“You must have done something to him. He wouldn’t pick on you without some kind of reason.”
“Not a thing. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to him. He’s making a fool of himself and me too. Can’t you go to him and show him how idiotic it is, and get him to shut up? If you don’t succeed in that, tell him I’m ready to fight.”
Mulcahy drew away. “I couldn’t do that, really. It wouldn’t do for me to interfere. I’d like to help you, of course, but I couldn’t get mixed up in a thing of that kind.”
“Why not?” asked Archer, perplexed at his friend’s coldness.
“Well, it would be talked about; some of the faculty would hear of it, and they might not understand my position in it. I couldn’t have them think I was acting as second in a school prize-fight. Then my position on the ‘Seatonian’ has to be considered.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Archer, gloomily. “I’ve got into trouble with a cheap mutt, from no fault of mine. I’ve got to have some one to help me.”
“I’ll help you by giving you the best advice I know. Go to Runyon quietly and fix it up.”
“Fix it up!” echoed Archer. “How can I fix it up?”
“Why, tell him you acted thoughtlessly, and are sorry you pushed him. Beg his pardon, and when the thing is over and settled, avoid him. If you don’t patch it up, you’ll be walloped by a good fighter, and very likely get kicked out of school into the bargain.”
Sam stared—glared—at his counsellor. “Go down on my knees to that fellow!” he said, with vibrant voice and flashing eyes. “Swallow all the insults he’s given me and ask for more, beg his pardon for not taking his dirty kicks with gratitude! I wouldn’t do that for a dozen ‘Seatonians’ and a hundred faculties. I wouldn’t do that for any one, not if I knew I was going to be fired the next minute!”