"You will fix nothing with us," retorted the other. "The class has instructed me to tell you that most emphatically you will not be allowed to fight with the lieutenant."
Mark stared at the three solemn cadets in amazement, and Texas gave vent to a muttered "Wow!"
"Not be allowed to fight!" echoed Mark.
"No, sir, you will not. Mr. Wright was the class' delegate; your quarrel is with the class."
"B'gee!" put in Dewey, wriggling with excitement, "let's lick the class, b'gee!"
Mark was silent for a while, thinking over the strange turn of affairs; and then the committee continued:
"Mr. Wright will not do you the honor of a fight or of an apology."
Mark flushed at that stinging remark. The speaker never turned a hair, but stared at him just as sternly as ever, seeing that his thrust had landed.
Mark had a way of saying nothing when he was angry, of thinking carefully what it would be best to do. And now he gazed into space, his brows knitted, while his six friends leaned forward anxiously, wondering what was coming next.
"Suppose," the plebe inquired at last, "suppose, sir, I were to force a fight with Mr. Wright?"