“All right,” replied Kendrick, cordially. “Trust the thing to me. I’ll arrange everything in proper style, giving him a little of my opinion at the same time. Four o’clock this afternoon at 7 Hale!”
Mr. Alsop took his books and his dignity over to recitation that afternoon, little suspecting the plot against the boasted quiet of his entry. Kendrick had cleared the centre of the room of movables, and now sat on the sofa, nursing his knee and giving final words of counsel. Sam had put on tennis shoes, an old pair of trousers and a jersey, and over this had thrown his coat.
“Don’t accept any rules at all,” advised Kendrick. “Just wade in and hit him any old way. You aren’t fighting for a diamond belt, you’re just defending yourself against bullying; close in on him or throw him; then pummel him. If you stand off, he’ll whack you. You want to rush him.”
“It’s the craziest fool thing I ever got into,” groaned Sam. “There’s no sense in it at all. I never did anything to the mucker.”
“What’s the good of going over that again! When a rowdy sets on you in the street, you’ve got either to fight or to run. It’s no use to tell him he isn’t acting like a gentleman. If Runyon insists on fighting, you’ve got to fight him, or get some one else to do it for you, or appeal to the faculty for protection.”
“I know it!” growled Sam, whose temper was growing vicious. “I’m going to fight.”
“You’re going to win, too,” observed Kendrick, with a sage nod, falling in naturally with the orthodox practice of encouragement pursued by seconds since the days of Homer. “He’s nothing.”
A bold knock at the door announced the coming of the enemy. Runyon walked in, followed by Brantwein, his supporter. Brantwein was a radical, avowing and defending extreme socialist ideas. He was beating his way through the school. He sold peanuts to the fellows on the bleachers at the ball games, devised various means, effective and ineffective, of getting marks without excessive work, put the shot with considerable success, and protested generally that his name did not mean “brandy,” because it was not spelled with a double n. None the less he was dubbed “Brandy” from the day of his advent. He was generally against the government, and he liked a scrap.
Runyon took off his coat immediately. “We’ll follow the Marquis of Queensberry rules,” he proclaimed. “No hitting below the belt and no clinching.”
“Rules nothing!” answered Kendrick, curtly.