"I expect that he is," Dick admitted ruefully, and then told his chum all the details of the occurrence of the night before.
"Why, that doesn't strike me as fair excuse for a fight," Greg muttered. "You explained and apologized."
"Mr. Spurlock wouldn't accept any apology."
"Just the same," argued Greg, "I don't believe you have to fight, in this case. You can refuse, anyway, until the matter has been examined into by the scrap committee of the yearling class. Now, in view of the fact that you offered explanation and apology, I don't believe that the yearling scrap committee can hold you to any meeting with Mr. Spurlock this time. Let me handle this affair for you, old ramrod."
"Greg," rejoined Dick, laying an affectionate hand on his roommate's shoulder, "as long as I'm a new plebe I don't intend to try to dig out of any fight that an upper class man demands from me. Perhaps I could get the scrap committee to turn down Mr. Spurlock's desire—but I don't mean to do anything of the sort. I did all that I felt I could do consistently to stop the fight. Now it has got to come off, or else it will be because Mr. Spurlock has become more reasonable."
"He'll eat you up, that big fellow," mused Greg bitterly. "Mr. Spurlock is at least fifteen pounds heavier than you. He has had a year more of West Point gym work than you've had and he has the reputation of being pretty nearly the yearling champion in the ring."
"Of course I shall be thrashed," admitted Dick doggedly. "However, that probably won't do me any permanent harm. Besides, Greg, it's certain that I'll have to fight some yearling sooner or later, so I may as well take the dose now. Every plebe, I reckon, has to have one fight, anyway, with a yearling. It's a part of the system here, from all I can hear."
Rap-tap sounded at the door.
"Come in," called Dick, but the door opened just as he was calling.
Mr. Kramer, of the yearling class, stepped inside.
"Mr. Spurlock requests me to inform Mr. Prescott that he demands a fight, at as early a moment as possible."