CHAPTER VI.THE FIGHT WITH RAPIERS.
Defarge had roomed alone ever since entering college. He was so exceedingly unpopular that it would have been difficult for him to find a roommate had he desired one; but he declared that on no condition would he share his apartments with another.
His rooms were well furnished and comfortable, but he cared little about their arrangement or decorations, and about them there was not a single thing in the way of ornament that would suggest to a casual visitor that a Yale man slept and studied there.
In other rooms were flags, badges, blue ribbons, and a hundred other things gathered by the students as tokens to remind them of something connected with their college-life. When they visited home at holidays they took some of these things along to give brothers or sisters, who treasured them with pride.
But it is probable that Defarge felt none of that love for Yale that seems to imbue almost every man among the great throng of students. It is even possible, astounding though it may seem to every other Yale man—that he would have been quite as well satisfied had it been his fortune to attend Harvard, or any other college. He had failed totally and entirely to imbibe the “Yale spirit.”
Personal conquest and advancement had been all the French youth seemed to care for, and his utter selfishness made him offensive to those who might have regarded him in a friendly spirit because of similar likes and dislikes.
He had regarded himself as a wonderful fencer, and, indeed, his skill was most commendable. He found little difficulty in defeating all comers until he encountered Merriwell, upon whom by sneers and insults he forced an engagement.
Merriwell, however, had studied fencing under a past master of the art, and the French youth was easily defeated by the representative American, which filled him with unspeakable shame and chagrin.
His defeat caused Defarge to lose his head entirely, and he took to drink without delay. That very night, while in a state of insane intoxication, he attempted to strike Frank in the back with an open knife. Fortunately, Frank saw him in a mirror and was able to turn and grapple with him.
Then followed something that astonished all who witnessed it, for, looking straight into the eyes of the intoxicated youth, Frank caused him to quail and become as harmless as a lamb.
In that moment Frank discovered that he possessed a strange power, and this power he had been called upon to use many times afterward. Once, at least, it had saved his life. Once it saved the life of his father.
But although Merriwell had declared that he might make a friend of Defarge, the French youth remainedhis bitter and unyielding enemy. For a time he had avoided Frank, but now, Merriwell having been away from college a while, he ventured to strike again.
Alone in his room that evening, Bertrand cursed the luck that had permitted him to fail in accomplishing his terrible intention. And while he was cursing, the door opened to admit Bart Hodge!
Defarge stared in astonishment. Never before had such an amazing thing occurred and he could not understand it now. He wondered if Hodge had by accident wandered into the wrong room.
But Bart deliberately closed the door behind him. There was a key in the lock. This key Hodge turned, after which he removed it, and quietly put it into his pocket.
“What the deuce are you doing?” cried Defarge, who was now on his feet.
Bart advanced, his eyes fixed on those of Bertrand.
“I’ve called to see you,” said Frank Merriwell’s bosom friend, in a peculiar tone of voice.
“You locked that door?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So it would not blow open,” answered Hodge, in the same queer way.
“Blow open! Why, there’s no danger of that! Are you crazy?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m mad.”
There was a sort of grim, mirthless humor about Bart that made Defarge uneasy.
“You have no right to lock my door and put the key in your pocket!” snarled the French youth.
“That may be true, but I’ve done it. I want to have a little talk with you, and I do not propose to have that talk interrupted, even though you may get noisy and yell for assistance.”
There was a threat in this, and Defarge retreated behind the table that stood in the center of the room.
“What’s your game?” he demanded. “Are you playing the highwayman or the house-robber?”
“Thank you; I do not travel with your class in society.”
Still there was a look in Bart’s eyes that made Defarge think himself in danger. Usually, Hodge was excitable, but now he seemed strangely cool, which gave him an air of menace.
Defarge glanced quickly round in search of some weapon with which to defend himself.
“Sit down!” commanded Hodge. “It won’t do you a bit of good to raise a rumpus.”
“Now, what in the name of the Old Harry do you want?” panted Bertrand, beginning to get angry himself.
