“I haven’t got any reason for fighting.”
“Find one, make one! Pick out one of these fellows who’s stuck on himself and give him a little jaw. He’ll fight when he gets mad enough. Then give him a good upper cut and finish him off easy. They’ll have some respect for you then. Ain’t ye man enough for that?”
“I dunno.”
“Ye ought to be, then. What’ve I learned ye to use yer paddies for? See what it’s done fer me! When I go down the street, the’ ain’t a man in the ward that don’t jump to give me the glad hand. It’s so everywhere. Everybody likes a man that can fight. The boys’ll talk about ye all over the school. Ye’ll be somebody then!”
Dennis returned to school with his brother’s counsel ringing in his ears. He experimented at first with boasts, and anecdotes of hard bouts. The bystanders listened with grins and suggested that he try his skill on Legge. Legge was a heavy-weight football player, old and hard, with the torso of a Roman Hercules, and arms ridged with iron sinews. As Runyon was a light middle-weight, this suggestion could only spring from gross ignorance of the rules of the ring, or be prompted by a spirit of ridicule. When flippant small boys of his class, whose weakness was their protection, fell to asking him, with mock solemnity, for details of these encounters, he became gradually aware that he was being chaffed. Something must be done to impress the contemptuous with his worth.
Exactly why he chose Sam Archer as the person on whom to try the value of his brother’s advice is not easy to determine. Jealousy doubtless entered into the case, a little personal spite, and much of the cunning of the professional sport. Sam’s democratic principles were not quite broad enough to include a friendship with Runyon. Sam had made a class football team when Runyon had not. Sam was tall and therefore looked big, yet being thin was presumably weak—a combination much to be desired in the person to be used by Runyon for demonstration of his prowess. He was, moreover, an independent. Not being a member of any close organization, he was not always surrounded by friends who felt themselves privileged to interfere in his affairs; and though not a fraternity man or a great athlete, he was not so obscure that a victory over him would be inglorious.
Having selected his victim, Runyon’s only problem was to make him fight. It happened soon that chance threw a pretext directly in his way, though he was not quick enough to recognize it. Archer, in the hurried crowding to put away dumbbells after the exercise, stepped on Runyon’s heel and pulled his gymnasium slipper loose. Runyon turned with a scowl, but before his mind awoke to the opportunity Archer had begged his pardon and passed on. The next day Runyon deliberately trod on Archer’s heel, and did not apologize. The result, however, was disappointing; Sam adjusted his shoe and went his way without bestowing a look on the offender.
The boxer now had recourse to more aggressive measures. He pushed young Hartley into Archer on the gymnasium floor, but it was Hartley who turned on him with abuse—and Hartley was too small to notice. He commented with audible contempt on Sam’s performance on the vaulting horse. As he passed Taylor and Archer talking together at the head of the gymnasium stairs, he mocked the phrase which had just fallen from Sam’s lips, and lingered near by to see if his challenge would be taken up.
“What’s that fellow driving at?” demanded Taylor. “Is he trying to get up a scrap with you?”
“It looks like it,” replied Sam. “Perhaps it’s just his way of being funny.”