“Well, I’ve got his number,” announced Joe, discarding his cap and dropping into a chair. “He’s a scrapper. He’s had three or four mix-ups since he has been here, usually, as near as I can make out, with fellows who didn’t know much fighting. He’s got a quick temper and is ugly when he’s started. He’s a second class fellow and plays hockey and baseball. Had a fuss with the baseball coach last spring and was laid off for awhile. Apologised and got back again finally. I didn’t hear any one say he was liked much. The main thing, though, is that he can scrap. Keith says he’s quite a foxy youth with his fists; says he thinks he’s taken lessons. So now we know where we are, eh?”

“Yes, it seems so,” answered Myron. “Well, there’s no use talking about it, is there? Did you find out where this brickyard is?”

“Yeah, it’s just across the street at the far side of the campus, back from the road a bit. I’ve been thinking, Foster. There’s no sense in you going up against a fellow who knows how to fight, is there?”

“No, but it doesn’t seem to be a question of sense,” replied Myron, smiling.

“What I mean is, it isn’t a fair proposition for a chap who can’t even keep his guard up to try to fight a guy who knows all the ropes. Might as well expect one of Merriman’s puppies to fight a bull-dog. That’s so, ain’t it?”

“Well, it isn’t quite that bad,” said Myron. “At least, I hope not!”

“Mighty near. So here’s my plan, kiddo. You stay right in your downy couch tomorrow morning and I’ll see this guy Eldredge myself.”

“What?”

“Sure! Why not? He wants a scrap, don’t he? Well, he wouldn’t get any if you were to go. It wouldn’t be worth his trouble getting out of bed. But me, I can show him a real good time, likely. I don’t say I can lick him, for they tell me he’s a right shifty guy and has some punch, but I can keep him interested until he’s ready to call it a day. Besides, I ain’t had a real good scrap since last winter and I’m getting soft. So that’s what we’ll do, eh?”

Myron laughed. Then, perplexedly, he asked: “You aren’t in earnest, Dobbins?”

“Sure, I’m in earnest? What’s the joke?”

“I guess it would be on Eldredge,” chuckled Myron.

“That’s so.” Joe smiled too. “He will be a bit surprised, won’t he? Maybe he will be peeved, too. I wouldn’t wonder. Well, that’s nothing in our young lives, eh? We’re doing the best we can for him.”

“But—but do you really think I’d agree to that?” asked Myron. “You’re joking, of course!”

“What do you mean, joking?” demanded the other indignantly. “And why wouldn’t you agree? Ain’t it the sensible thing to do?”

“Maybe, but I can’t do it, of course, Dobbins. You must see that. Why, hang it, if I challenge another fellow to fight I don’t expect him to send a substitute!”

“What you expect don’t cut any ice, kiddo. If the guy you challenge can’t fight a little bit he’s a plain idiot to let you whang him around, ain’t he? And if he knows another guy who doesn’t mind taking his place why ain’t it all right and fair for him to send him along? Tell me those!”

“Why, because—because it isn’t!” answered Myron impatiently. “Eldredge hasn’t anything against you. His quarrel is with me. What would he say about me if I stayed away and let you go instead?”

“Him? What could he say? I’ll tell him you’re no scrapper. That’ll fix that in his mind, won’t it? Mind you, Foster, I ain’t saying he’s going to be pleased at running up against a guy who knows a thing or two about the game, but it don’t seem to me that we need to worry about whether he’s pleased or not. He wants a scrap and we’re giving him one. That’s enough, ain’t it?”

“It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of,” said Myron. “Of course, I’m awfully much obliged, Dobbins. I appreciate it, honest. I don’t know why you should offer to do it, either. But it’s absolutely out of the question. So let’s not talk about it any more.”

Joe frowned, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking and fell to studying his hands. After a moment Myron asked: “What do I do when I get there, Dobbins? Do we shake hands or—or just start in?”

“Start in,” answered the other absently. “Look here, Foster,” he continued earnestly, “you’re going to act like a plumb fool. Why, that guy’ll paste you all over your face and leave you looking like a raw beefsteak! Then faculty’ll want to know what you’ve been doing and there’ll be all sorts of trouble on tap. What you going to do when he begins lamming you?”

Myron shrugged. “Stand him off the best way I can. Lamm him back if I can. Maybe I’ll get on to the game after awhile. I’m going to try. I thought maybe you could show me a few things tonight, just so’s I wouldn’t look too green tomorrow. It isn’t late, is it?”

“No, it isn’t late.” Joe brightened perceptibly for an instant, but then his face fell again and he shook his head. “It wouldn’t be any use, kiddo. You’d forget it all in the morning. I guess if you won’t do like I said the best thing’ll be to let him knock you down as soon as possible. When you’re down, stay down. If he asks have you had enough, you tell him yes. Then you can shake hands and get through without getting all beat up.”

