“Once a term was more than enough for Duncan Peck,” said the socialist, most irrelevantly. “That was a hot old bluff he put up on Alsop, wasn’t it?”
“It was no bluff at all,” answered Sam, warmly. Just then the door was pushed open and Fish lunged in, gave a general nod that was meant to include all present, and made a dive for Brandy’s basket. The socialist proved quite able to defend his property. He met Fish’s onset with a hard shove that sent the intruder into the desk, then picked up his stock in trade and made for the door. “I can’t waste any more time on you fellows,” he said. “Fish has come to make a rough-house and there are about twenty starved Alumni Hall boarders to be warmed and fed out of this basket. So long!”
Fish took a newspaper from the desk, punched a hole through it, and proposed that Fowle wear it as a collar.
“Get out, won’t you!” pleaded Fowle. “I don’t want any rough-house here.”
“We’ll put him out, if you say so,” offered Sam.
“No, don’t!” expostulated Birdie. “That’ll make a row and Alsop will be down on us. He’ll go.”
Sam and Taylor drifted home to save the balance of the evening. Fish seized the long-handled hearth brush which Birdie’s mother, in the trustfulness of her heart, had sent to her son with admonition that he keep his fireplace tidy. “Let me brush your hair,” urged Fish, advancing on his unwilling host.
“Keep away with that!” Birdie commanded, but Fish persisted. Each clutched the handle of the brush and struggled against the other, Fish to accomplish his purpose, Birdie to ward off the attack. In the fracas the stick parted; Fish retained the handle end, Birdie the brush.
“Now see what you’ve done, you hoodlum!” cried Fowle, indignantly. “Get out of here!”
As Fish showed no inclination to yield to this order, Birdie threw wide his door, got inside his enemy, and with a hard buck, given suddenly and low, tried to rush him out the door. Fish caught by the casing, pulled himself back, and ultimately escaped, with a jeer of defiance, to the farther side of the room. Here Fowle attacked him again, and by superior strength dragged him to the door, where Fish by the skilful use of hands and feet once more blocked his opponent’s game. By this time Birdie had undeniably lost both temper and caution. He grasped the interloper’s wrist with one hand, his neck with the other, and twisting the wrist and pressing the neck hard between thumb and fingers, urged him to the door.