“I have a few questions to ask you.”
“Well, go ahead. I’ll answer them or not, as I like.”
“You’ll answer them before I leave this room! In the first place, how did you happen during the run after the cage practise to take the short cut through Beaver Pond Lane from Crescent Street to Fitch Street?”
The French youth had flushed, but now he suddenly became pale.
“I did nothing of the kind!” he declared.
“You are a liar!” said Hodge, without lifting his voice, still keeping his eyes fastened straight on those of the lad across the table.
Bertrand’s bosom heaved and his lips curled back from his teeth, which gleamed white and wolfish.
“You shall answer for the insult!” panted Defarge.
“With pleasure,” was the grim retort. “I think you must know by this time that I take special delight in thumping you.”
“I’ll not fight you that common way! You have not the skill of Merriwell, and you must meet me with rapiers!”
“Hardly,” said Bart. “I know better than that.”
“You can’t avoid it.”
“Oh, yes, I can!”
“You shall not! I will force you into it!”
“And I shall insist on meeting you with the weapons provided for us by nature, our fists.”
“Do you think I could be satisfied that way for such an insult? No! You have come here to force a quarrel upon me! I see that!”
“Nothing of the sort. I’ve come here to compel you to tell the truth, and, by Heaven! I’m going to make you do it!”
“You can never force me to anything! You want the fight, and you shall have it! I will let out some of your nasty American blood! I may kill you!”
Then, with a pantherlike leap, Defarge reached the wall against which hung a pair of crossed rapiers. Quick as a flash, he grasped them and tore them down, whirling them in his hands. Seizing the hilt of one, he flung the other with a clanging sound at Bart’s feet, shouting:
“Take it and fight for your life, you American pig, for I swear I’ll run you through without mercy if you don’t!”
Bart Hodge was a fighter without a drop of cowardly blood in his well-developed body; but he had seen Defarge handle a rapier, and he knew he was not the equal of the wily French youth in that particular line. He could handle his fists, or shoot a pistol with great skill; but he was not an expert fencer, and so would be at a disadvantage in an encounter of this sort.
But it was useless to admit this to Defarge, whose eyes were glaring. Defarge would laugh exultantly and come on. Indeed, he was making ready to attack even now.
“Pick up the weapon!” commanded the French youth. “Do your best, for I’m going to pink you—I swear I am!”
Bertrand’s heart was full of mad joy, for he believed his opportunity to obtain revenge on Hodge for past grievances had come, and he meant to make the most of it. Laughing savagely, he started to advance.
Hodge’s hand rested on the back of a chair, and he had not altered his position when the other youth sprang to the wall and tore down the rapiers.
Now, without the least warning and with such strength and quickness as only a trained athlete could command, he grasped the chair with both hands, swung it aloft, and hurled it straight at Bertrand’s head.
Defarge had no time to dodge, but he put up his arm to protect his face, and the chair sent him reeling against the wall. Hodge followed the chair with two swift bounds, and was on the French youth instantly.
He grasped Bertrand’s right wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, pinning the fellow against the wall and holding him there.
“You devil’s whelp!” grated Hodge. “You would not hesitate at murder! I’ll guarantee that you land in prison yet!”
Defarge had been shocked by the impact of the chair, and for a few seconds he seemed quite helpless and unresisting. Then he suddenly gathered himself and tried to hurl Bart off.
Hodge kept his hold, attempting to twist the fellow’s wrist, and thus force him to drop the rapier. But Bertrand’s hold was not broken thus easily, and with his left hand he tore Bart’s fingers from his throat.
“Dog!” he huskily hissed. “Throw a chair at me, will you? Now I am going to fix you!”
Then the struggle for the possession of the rapier began, Defarge doing his best to cast Bart away long enough to lift and thrust with the weapon.
Bart knew it was a fight for his very life, as the French youth was wrought to a pitch of rage thatrobbed him entirely of his reason. There was a terrible glare in his eyes. His teeth were set and a white froth began to form on his parted lips.
With all his strength he strove to twist away from Bart’s grip, but Hodge held fast.
