Most—not all. Hike and Poodle, Taffy Bingham and Bunk Tarver of the Senior Class, and five others—two Sophomores and three Seniors—stood quietly waiting, under Fig Tree Major. When the Yard was quiet, and the lights had most of them gone out, Hike and Taffy quietly advanced into the center of the open space and shook hands.
Bunk Tarver, appointed referee, remarked, “As I get it, you two nuts want to fight because Taffy lost his head over Gimlet’s renigging on the trial and slapped Griffin. Now, understand, there’s to be no bad blood after this fight. This ends the whole thing, right now. One minute rounds and one minute rest between. No clinching. GO AHEAD!”
Just then happened the most surprising thing of all the many night fights that the wise old Fig Tree Major had seen beneath its crown.
Hike Griffin had been doing things rather different from the ordinary Santa Benicia ways, all summer. He had been working against and with a bunch of men who hit hard and quickly. So, instead of the timid circling with which an under-classman usually began a fight with a Senior, Hike waded in at once. No sparring—simply a quick right swing to the point of Taffy’s jaw which jolted him terrifically. The wrestler, used to taking it more easily, made a foolish pat at the air, and got a rib-roaster for his pains. Then Hike bored in with a cruel blow he had learned in boxing with Jack Adeler. He swung for Taffy’s jaw, apparently missed, and brought back his right with a back-hand which brought Taffy staggering to his knees, just as Bunk Tarver shouted “Time.”
Taffy rose slowly, and Bunk declared, “Fight’s over. No use going on with it. Griffin, you’re all to the good. Taffy, old man, sorry, but you’ll have to apologize.”
Taffy started to growl a protest at the decision, but Bunk cut in, “I’m referee.”
“That’s right,” declared Pink Eye Morrison.
“Well,” Taffy rowed, “I ain’t going to apologize—”
“Don’t, old man,” Hike astonished them all by saying. “I’ll apologize. I know how it was—you forgot yourself; you weren’t really intending to insult me. I’m sorry I got hot-headed over it; especially bein’ ’s I think these duel-fights are mostly foolish. Of course, if you want to fight on, I’m game; but I don’t see any use of it. I’m sorry I started all the row, Bingham. Let’s shake hands.”
Still feeling very much jolted by Hike’s backhander, still resentful at having been whipped, Taffy shook hands; and the group broke up.