"Mates," went on Hal, as soon as he could make himself heard, "I'm willing to stand for anything that's coming to a rook. But this is a case that calls for something different. I've got to satisfy this man that I can stand up before a pair of fists, or he'll never respect me enough to let me alone."
"Why, kid, a man of Hooper's size will reduce you to powder," objected Hyman seriously. "It's all right to have sand, and I guess you've got it, but you've no call to be slaughtered."
"He'll thrash me," agreed Hal coolly, "but I'll get in enough on him to make him want to let me alone after this. I'm ready for the fellow."
Realizing that the rookie was in earnest the soldiers stepped away from between the pair.
"But you play fair, Hooper, or we'll kick you all over the squad room," warned another soldier.
Private Hooper clenched his fists, and stood flexing his arms, which, through his shirt-sleeves, appeared to be decidedly powerful.
"Step up, kid, and get your trimming," he invited, with a ferocious smile.
"I don't know much about fighting," admitted Hal, smiling pleasantly. "All I know my dancing teacher taught me."
That raised a laugh and angered Hooper. This was just what the rookie wanted to do, for he judged that Hooper could be prodded into a blind rage.
Hooper now jumped forward, aiming an ugly swing for Hal's head. But the rookie side-stepped swiftly out of the way. As he did so, one foot dragged in front of the advancing bully. Hooper tripped over that foot, and the force of his swing carried him forward so that he fell flat on his face.