“But why not?” demanded Mark.
“My dear fellow,” protested the other, “you don’t understand how the class feels about such things. I’m a member of it, and when I’m called upon to defend the class honor I daren’t say no. When you have been here as long as I have you’ll understand how the cadets would take it. They’d be simply furious.”
“Then do you mean,” gasped the other, staring at him in consternation, “that I’m expected to fight you?”
“I don’t see what else,” responded the captain, reluctantly. “What can I tell the class? If I simply say that I’ve been rather friendly with you, they’ll say I had no business to be. And there you are.”
“No business to be,” echoed Mark, thoughtfully, gazing into space. “No business to be! Because I’m a plebe, I suppose. And I’ve got to fight you!”
“What else are we to do,” protested the other. “I’m sure I shan’t mind if you whip me, which you probably will.”
“Whip you!” cried Mark; he had sprung to his feet, his hands clinched. And then without another word he faced about and fell to striding up and down the tent, the other watching him anxiously.
“Mr. Fischer,” he demanded suddenly, without looking at the other, “suppose I refuse to fight you?”
“Don’t think of it!” cried Fischer, in horror.
“Why not?”