A NARROW SQUEAK WITH THE O.C.
Jetson's next blow grazed Midshipman Dalzell's chin. The follow-up blow
landed on Dan's left ear.
Now Dalzell "sailed in" in earnest. He attacked forcefully and swiftly.
Jetson was forced to give ground. Dan pursued him around the room. Being
no coward, Jetson stood well up to the work, driving in for himself at
least two out of every five blows that were landed.
Rap-tap-tap! sounded on the door, but neither combatant heard.
Smash! Dan's forceful right landed on Jetson's neck, sending that
midshipman to the floor, whereupon Dalzell sprang back three paces.
"Take your time getting on to your feet," called Dan in a low voice.
"I don't want any time," snapped Jetson, leaping to his feet.
The words of both speakers were heard at the door, and the visitor who
had knocked now promptly entered.
Fortunate it was for the combatants facing each other that the intruder
was not one of the discipline officers. Had it been, both midshipmen
would have been reported at once under charges that would have borne
serious results.
Instead, it was Farley who entered, followed by Page, Hepson and Joyce.
"Wow!" uttered Midshipman Farley in a low voice. Then: "Stop this,
fellows!"
At the order, which Dan knew to be intended for his own good, the latter
turned away, letting his hands fall. Jetson, on the point of a rush,
realized that he had better desist.
"Joyce, you stand outside," ordered Farley in a low voice. "Stand right
at the door. If you see the O.C. (officer in charge) turning into this
corridor, you rap as hard as you can on the door, and we'll understand."
Midshipman Joyce wanted most badly to be a spectator to what was likely
to happen on the inner side of the door, but he had the good sense to
realize that some one must do guard duty, so he stepped outside, closing
the door after him.
"Now, gentlemen, what's this all about?" demanded Hepson in a low,
smooth voice.
"It means," cried Jetson passionately, "that I'm not going to stand any
more of this petty persecution. Everyone has been trying to pretend that
he believes I've been trying to do Darrin up so that he can't play on the
Navy football team. It's all just a mean scheme to keep me from making
the Navy eleven."
"There's no such scheme afloat, or I'd know about it," returned Hepson
coolly. "Fact is, there isn't any intention whatever of playing you on
the Navy team."
"Ah, you admit it!" snapped Midshipman Jetson, first turning white, after
which his face showed a deep crimson of humiliation. "You've already done
the dirty work."
"Fellow, stop this talk!" commanded Hepson, almost at a white heat of
resentment, "Among midshipmen and gentlemen there can be no thought of
what you term 'dirty work.' The fact that you won't play with us is due
to your uncontrollable temper. A fellow who can't control his nerves and
temper isn't fitted to play football--a game that requires cool judgment
at every moment of the game."
"Then, while you're telling me what to stop, you just stop addressing me
as 'fellow,'" cried Jetson, his lip quivering with rage.
"I'll admit that was hasty on my part," agreed Midshipman Hepson, "but it
seemed necessary to use some word to bring you to your senses. And now,
this fight, which would get you both into serious trouble if a discipline
officer came upon the scene, must cease."
"I'm afraid it can't," broke in Midshipman Dalzell with quiet dignity.
"At least, I won't agree to stopping until Mr. Jetson admits himself
satisfied. It was he who started the fight, and only his word can close
it. But we don't want you other fellows pulled into this trouble as
spectators, so we'll wait until you all withdraw."
"If you're determined to fight," rejoined Hepson, who was the only first
classman present, "then we don't want to stop the fight. We'll stay and
see it pulled off fairly. But, Dalzell, do you really want to fight?"
"I didn't want to," Dan answered. "But, now that Mr. Jetson has started
it, it must go on until he's satisfied. Up with your hands, sir, and when
you start in, I'll answer you."
The visitors skipped back, in order to leave the combatants plenty of
room for footwork. Since Jetson had heard definite announcement of the
fact that he could not hope to be called to the Navy eleven, his inward
flame of passion had burned up high. He was now ready to fight with all
the force that there was in him.
In the first few seconds his assault was so resolute that Dalzell was
forced to give ground. As he slowly retreated and shifted, Jetson drove
in more impetuously than ever.
Midshipman Dan found himself at last in a position of advantage.
"Now, hammer him, Danny boy!" advised; Farley, breathing deeply.
"Silence among the spectators," warned Hepson in a low, stern voice.
"Absolutely fair play, gentlemen, to both contestants!"
Again the showering exchange of blows. Jetson, after his late rapid
expenditure of force and nerve-energy, was now just the least bit
confused. Dan landed on one ear, and then against his enemy's chin. Both
were hard, dazing blows, though neither left a mark.
Then an uppercut and Dalzell landed on Jetson's jugular. With, a gasp the
fellow went down to the floor.
"One, two, three, four--" Hepson began counting.
"Don't bother with the count," begged Dalzell "I'll give him all the time
he wants to get to his feet."
Rap-tap-tap-tap! came a banging summons on the door, followed by
Midshipman Joyce's voice demanding:
"Are you in, Danny boy?"
Swift as a flash Hepson and Farley leaped forward, fairly snatching
Jetson, who was still half dazed, to his feet.
In the same instant Page called out cheerily:
"Come in under full steam, whatever craft is outside!"
