“A good, straight blow,” murmured another.
As yet, strictly following precedent, the upper classmen had given no indication that they so much as knew a “plebe” existed.
Clarence now sat up slowly, with a dazed look on his face. Some of his companions could not refrain from smiling. They did not altogether sympathize with Clarence, it seemed. It developed afterward that they were certain wealthy cadets whose acquaintance young Hawkesbury had made the previous summer at a fashionable resort.
“Who—who hit me?” Clarence demanded, as he rubbed his chin, on which showed a dull red mark.
“I did,” Tom answered, not a whit afraid. He was quite willing to do the same thing over again if he had to.
“Oh, you—you hit me—did you?” went on Clarence. His brain seemed dull of comprehension.
“Yes,” said Tom. “But you struck me first, if you remember.”
“Huh! I did, eh? Well, I’ll hit you again, that’s what I will. I’ll show you—”
Clarence struggled to his feet, but some of the cadets with him gathered around him.
“Say, you don’t know enough to quit when you’ve had enough,” said one. “He’ll only knock you down again. You’re in no condition to fight.”