
coxswain.”
The first cutter of the _Monongahela_ swept over the tumbling waters of
Chesapeake Bay under the steady impulse of four pairs of oars.
Lying insensible in the forward part was Nanny. Near him reclined
Clif, fully aware of all that was going on about him, but thoroughly
exhausted.
Trolley and Joy, members of the boat’s crew, were paying much less
attention to their oars than to their chum.
Talking among the men is generally prohibited, but in this case the
rule was entirely lost sight of, and the crew conversed freely.
“Him should be Japan,” said Trolley, genuine admiration in his voice.
“If boy do that in Japan navy they make him hero. Mikado give medal and
all people sing songs.”
“But that is in Japan,” said Clif, with a return of his old winning
smile. “Such little tricks are of common occurrence in this country. It
happens every day.”
“Indeed it doesn’t,” broke in Joy. “Person might jump overboard, but
not from the foretop. It was a lulu of a dive. And then when you
touched water you didn’t stay under the surface five seconds.”
A rousing cheer and a tiger greeted the cutter as it swept alongside
the gangway. Nanny was passed up and immediately taken to the sick bay.
But when it came Clif’s turn, he rejected all aid and climbed up the
side as nimbly as of yore.
On reaching the top of the gangway he glanced down upon a sea of
enthusiastic, youthful faces. Grouped near the bulwark were twenty
plebes. In the front rank were Toggles, Walters and others of Clif’s
friends.
“Whoop! here he is!” shouted the former. “Up with him, fellows.”
Clif made an effort to escape, but he was seized and borne in triumph,
wet as he was, about the deck.
At the procession passed the mainmast, the captain, who had been
smilingly watching the scene with the other officers, stepped forward.
Clif was immediately lowered to the deck.
“Mr. Faraday,” said the commander, “an act such as yours deserves all
praise. I will mention you in my reports, and will also keep an eye on
you in the future. As for that little trouble we will forget it. But I
may as well add that it would be better for you and Mr. Gote to obey
the rules as you find them. That will do.”
Clif bowed and went forward with the other cadets. He still felt,
however, that he was laboring under an unjust cloud.
As he reached the gun deck hatch the apothecary came up and said as he
hurried aft:
“Your friend has just recovered consciousness, Mr. Faraday. The surgeon
says he’ll be all right in a day of two.”
“Thank God for that!” was Clif’s heartfelt comment. “Poor little chap!
He has suffered enough for what he did.”
The words were overheard by Joy. The latter touched him on the shoulder
and whispered:
“There’s that ‘plebe deviler,’ Cadet Corporal Sharpe, over there
talking with Greene and Spendly. He looks disappointed.”
“He’ll look worse than that in a moment,” replied Clif, grimly.
Joy thrust out his lean, tanned face and gaped at him.
“You--you don’t mean----” he gasped.
Just then Cadet Corporal Sharpe sauntered past and descended the ladder
leading below, with a swagger. Clif followed at his heels, and Joy,
after a delirious signal to all standing near, followed him.
As the plebe from Nebraska reached the gun deck he saw Clif confront
Sharpe.
“You are too contemptible to talk to,” he heard the former say; then
Clif reached out and, catching Sharpe’s nose between his fingers, gave
it a disdainful tweak!
The effect upon the cadet corporal was much as if the deck overhead had
suddenly been lifted off and the blue canopy of heaven exposed to view.
He staggered back, glaring at Clif in stupefied amazement.
The latter’s face wore a grim look of determination; and that strange
smile, which was a signal of danger to all who knew him, hovered about
his mouth.
He was resting lightly upon his feet, poised for the attack he knew
would follow.
Sharpe attempted to speak, but the words came in a stuttering stream.
He was wild with rage.
Leaping forward, he aimed a blow, but before Clif could parry it,
Blakely, the big first class man, intervened.
“Not here, you fool,” said the latter, warningly. “This is no place
for a scrap. If you want to fight the cheeky plebe go forward to the
washroom.”
“If I want to fight?” cried Sharpe, struggling to free himself from
Blakely’s detaining hands. “He pulled my nose, and I’ll kill him.”
“Then do it in the proper place,” was the cool reply. “Go to the
washroom.”
“I’m perfectly willing to fight him there or here, or any old where,”
announced Clif. “And I’ll do my best to give him a thrashing he won’t
forget in a hurry.”
“You may receive one yourself,” said the big senior. “Get those wet
clothes off and meet us forward. Be quick about it. We get up anchor at
five bells.”
Clif was attended by Joy and Trolley, and five minutes later he entered
the washroom to find it almost packed with cadets.
A space was cleared in the center and preliminaries arranged by Joy and
a second class man. Blakely was to act as referee.
When Clif stepped out, stripped and ready for the fray, Sharpe advanced
to meet him. The hazer’s face was not pleasant to contemplate.
He was naturally a bully at heart, and his disposition was mean
and small. The two attacks upon him that morning--attacks by two
“miserable” plebes at that--had brought out all the vindictiveness of
his petty nature.
Faraday confronted him calmly, but that old smile was very pronounced.
Trolley and Joy, who knew it well, gleefully rubbed their hands.
“Time!” called Blakely. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” clearly replied Clif, standing on the defensive.
Sharpe barely nodded.
The signal came, and the two enemies--for such they were, in
truth--began to spar cautiously.
But this caution lasted not a minute. Sharpe, plainly wild with anger,
made a furious attack and succeeded in beating down Clif’s guard. The
result was a stiff tap upon Faraday’s chin which sent him reeling
against the bulkhead.
A subdued howl of delight came from the members of the upper classes.
The plebes looked glum, but Trolley and Joy, who were attending Clif,
showed no signs of discouragement.
Time was again called.
Sharpe advanced confidently, and Clif saw him wink at several friends.
The “plebe deviler” essayed the same tactics, but he did not succeed so
well as before. The round ended with a furious exchange of blows which
left several angry blotches upon Sharpe’s face.
When the two faced each other for the third time, Clif instantly made
a feint with his left and let drive with all his force with his right
directly into Sharpe’s face.
There was a crunch and a thud, a gasping cry and the cadet corporal
found himself upon the hard deck, his head dancing amid a whole galaxy
of stars.
He scrambled erect and fairly tore himself from the hands of those
about him. He was seen to tear something from his pocket and spring at
Clif.
There was a flash, a warning cry from the spectators, then Faraday shot
out both hands, landing with terrible force upon the chin and neck of
the infuriated cadet.
Sharpe fell like a log, and at the same moment something dropped from
his grasp with a metallic clatter.
“He’s knocked out, and pretty badly, too,” announced Blakely, amid a
confused murmur of voices.
“He deserved to be killed!” exclaimed Joy, picking up something from
the deck. “Look at this!”
It was a claspknife, open and ready for use.
“That lets him out,” muttered Blakely, grimly. “He’ll not suffer from
too much companionship this cruise.” Raising his voice, he added:
“We may have differences with plebes, but we are gentlemen. Any person
who associates with Sharpe hereafter is a cad.”
And Blakely’s decisions were always respected.
“Hurray!” cheered Trolley, embracing Clif. “You bully boy from backway.
You do plenty for plebes to-day. Hurray!”