CHAPTER IITHE 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 thegame 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 crawledinto 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 likea 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 wordfighthad a ring to it that brought joy to his soul. Althoughhe 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 blowwas 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. Thensuddenly with a roar of angerheleaped to his feet andrushed 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.
He rushed into another furious attack
He rushed into another furious attack
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, suddenlyexclaimed: “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.