North staggered to his feet, and rushed at Cap.
“Not here! Not now!” cried Mersfeld, throwing himself in front of his crony. “Meet him later! There’ll have to be a fight, of course?” and the pitcher looked at Cap.
“Of course,” was the grave answer.
“All right. I’ll see one of your friends,” for these matters were rather scientifically arranged at Westfield, on certain occasions.
“See Bill or Pete,” answered Cap, as he turned aside and strolled up the campus.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIGHT
“Time!”