"Brace up? Jetson! Don't look silly or dazed,", warned Hepson, in a stern
whisper. "That rap was the signal of the approach of the O.C."
Farley was industriously brushing the signs of dust from Jetson's
uniform.
"I tell you, fellows," boomed Hepson's tranquil, earnest voice, "we've
got to hustle every minute of practice time. Nothing else will give us a
chance to win."
"We haven't even a chance if Darry isn't soon back on the gridiron,"
argued Farley.
"Oh, he'll be all right soon," broke in Dan Dalzell eagerly.
Joyce had already stepped into the room, leaving the door open. Now, as
though by instinct, the midshipmen seemed aware that the O.C., who to-day
happened to be Lieutenant Cotton, U.S.N., was standing in front of the
doorway gazing in.
Instantly the middies came to the position of attention, looking straight
ahead of them.
"Good evening, gentlemen," greeted the O.C. "Is anything unusual
going on?"
"We have been discussing the football situation, sir," announced
Midshipman Hepson quite truthfully.
Had Hepson been asked if there had recently been a fight in progress he
would have answered truthfully, but he did not feel called upon to
volunteer damaging information.
"I thought I heard sounds as of some disturbance," remarked the O.C.,
looking at the young men rather sharply. "That is to say, I was under the
impression that there had been some unusual agility in operation. I heard
something that sounded like scuffling."
"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Hepson; "I think it very likely. The men on this
deck, sir, can't think of anything in these days but line-ups and
scrimmage tactics."
"It occurred to me," went on the O.C., "that there was some sound of
scuffling in this room."
"There was, sir," admitted Midshipman Hepson candidly. "There was a
species of scrimmage."
"Was it in connection with football?" inquired Lieutenant Cotton.
"Yes, sir,"--which answer, again, was wholly truthful.
"Ah, I thought I heard something like a scrimmage in the room," assented
Lieutenant Cotton. "Yet remember, gentlemen, that quarters is not the
place for football practice."
"Very good, sir; thank you, sir," replied the unmovable Hepson.
"And remember that it is now very close to the time for study call,"
continued the O.C.
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir. We are just parting to our various
quarters, sir."
"Good evening, gentlemen."
"Good evening, sir."
Lieutenant Cotton passed on down the corridor, and the midshipmen eased
themselves from the rigid position of attention.
"That was a narrow squeak," grunted Hepson. "Now, Jetson, get out ahead."
"I'll renew this argument at another time," retorted Jetson slowly, as he
crossed the floor.
"You don't need to, sir," Midshipman Hepson advised him. "Every gentleman
here will agree with me that Mr. Dalzell had the best of the affair right
up to the end. Nor is Mr. Dalzell under any obligation whatever to afford
you another meeting on the score of to-night's disagreement."
"We'll see about that," snapped Jetson, as he passed through the doorway.
At that instant the study call sounded. The others hastened away to
their quarters.
Dan Dalzell stepped over to the handbowl, washing his hands, after which
he went to his study-table and began to arrange his books.
"It's kind of lonely to sit here without old Darry," sighed Dan dismally.
"I hope he'll be here with me to-morrow evening. No; I don't either,
though. I want him to stay over in hospital until there's no chance
whatever that he'll have to wear an ugly scar through life."
It was three evenings later when Midshipman David Darrin returned to
his own quarters in Bancroft Hall. By this time the surface wound on his
face was healing nicely, and with ordinary care he would soon be without
sign of scar.
"Pills (the surgeon) told me that I'll have to be careful and not let
anything bump this face for days to come," remarked Dave, pointing to the
strip of adhesive plaster that neatly covered his injury.
"Well, you don't need to bump anything," replied Dan quietly. "Hepson
wants you on the gridiron the worst way, but he has told me that he
won't even allow you to get into togs until Pills has certified that
you're fit to play."
"It's tough," sighed Dave, then quietly began his studies.
It is a rare proceeding to send a midshipman to Coventry; a step that is
never taken save for the gravest reasons. Dan, having fought, did not
feel it necessary to bring Jetson's case before a class meeting, and
Jetson escaped Coventry. He was not cut, yet he soon discovered that the
average classmate paid no more heed to him than appeared to be necessary
for courtesy's sake.
After another week "Pills" consented to Dave Darrin's going out for
regular gridiron practice. Dave needed the work badly, for the Navy team
was now on the eve of the first game of the season.
Jetson, with no hope now of making the eleven this year, avoided the
field for a few days.
The first game of the season took place on a Saturday afternoon. The
opponent was Hanniston College. Ordinarily, in the past, Hanniston had
been an easy enough opponent, though there had been years in which
Hanniston had carried the score away from the field.
"How many of the regular team do you want to throw into the game against
Hanniston, Mr. Hepson?" inquired Lieutenant-Commander Havens the night
before the game.
"Every one of them, sir," Hepson answered the head coach. "Until we get
into a real game, we can't be sure that we've the strongest eleven.
To-morrow's game will show us if we have made any mistakes in our
selections."
Even though Hanniston was considered one of the lesser opponents, every
man in the brigade speculated with great interest, that night, on the
probable outcome of the morrow.
"Darrin will have a good chance to prove himself, a dub to-morrow,"
thought Midshipman Jetson darkly. "I hate to wish against the Navy, but
I'll cheer if Darrin, individually, ties himself up in foozle knots!"