GREG OVERHEARS A PRETTY GIRL'S TRIBUTE
In the tent it was still dark. It was at the fag-end of the night; the
time which, as military commanders know, most tries men's
bravery.
The latter part of the night had been cool. Now, in the brief space
before dawn the air was positively chilly.
Greg shivered.
Perhaps it was the chill of the air. It is also extremely likely that
Greg Holmes dreaded the conflict that was about to come off with
big Butler.
Be that as it may, Cadet Holmes went on briskly with his dressing.
The bravest man is he who, though afraid, goes straight ahead to
the goal of battle despite his fears.
Greg was more sensitive about blows than was his chum. Until he
got into the heat of action Cadet Holmes dreaded the very idea of
giving or taking a blow. There are many soldiers like this; but
when they get into action they are the bravest of the brave.
Dick and Anstey were also getting themselves swiftly in readiness.
To Dick, veteran of three West Point fights, the greatest cause for
regret seemed to lie in being robbed of some of their much-needed
sleep.
In almost no time, so it seemed, three cadets fully attired in
uniform, stole cautiously from the tent, slipping down the
company street.
Dick carried Greg's fighting clothes. Cadet Anstey carried a bucket
in which lay a sponge.
Whether cadet sentries on guard deliberately aid in letting fight
parties slip across a post it would be impossible to say. Certain it is
that Mr. Prescott, in the lead, reconnoitred carefully, then crossed
the post at the point furthest from the sentry's half-audible
footsteps. His two friends slipped over with him.
The faint gray of earliest dawn was just showing through the trees
when the plebe trio came in sight of the famous hollow below old
Fort Clinton.
Here already paced Mr. Plympton and Mr. Connors of the first
class. They were to take charge of the affair.
"Good morning, mister," nodded Mr. Plympton to Dick, as
Prescott came in sight at the head of his party. Greg and Anstey
came in for no particular notice from the first class men.
"Hullo, But!"
"Hullo, old Conjunction!"
These were the greetings that Butler received when he appeared,
followed by Haldane and Post. These young men, being yearlings,
were actually human beings. At least, that was the way the plebes
felt.
Now the stripping began rapidly. Each principal drew on a
sleeveless jersey and gymnasium trousers, the latter secured by a
belt. On the feet were rubber-soled shoes, as giving the best
chance for foothold on the damp ground.
The seconds began kneading the muscles of their principals, and
otherwise putting them in shape.
Mr. Butler yawned two or three times, appearing slightly bored.
Greg did not glance in the direction of his coming antagonist, but
Holmes's face was impassive, inscrutable. He did not appear
nervous. The moment had come, and Greg faced the situation
dumbly but absolutely without fear.
Then the principals were placed in their corners. Referee Plympton
stated the terms under which the meeting was to be held. Then at
the call, the two cadets leaped forward.
"Remember the moves we planned last night," had been Dick's last
whispered words.
On Butler's face rested a broad grin. He pranced about lightly,
swinging his hardmuscled arms. He intended to start with a bit of
easy nonsense, putting Holmes off his guard. Then the yearling's
plan was to make the affair a lesson in scientific mauling.
While Butler was dancing about, grinning, Greg, vastly more
watchful than he appeared to be, suddenly let his right out in a
feint, then followed with a left drive.
Butler all but struck this blow up, yet, as he darted back from the
parry, the yearling tasted blood from his own lower lip. That
taught him that even a despised little plebe like Mr. Holmes might
have his points of danger.
"Now, stand up and let us see how good your quick counter is,"
laughed the yearling, dancing about.
Butler's footwork was fine and fast, but Greg, watching him, only
pivoted about, putting up his hands with great speed. Thus Greg
blocked all but three or four lighter blows up to the time when the
time-keeper's interruption came.
"You won't need to do much in the rubbing line," whispered Greg,
as his seconds started in on him in his "corner." "My man, as yet,
hasn't any more than warmed me up."
"Look out for a smash on the nose, old fellow," warned Dick. "You
got first blood in a half-sort of way, by that cut on the other man's
lip. In this next round Mr. Butler will try to get the real first
blood."
"I hope so," muttered Greg dreamily. "For that one I believe I have
one of the best counters known."
Surely enough, in the beginning of the second round, Butler
feinted, then led off for a hard one on the plebe's nose. But the
delivery was the very one that Cadet Holmes wanted. He ducked,
feinted, and slammed in just above Mr. Butler's belt with such
force that the big yearling staggered. Yet Butler was a wary
fighter; he blocked Greg's follow-up scheme, then fought for time.
Towards the end of the round, however, Butler again tried for the
plebe's nose. This time he failed again, but Greg's counter-blow
landed on the point of a shoulder. Butler would have been away in
another instant, but Greg's right came out of a hook and tapped the
yearling emphatically on the end of his nose. As the yearling
fought back furiously the blood spurted from his nose.
