“I do not; the class is busily holding a conclave now to decide who’s the best. They’ll send their prize bantam the first time, though I doubt if we’ve a man much better than Billy Williams, the yearling you whipped. Still you’ve got to be at your best, I want to tell you, and I want you to understand that. When a man’s been three years here at West Point, as we have, he’s in just about as perfect trim as he ever will be in his life.”
“So am I,” responded Mark.
“You are not,” said Fischer, sharply. “That’s just the trouble. I wouldn’t be warning you if you were. I’ve heard of the monkey shines you’ve been kicking up; Bull Harris, that good-for-nothing yearling, was blowing ’round that he’d put you on a train for New York. The whole thing is you’ve been losing sleep.”
Mallory tried to pass the matter over lightly, but Fischer was bound to say what he’d come for.
“I suppose it’s none of my business,” he continued, “but I’ve tried to see you get fair play. And I want to say this: You rush in to fight those fellows to-day, as they’ll try to make you, and you’ll regret it. That’s all. As the challenged party the time is yours to name. If you refuse for a week at least, I’ll back you up and see that it’s all right, and if you don’t you’ll wish you had.”
Having delivered himself of which sage counsel the dignified captain arose to go. Perhaps his conscience troubled him a little anyhow that he’d stayed so long in a plebe tent.
He thought of that as he came out and espied three members of his own class coming down the street and looking at him. They hailed him as he passed.
“Hey, Fischer!”
They were three who had been the “committee”; they were a committee still, but for a different purpose. Their purpose was to see Fischer, and when he came toward them, they led him off to one side. The message that committee had to give was brief, but it nearly took Fischer off his feet.
“Fischer,” said one, “the fellows have decided about that Mallory business.”