The latter’s face wore a grim look of determination; and that strange smile, which was a signal of danger to all who knew him, hovered about his mouth.
He was resting lightly upon his feet, poised for the attack he knew would follow.
Sharpe attempted to speak, but the words came in a stuttering stream. He was wild with rage.
Leaping forward, he aimed a blow, but before Clif could parry it, Blakely, the big first class man, intervened.
“Not here, you fool,” said the latter, warningly. “This is no place for a scrap. If you want to fight the cheeky plebe go forward to the washroom.”
“If I want to fight?” cried Sharpe, struggling to free himself from Blakely’s detaining hands. “He pulled my nose, and I’ll kill him.”
“Then do it in the proper place,” was the cool reply. “Go to the washroom.”
“I’m perfectly willing to fight him there or here, or any old where,” announced Clif. “And I’ll do my best to give him a thrashing he won’t forget in a hurry.”
“You may receive one yourself,” said the big senior. “Get those wet clothes off and meet us forward. Be quick about it. We get up anchor at five bells.”
Clif was attended by Joy and Trolley, and five minutes later he entered the washroom to find it almost packed with cadets.