Then, just before time was called, Greg got his left eye too much
in line with the yearling's right fist.
Dazed, Cadet Holmes was saved only by the word from the
time-keeper. Had the round lasted fifteen seconds more Mr. Butler
would have had the plebe out.
Erect, and as jauntily went back to his corner. [Transcriber's note:
missing text?]
"I reckon you've got as a bad looking window here," murmured
Anstey sympathetically, as he swabbed at the damaged surface
around the eye. "Make it short, Holmesy, or you're going to meet
with more damage, I reckon."
"This is the last serious smash that Greg is going to take," put in
Dick coolly. "In the third he's going to remember the old Gridley
fighting principle: Greg, you simply can't be whipped. Now, wade
in and seize hold of Mr. Butler's scalp-lock."
Soon the fighters were at it again. Two or three body blows Greg took,
and they stung, coming from such steam-driven fists as the yearling's.
But Mr. Holmes's damaged left eye was closing rapidly. He was forced
to squint through that eye, getting most of his sight through the
right. Of course, the yearling, who now realized he had something more
than a dummy to fight, manoeuvred at Greg's left side after that.
The third round was drawing to a close. Butler landed one on the
side of young Holmes's head that sent the plebe spinning. Yet, as
he swung, Greg dropped a hard blow on Mr. Butler's already
damaged nose. There was a gasp of pain from the yearling.
"Time!" called Mr. Connors.
Greg went back to his seconds, a good deal jarred, his wind
troubled, and his left eye rapidly assuming a most ugly look. One
more really good one from the larger fighter would put the plebe
out of the affair.
"Be cool, now, old chap," admonished Dick in an undertone, as he
and Anstey worked over their comrade. "The next round probably
decides it."
"Cool!" grimaced Cadet Holmes. "Why, I guess I am everywhere
except in my punished eye. That feels like a red-hot furnace!"
As the men faced each other for the fourth round Greg, through
his right eye, saw a look of intent in Butler's eye that meant
business. The yearling was now going in, in earnest, to wind up
this affair.
"I'm going to get something out of this!" grumbled Cadet Holmes
inwardly.
As Butler came at him, swift and terrible, Cadet Holmes formed
the purpose of playing off a block to be followed by a direct and
sure assault on one of his man's eyes. And presently the chance
came. Greg bounced in so resolutely over Butler's right eye that the
yearling staggered back, fighting for sight and wind. But Greg,
who knew it was thrash-or-be-thrashed, was merciless. He leaped
about, harassing his opponent, then sent in a well-calculated blow
that closed the yearling's other eye.
Butler reeled. It looked as though he must go down. Greg,
unwilling to take any unfair advantage, paused a second. Then,
realizing that Mr. Butler was keeping his feet, Cadet Holmes
leaped in, feinting blow after blow with such speed that the
yearling was dazed. Suddenly, with a new feint for the yearling's
solar plexus, Holmes suddenly raised, driving in hard on the left
side of Mr. Butler's jaw. That sent the dazed man down. He went
in a heap, then unfolded and lay limp.
Time-keeper Connors began to count, though perfunctorily. There
was no reason to believe that Mr. Butler could wake up in time,
and he didn't. Mr. Plympton, in a cold tone, awarded the fight to
the plebe. Butler's seconds went to work over him, but it was some
minutes before they brought him back to consciousness. By this
time Greg was dressed.
"Mr. Butler," murmured Greg, bending over his at last conscious
opponent, "I would like to say a word--now. That business with the
cord was a trick put up on me, not on you. You were only the
incidental victim. I had no willing or knowing part in your
discomfiture. I tell you this now, sir, after having proved that I
wasn't afraid merely of being called out. I am tremendously sorry
that this fight had to be."
"You held up your end all right, mister," was the yearling's concise
tribute.
Then, after sending Anstey back to camp with the officials, Dick
accompanied Greg to cadet hospital, where the latter's eye was
dressed and "painted out" as much as could be.
Both of Mr. Butler's seconds were required to help him to hospital.
Nor did the yearling get out very soon. His jaw had not been
fractured, but for some days the medical officers feared
"green-stick" fracture, with a consequent danger of suppuration. It
was not until after the end of the encampment that the yearling
was discharged from hospital.
"Where's Mr. Butler to-night?" inquired a very pretty girl, as she
strolled through camp in the evening, between two attentive
yearlings. She was the same whom Butler had last accompanied to
a hop.
"Mr. Butler is in hospital," replied Mr. McGraw.
"Yes, and pounded to such a pulp that his mother wouldn't know
him," laughed a young "cit.," the girl's cousin. "Over there is
Holmes, the plebe who did it."
"What a disgusting brute Mr. Holmes must be!" muttered the girl
indignantly, and Greg, hearing her, colored violently, but could not
reply. Plebes are not allowed the acquaintance of the young ladies.