The Parson really could hit, and was well up in the theory and formulas of boxing as he was in everything else. And every time he smote his adversaries, whom he termed “Philistines,” he called to witness some new deity of old; finally, having exhausted his available stock, he was forced to content himself with Hercules, Achilles, and the rest of the demigods and heroes. But he still whacked just as hard as ever.
Of course the rest of the plebes had not been slow to rush to his aid. Mark could do nothing, for his hands were hors du combat. But as for the rest of them, it would have been hard to find much better fighters in the academy.
Texas, of course, was a perfect giant. He plunged back and forth through that crowd, sweeping everything before him. Indian’s method was exactly similar, except that the terrified lad shut his eyes and hit anything he met, from trees to posts. Chauncey adopted his usual tactics of leading half a dozen of the enemy to chase him, and then getting them all breathless from trying to follow his dodging figure.
As for the rest of them, Sleepy backed himself against the wall (Sleepy seldom stood up without leaning against something) and thus kept his assailants at bay, and lastly, Dewey hovered around Mark to protect him from danger. Mark was like a huge battleship without any powder.
Sometimes we wish that history were different and that we could fix things as we like. It would have made excellent reading if the gallant Parson had been a second Samson among these new Philistines, and if the gallant plebes had put the rowdies to flight. But they didn’t.
The first savage onslaught came very near doing this, but the crowd speedily rallied, and being of far superior numbers, soon turned the tide. Roughs are by no means inexperienced fighters, and moreover, they do not scorn the use of sticks and brickbats when obtainable. Things began to look very squally indeed for the cadets.
The Parson was down and being sat on, walked on, and danced on. Indian had gotten off the track and was still blindly fighting the air half a block up the street. Chauncey was breathless, and Sleepy was tired. Moreover, one of the cowardly gang had discovered Mark’s plight, and having subdued Dewey, was punching Mark at his leisure.
Texas alone was unconquered. Texas hadn’t had half enough fight to suit him, and was still merrily plunging about the scene and through the crowd, working those cowboy arms like windmills. But Texas, alas, wasn’t able to hit every one at once, and so the plot continued to thicken. An interruption, when it came a minute later, was very welcome indeed to the plebes.
Somebody started a cry that brought confusion to the loafers. It was “Police! police!” The “scrap” terminated abruptly; the “scrappers” got up on their feet; and after that there was a wild scurrying in every direction. Three watchmen, attracted by the noise, had suddenly appeared upon the scene.
Now the Banded Seven were, for obvious reasons, as much afraid of cops as their opponents. Texas did everlastingly hate to stop right in the midst of the fun, but he was the only one that shared that feeling; the rest sighed with relief when they realized at last that they were far out of town and beyond danger.