“That’s right, Hawkesbury. Take it easy,” advised another. “What do you want to mix things up for?”
“Why he’s the fellow who did me out of my appointment—my West Point place—he did it—Tom Taylor!” and he pointed a wavering finger at our hero.
“Well if he got the appointment it was because he won it fair and square,” said a tall, quiet cadet. “That’s the only way one can get into West Point. Forget it, Hawkesbury. You’ve had enough.”
“Yes, come on down to the river,” suggested another. “A little trip on the water will do us all good. It must be getting close to grub time, too. Come along.”
Some of them linked their arms in those of Clarence, and began to urge him out of the summer garden. The little clash had not attracted much attention, as it was all over so soon.
“I—I’ll fix him yet!” muttered Clarence, vindictively. But he allowed himself to be led away by his cadet friends. Perhaps the memory of that stinging blow on his chin was a persuader.
“Well, you came out of that all right, Tom,” observed Sam, when the other party, rather noisy and hilarious, had gone away. All the while the other cadets had followed the custom that has prevailed from time immemorial, and did not bestow the slightest look of recognition on the “plebes.” But Tom and his friends were used to that by this time, and expected it.
“Yes, I’m sorry I had to hit him, but it was the only way,” Tom said. “And I thought, while I was about it, I might as well make it a good one.”
“That’s the ticket!” Chad said. “He sure is a cad, that Clarence fellow. What’s his game, anyhow?”
“Just plain revenge and meanness, I think,” Tom answered. “His uncle is Captain Hawkesbury, you know.”