The gong for the beginning of exercise sounded.
“I’ll give you a chance this afternoon,” said Sam, hastily.
“Yes, you will!” sneered Runyon, “probably when you have a crowd of friends to butt in.”
“When we can have it out alone,” declared Sam, with a hard look in his eyes and an air of extreme dignity. “I’ll send a second to you this noon.”
CHAPTER IX
THE FURY OF A PATIENT MAN
The more Archer considered the matter, the more disgusted he became. It was totally unreasonable and absurd. Runyon had apparently set his heart on forcing a fight—why, Runyon alone knew. Sam felt himself the victim of an inexplicable persecution. He couldn’t hand the persecutor over to friends to chastise, he couldn’t complain to the faculty, he couldn’t put up forever with insults and humiliations. He simply must fight—unless Mulcahy’s sharp wits could devise a way of silencing the rowdy.
Sam found Mulcahy before luncheon, and appealed for help.
“What did you get into such a scrape for?” demanded Mulcahy, with small show of sympathy.
“It wasn’t my fault; he forced me into it.”