There was silence after that, except for a muttered “Oh!” from Texas. Mark had said his say, and Fischer could think of nothing.
“Mr. Mallory,” he demanded at last, “suppose you let me do the refusing?”
“It would be best for me to do it,” said Mark, with decision. “Disgrace would be unbearable for you. You have your duty to your class; I have no duty to any one but myself. And moreover, I am a plebe, cut by everybody already and pledged to fight every one. To fight them a few times more will not hurt. And I really like to defy them. So just leave it to me.”
That was the end of the talk. Fischer sat and looked at Mark a few moments more, feeling an admiration he did not try to express. But when he arose to go the admiration was in the grip of his hand.
“Mr. Mallory,” he said. “You do not realize what you attempt. But you may rest assured of one thing. I shall never forget this, never as long as I live. Good-night.”
And as the captain’s figure strode up the street Mark turned and put his hands on Texas’ shoulders.
“Old fellow,” said he, “and have you any courage?”
“Say,” protested Texas, solemnly, “I’ll fight——”
“I don’t mean that kind of courage,” said Mark. “I mean courage of the eye, and the heart. Courage of the mind that knows it’s right and cares for nothing else. I mean the courage to be called a coward?”
“I dunno,” stammered Texas, looking uneasy. Poor Texas had never thought of that kind of courage. “I ain’t very sho’,” he said, “’bout lettin’ anybody call me a coward.”