Joe swung around, and could not restrain a gasp of astonishment, for, confronting him was Ford Weston, the ’varsity pitcher. On his part Weston seemed taken aback.
“Jove!” he cried. “It’s the little country rooster I saw pitch ball. So you came to Yale after all?”
“I did,” answered Joe calmly. It was the first he had met his rival face to face since that time on the campus when Weston had not known him.
“Well, we’re going to make you sorry right now,” sneered Weston. “Up boys, and at ’em!”
“Let me get another whack at him!” snarled the lad Joe had knocked down.
There was a rush. Joe, blindly striking out, felt himself pulled, hauled and mauled. Once he went down under the weight of numbers, but he fought himself to a kneeling position and hit out with all his force. He was hit in turn.
He had a glimpse of Spike hurling a tall Sophomore half way across the room, upon the sofa with a crash. Then with a howl the second-year men closed in on the two Freshmen again.
Joe saw Weston coming for him, aiming a vicious blow at his head. Instinctively Joe ducked, and with an uppercut that was more forceful than he intended he caught the pitcher on the jaw.
Weston went backward, and only for the fact that he collided with one of his mates would have fallen. He clapped his hand to his jaw, and as he glared at Joe he cried: