THE FIGHT IN THE DARK
The mood lasted. Jeff Thatcher said very little as he went to the
coat-room adjoining the dining hall and discarded his street clothes
for the white coat of a waiter, for Thatcher earned a good portion of
his tuition expenses by waiting on one of the scores of tables in the
big student dining hall.
Usually he found a great deal of fun in his work at the tables, for
there was always a lot of good-natured badinage and joking passed
among the fellows. But somehow this evening, as the students filed
into the big hall, he felt quite different than ever before. It seemed
to him that most of them, and especially the Freshmen, looked at him
reproachfully, and about all of them there seemed to be a suggestion of
strained quietness as he approached.
At first Thatcher could not account for it. But suddenly he realized,
with a sense of shock, that they too believed that he had played
unfairly, that he had fouled Gould and that he had lost the game for
his team by trying unsportsmanlike tactics and being caught at it.
He was loath to think that this was true. He could not believe it at
first. But when in the lull between serving students and clearing off
the tables he stopped to realize that even Buck Hart, the captain of
the team, and the other players as well had thought that he was guilty
of the offense, he understood the rest of the fellows, some present as
spectators and hearing the referee’s decision, and others getting the
news by hearsay, could be of the same opinion.
This hurt Thatcher more than he believed was possible. Always he
had taken great pride in the fact that no one could question his
sportsmanship. He had played fair in the most desperate situations, and
he had preferred to lose rather than resort to fouling, cheating or
disobeying the rules of the game. And now to have the fellows believe
that he had committed this offense hurt him to the quick. How could
they believe it? he asked himself, how could they think that he would
do such a thing when they knew his record for clean sportsmanship?
Jeff Thatcher, like a tortoise, literally crawled into his shell; at
least his sunny disposition did. It vanished into the depths of his
soul and he became morose, almost sulky, which was far from his normal
attitude. Silently he served his table to the end of the meal. Then,
instead of joining the rest of the squad of waiters at their special
tables which were set in the dining hall after the rest of the students
had departed, he hurried away to the coat room and took off his white
coat.
Attired once more in his street clothes, he hurried to his room in
Carter Hall and put on his overcoat, determined to take a walk, he knew
not where, or do something to be alone with his unpleasant thoughts.
Brooding over his misfortunes, he left Carter Hall and started across
the hard, frozen ground of the campus. There was a suggestion of snow
in the air――a cold March snow, for the backbone of winter had not been
broken and for weeks bitter weather had lingered with them. Snow was
in the air now and no doubt of it. Indeed, as Jeff passed under an arc
light at the bend in the road that led behind the gymnasium building,
he noticed vagrant flakes floating down the shafts of light. But he
gave them small heed, and like a grumpy old turtle, which he felt he
resembled very much, he turned up the collar of his coat and tramped on
into the shadow of the gymnasium building.
Suddenly, out of the blackness, two figures loomed up. Thatcher, because
he was thinking and thinking hard, saw them only when he almost collided
with them. Not recognizing them he tried to avoid them by going around
them, but one, the bigger of the two, stepped in front of him again and
growled in an ugly voice:
“You tried to make a liar out of me this afternoon, didn’t you?”
Thatcher noted then that it was Gould, with a Sophomore companion known
as Birdie Pell. He knew too from the odor on the breath of Gould where
they had been and why. Both had been “out of bounds” to steal an after
dinner cigarette, a serious offense at Pennington and a particularly
serious offense in the case of Gould who was a basketball and baseball
man.
Thatcher stopped in his tracks and looked Gould squarely in the eyes.
His wrath was rising steadily but he knew that he had it well within
control.
“Gould, I don’t have to try to make a liar out of you. You are naturally
one of that breed. As for dirty playing, there isn’t anything dirtier
ever put on a basketball suit that has come to my notice.”
Stung by this retort, and angry at being ridiculed in front of Pell,
Gould lost his temper completely.
“What’s that? You eat those words, Kid, or I’ll jam ’em down your
throat.”
He stepped forward pugnaciously and shook his clenched fist under
Thatcher’s nose.
Still surprisingly calm, Thatcher maintained his position and calmly
pushing Gould’s hand aside, said coldly:
“Don’t wave that dirty thing in front of me that way. Put it where it
belongs. As for making me eat anything, you aren’t big enough or man
enough to do it.”
