A space was cleared in the center and preliminaries arranged by Joy and a second class man. Blakely was to act as referee.
When Clif stepped out, stripped and ready for the fray, Sharpe advanced to meet him. The hazer’s face was not pleasant to contemplate.
He was naturally a bully at heart, and his disposition was mean and small. The two attacks upon him that morning—attacks by two “miserable” plebes at that—had brought out all the vindictiveness of his petty nature.
Faraday confronted him calmly, but that old smile was very pronounced. Trolley and Joy, who knew it well, gleefully rubbed their hands.
“Time!” called Blakely. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” clearly replied Clif, standing on the defensive.
Sharpe barely nodded.
The signal came, and the two enemies—for such they were, in truth—began to spar cautiously.
But this caution lasted not a minute. Sharpe, plainly wild with anger, made a furious attack and succeeded in beating down Clif’s guard. The result was a stiff tap upon Faraday’s chin which sent him reeling against the bulkhead.