“Why, you—you rotten Freshman. That means fight,” said Gould, now losing himself completely. He started to take off his overcoat.
Somehow Jeff Thatcher found great satisfaction in the turn of events. The word fight had a ring to it that brought joy to his soul. Although he had not realized it, his mental condition was such that nothing short of physical combat could present a safety valve of sufficient capacity to give vent to his feeling. Almost eagerly he threw off his overcoat and dropped it to the graveled drive.
It was a terrific fight while it lasted. All the wrath and ugliness of Gould, the tricky one, the conceited one, was pitted against the anger and resentment of Jeff Thatcher, and from the moment they squared off in front of each other it was evident to frightened little Birdie Pell, the sole witness to the historic affair, that it would be give and take to the bitter end with no weakening of spirit and no quarter given.
Both boys were athletes in the best of condition, though Jeff Thatcher, slightly younger than his antagonist, had taken better care of himself. Both knew more than the rudiments of boxing, as was evident from the start. Alert, eager, yet cautiously watchful, they stepped stealthily around each other there in the darkness. Gould was the first to lead, stepping in and flashing a vicious straight left to Thatcher’s face. But Jeff countered with such amazing speed that Gould’s blow was made harmless by a jolting left that he received full in the face.
It stung him like a whiplash, for with a grunt, half of pain and half of anger, he stepped in again with both hands driving piston-like into Thatcher’s face. The attack was so vicious and so strong that Jeff could only stagger back, block and stall as best he could, watching for an opening to cut in with a smashing blow that would break up the attack. He found it. Gould, in his haste and rage, stumbled slightly and with his loss of balance dropped his hands ever so little. Jeff, alert and waiting for this, started an upper-cut from the hip that had all the strength of his powerful back and arm in it. Like a striking snake it darted in between Gould’s hands and landed with a sickening smack on the point of Gould’s chin. His head snapped back and his body sagged forward for the slightest fraction of a second, and Birdie Pell, with a cry of alarm, stepped toward him, for the younger boy thought that Gould had been knocked out.
The Sophomore went down to one knee, stayed there for a moment and brushed his arm across his eyes as if to clear his whirling head. Then suddenly with a roar of anger [he] leaped to his feet and [rushed into another furious attack]. But he was in a towering rage now and his efforts were far from the well-timed blows he had used before. Thatcher saw this with a degree of satisfaction and it was with less difficulty that he side-stepped and blocked each blow and shot home crashing lefts and rights, each time an opening presented itself. He was hammering Gould badly now and the Sophomore’s anger was mounting higher and higher and his blows were becoming wilder and wilder with each passing second.
[He rushed into another furious attack]
Then suddenly a strange and astonishing thing happened. The darkness in which they had been fighting was suddenly shattered and illuminated by a flood of white light from two glaring searchlights, as a car, approaching unheard by the three boys, swung swiftly around the corner of the gymnasium building, and with squeaking brakes came suddenly to a stop.
The two antagonists and Birdie Pell stood silhouetted against the white glare, staring stupidly at each other and into the blinding lights. Then Gould, coming to his senses, suddenly exclaimed: “Dr. Livingston—beat it,” and rushing for his coat, which Birdie Pell held in his arms, he and the smaller boy ran out of the shafts of light and into the blackness of the night.