“Why, you――you rotten Freshman. That means fight,” said Gould, now
losing himself completely. He started to take off his overcoat.
Somehow Jeff Thatcher found great satisfaction in the turn of events.
The word _fight_ had a ring to it that brought joy to his soul.
Although he had not realized it, his mental condition was such that
nothing short of physical combat could present a safety valve of
sufficient capacity to give vent to his feeling. Almost eagerly he
threw off his overcoat and dropped it to the graveled drive.
It was a terrific fight while it lasted. All the wrath and ugliness of
Gould, the tricky one, the conceited one, was pitted against the anger
and resentment of Jeff Thatcher, and from the moment they squared off
in front of each other it was evident to frightened little Birdie Pell,
the sole witness to the historic affair, that it would be give and take
to the bitter end with no weakening of spirit and no quarter given.
Both boys were athletes in the best of condition, though Jeff Thatcher,
slightly younger than his antagonist, had taken better care of himself.
Both knew more than the rudiments of boxing, as was evident from the
start. Alert, eager, yet cautiously watchful, they stepped stealthily
around each other there in the darkness. Gould was the first to lead,
stepping in and flashing a vicious straight left to Thatcher’s face.
But Jeff countered with such amazing speed that Gould’s blow was made
harmless by a jolting left that he received full in the face.
It stung him like a whiplash, for with a grunt, half of pain and half
of anger, he stepped in again with both hands driving piston-like into
Thatcher’s face. The attack was so vicious and so strong that Jeff
could only stagger back, block and stall as best he could, watching
for an opening to cut in with a smashing blow that would break up the
attack. He found it. Gould, in his haste and rage, stumbled slightly
and with his loss of balance dropped his hands ever so little. Jeff,
alert and waiting for this, started an upper-cut from the hip that had
all the strength of his powerful back and arm in it. Like a striking
snake it darted in between Gould’s hands and landed with a sickening
smack on the point of Gould’s chin. His head snapped back and his body
sagged forward for the slightest fraction of a second, and Birdie Pell,
with a cry of alarm, stepped toward him, for the younger boy thought
that Gould had been knocked out.
The Sophomore went down to one knee, stayed there for a moment and
brushed his arm across his eyes as if to clear his whirling head.
Then suddenly with a roar of anger he leaped to his feet and rushed
into another furious attack. But he was in a towering rage now and his
efforts were far from the well-timed blows he had used before. Thatcher
saw this with a degree of satisfaction and it was with less difficulty
that he side-stepped and blocked each blow and shot home crashing lefts
and rights, each time an opening presented itself. He was hammering
Gould badly now and the Sophomore’s anger was mounting higher and
higher and his blows were becoming wilder and wilder with each passing
second.
[Illustration: He rushed into another furious attack]
Then suddenly a strange and astonishing thing happened. The darkness
in which they had been fighting was suddenly shattered and illuminated
by a flood of white light from two glaring searchlights, as a car,
approaching unheard by the three boys, swung swiftly around the corner
of the gymnasium building, and with squeaking brakes came suddenly to a
stop.
The two antagonists and Birdie Pell stood silhouetted against the
white glare, staring stupidly at each other and into the blinding
lights. Then Gould, coming to his senses, suddenly exclaimed: “Dr.
Livingston――beat it,” and rushing for his coat, which Birdie Pell held
in his arms, he and the smaller boy ran out of the shafts of light and
into the blackness of the night.
As for Jeff Thatcher, he realized with a sickening sensation that it
was Dr. Livingston’s car. He realized too that the Headmaster had
caught them in the act of fighting, a thing that was forbidden on the
school grounds――an offense that merited serious punishment.
With sinking heart he saw the big, overcoated figure of Dr. Livingston
step out of the car and come toward him.
“Well, Thatcher, what does this mean?”
Jeff could not think of an appropriate answer but evidently Dr.
Livingston did not expect any.
“Fighting, eh? This is serious. I’m sorry, Thatcher. Were the others
Gould and Pell?”
Jeff’s lips closed in a straight line. It was a question he could not
in honor answer.
“Never mind. I saw them and recognized them both. Go to your room,
Thatcher, and report to me at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. This, as
you know, warrants serious discipline.”
And Jeff, with the unpleasant feeling of a culprit caught in the act,
turned toward Carter Hall.