“I’ve forgotten how,” said Andy, calmly.
“Hang you, shiver!” and Mortimer fairly howled out the word. He started toward Andy, with raised arm and clenched fist.
Among the possessions disturbed by the intruders was Andy’s favorite baseball bat, which he had brought with him. Instinctively, as he retreated a step, his fingers clutched it. He swung it around and held it in readiness. Mortimer recoiled, and Andy, seeing his advantage, cried:
“Get out of here! All of you. Come on, fellows, put ’em out!”
He raised the bat above his head, without the least intention in the world of using it, but the momentum swung it from his hand and it struck Mortimer on the forehead.
The lad who had led the “rough house” attack staggered for a moment, and then, blubbering, sank down in a heap on the floor.
A sudden silence fell. In an instant Andy had sunk down on his knees beside his enemy and was feeling his pulse and heart. There was only a slight bruise on the forehead.
“You—you’ve killed him!” whimpered one of the sophomores.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Dunk. “He’s only over-excited.” This was putting it mildly. Mortimer had been “celebrating,” and had really fainted. “That was only a love tap,” went on Dunk. “Chuck a little water in his face and he’ll be all right.”
This was done and proved to be just what was needed. Mortimer opened his eyes.