"Shut up!" cried Murray, in anger, seeing that he was being "guyed."
"B'gee!" cried Dewey, "that's just what she didn't!"
There was an ominous silence after that, during which the yearling glared angrily, and Indian muttered "Bless my soul!"
"It's quite evident," began the former, at last, "that you are inclined to be fresh."
"Ink-lined to be fresh," added Dewey, "as the stamped egg remarked when it was dated three days after it was laid. That's another far-fetched joke, though. Still I've heard some more far-fetched than that—one a friend of mine read on an Egyptian pyramid and brought home to tell for new. Queer fellow that friend of mine was, too. He didn't have a mother-in-law, this one, but he slept in a folding bed, and, b'gee, that bed used to shut up oftener than the mother-in-law didn't. Handsome bed, too—an inlaid bed—and it shut up whenever it was laid in, b'gee."
Dewey could have prattled on at this merry rate for an hour, for he knew more jokes—good ones—and could make up more bad ones on the spur of the moment than half a dozen ordinary mortals. But he was brought to a sudden halt just then, and muttered a suppressed "B'gee!" For the yearling, wild with anger, leaped forward and aimed a savage blow at his head.
The plebe ducked; he was quick and agile in body as he was in mind. And then as the big cadet aimed another blow, he put up his one well arm—the other was in a sling—and defended himself to the best of his ability, at the same time calling Indian to his aid.
But before there was time for another move something else happened. Dewey was debating whether discretion were not really the whole of valor, and whether it were not better to "run away and live to fight—or run away—some other day;" and Indian was actually doubling up his fat little fists about to strike the first blow in his fat little life; when suddenly came a shout behind them, and a moment later a strong hand seized the advancing yearling by the back of his collar and flung him head first to the ground.
Cadet Murray sprang to his feet again and turned purple with rage and soiled with dirt, to confront the stalwart form of Mark, and Mark rubbing his hands together and smiling cheerfully.
"Will you have any more?" he inquired, politely. "Step right up if you will—and by the way, stop that swearing."