“Steady!” Bart growled. “You can’t do it!”
“I will! I will!” panted Defarge. “I’ll kill you!”
“You may find that I’m quite as hard to kill as Frank Merriwell.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean!”
“You lie! You came here to insult me and make lying charges against me. You shall pay for it!”
Again Defarge gave a mighty twist and tried to fling Hodge off. They reeled against a chair, which was overturned. Then Bart’s feet struck against the chair, and he fell backward to the floor, his grip on Defarge’s wrist being broken as he went down.
Down upon Hodge came his antagonist, but he tore himself away from the fingers that tried to clutch and hold him. With a quick spring, Bertrand rose to his feet and stood over Hodge with the rapier uplifted.
“Now!” he hissed, with a savage laugh—“now you get it for fair!”
Then he lunged as if meaning to pin Hodge to the floor.
With a squirming movement to one side, Bart barely avoided being run through by the blade.
“A miss is as good as a mile!” he thought, and at the same time he again cast the chair at Defarge.
Bertrand’s legs were struck and he was confused and disconcerted for a moment, and that was enough to give Bart time to spring up.
As he rose, Hodge had the other rapier gripped in his hand. At last he realized that there was no way to avoid such an encounter, and so he hurled himself into it with the furious energy of a creature at bay.
Clash! clash! rang out the meeting blades.
Probably no stranger encounter ever occurred at Yale than this night battle between two students armed with deadly rapiers. The expressions on their faces told that the struggle was of the most serious nature.
This was no mere fencing-bout for sport. On one side, at least, it was a duel with the most deadly import.
But Defarge had been astounded by the escape of Hodge from that thrust. The crack of the chair against his knees had confused him. And then he was dazed when Bart leaped up like a supple panther, gripping the rapier, and attacked him with the gleaming blade.
The fierceness of Bart’s assault was something impossible to withstand long.
Sparks flew from the meeting weapons, which gleamed and flashed and hissed through the air.
The look on the face of Bart Hodge was one of such furious determination that the French youth involuntarily gave way before him.
“You would have it, you devil’s whelp!” came through Bart’s teeth. “Stand up and fight! Youforced it on me, now make good—or take the consequences!”
With a twisting stroke, Bart had torn the weapon from the hand of his adversary and sent it spinning in a far corner, where it fell rattling to the floor.
The next instant, with his left hand, Frank Merriwell’s friend and champion seized the unarmed youth by the throat and hurled him backward upon the table that stood in the middle of the room.
As Defarge lay there helpless and terrified, Bart stood over him, his gleaming rapier raised as if to make the final and fatal thrust of this most remarkable encounter.
The helpless youth turned chalky white with fear.
“Don’t strike!” he gasped.
“Why not?” demanded the other, quivering with the excitement of the encounter.
“You’ll kill me!”
“Just as you tried to kill me when I lay on the floor helpless and unarmed, you cowardly sneak!”
“I didn’t mean to——”
“Don’t lie! If you lie, I’ll be tempted to finish you off anyhow!”
“I was crazy!”
“Well, I’m rather excited myself! Why, it would be a mercy to puncture you now! You are a miserable, crawling snake, and you’ve tried to kill the best man that ever lived!”
“No! no!”
“Don’t lie, I say! You tried to kill Merriwell this day!”
“I did not!”
The look of fury on Bart’s face seemed to become more intense.
“The truth is the only thing that can save your worthless life now!” he panted.
“I shall shout for help!”
“That won’t save you! No one could reach you in time. If you shout, I swear by my life I’ll stick you once for luck!”
There could be no doubt concerning Bart’s sincerity in this threat, and Defarge decided not to shout.
“Confess that you tried to kill Merriwell to-day with a stone, which you threw at his head.”
“I’ll not confess to a lie—not even to save my life!”
“But you must confess the truth. You cannot help it. I have the proof against you.”
“The proof?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Here!”
With his left hand, Hodge took out and held up before Bertrand’s staring eyes the handkerchief he had found that night with the aid of the lantern.