“Is that what you’d do?” asked Myron sharply.

“Me? Well, I—I don’t know as I would, just.”

“Then why should you think I’d do it? Who told you I was a coward? I can’t fight, and I know it, but I don’t intend to lie down!”

“Whoa, Bill! I ain’t said you were a coward. I know better, of course. If you were a coward you’d try to squirm out of meeting the fellow, wouldn’t you? All right, have it your own way, kiddo. Only don’t worry about it, see? You get a good sleep and leave tomorrow look after itself.”

“Thanks. I’m going to do that, Dobbins. Guess I’ll turn in now and dream I’m Jess Willard or one of those guys—fellows. Are you going to study some more?”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to study some. Good night.”

“Good night,” answered Myron. A few minutes later he spoke again from the bedroom. “I say, Dobbins!”

“Yeah?”

“I’m awfully much obliged. You’ve been mighty kind, you know.”

“That’s all right, kiddo,” growled Dobbins. “Go to sleep.”

Whether Myron dreamed that he was a prizefighter, or dreamed at all, he didn’t remember when he awoke. That he had slept restfully, however, he realised the instant he was in possession of his faculties. He told himself that he felt fine. And when, a second later, he remembered the engagement at the brickyard the empty feeling at the pit of his stomach lasted but a moment. He turned his head and glanced at the clock on top of his dresser. Then he stared at it. It said twenty-eight minutes after six! It wasn’t like that clock to go wrong. It had been all right last evening when he had wound it, too. Suppose it was still right! Suppose he had overslept! He looked quickly at Joe’s bed. It was empty. Great Scott! He’d have to hurry if he was to get to that brickyard in seventeen minutes! He started to throw the covers aside, but he didn’t. He couldn’t! He couldn’t move his arm! Why, he couldn’t move any part of him except his head! Something awful had happened to him! Fright gripped him and in a panic he strove to get command of his limbs. Horrible thoughts of paralysis came to him. The bed creaked, but he remained flat on his back! And then it dawned on him that the reason he couldn’t move was because he was tied down!

For a moment he was so relieved to discover that the fault was not with him that he didn’t realise his situation. It was only when he remembered the time again that he understood. This was Joe Dobbins’ doing! Joe had tied him down to his bed, though how he had done it without awakening him Myron couldn’t imagine, and had himself gone to meet Eldredge! Surprise gave way to anger and mortification. What would Eldredge think of him? All Joe’s explanations would fail to convince Eldredge that Myron had not purposely stayed away. Of all the crazy, meddlesome fools in the world, Dobbins was the craziest! Wait until he found him! Wait until he told him what he thought of him! Wait——

But just then Myron realised that waiting was the one thing he couldn’t afford. The clock had ticked off two minutes of the precious time remaining to him and the long hand was moving past the half-hour already. He studied his predicament. Joe had, it appeared, used his own sheets and quilt and, probably, other things as well, and Myron was as securely fastened down as Gulliver by the Lilliputians! He could move each leg about an inch and each arm the same. By arching his back he could lift his body just off the bed: something, possibly a sheet, crossed his chest and was tied fast to the side rails. He squirmed until he was exhausted, and the only apparent result was to give himself the fraction of an inch more freedom. He subsided, panting, and his anger found room for grudging admiration of Joe’s work. How that idiot had managed to swathe and bind him as he had done without waking him up was both a marvel and a mystery!

“Gee,” muttered Myron, “I knew I was a sound sleeper, but——”

Words failed him. Presently, despairing of success, he tried to free his right hand. Something that felt like a strap—he discovered afterwards that it was one of his neckties—was wound about the wrist, and his efforts were of no avail. The other hand was quite as securely tied. Tugging his feet against similar bonds was equally unprofitable. When the hands of the clock on the dresser indicated seventeen minutes to seven he gave up and tried to find consolation in arranging the eloquent remarks he meant to deliver to Joe Dobbins when that offensive youth returned.

Meanwhile, history was in the making on the trampled field of battle.

At a few minutes before the half-hour after six, a large, wide-shouldered youth attired in a pair of old trousers, a faded brown sweater that lacked part of one sleeve and a cloth cap of a violent green-and-brown plaid might have been seen ambling leisurely across the campus in the direction of the West Gate. In fact, he was seen, for from an open window on the front of Leonard Hall a pyjama-clad boy thrust his head forth and hailed softly.

“Hi, Joe! Joe Dobbins!” he called.

Joe paused and searched the front of the building until a spot of pale lavender against the expanse of sunlit brick supplied the clue. Then: “Hello, Keith,” he answered. “Can’t you sleep?”

Leighton Keith chuckled. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Just for a stroll,” replied Joe carelessly.

“Wait a minute and I’ll come along.”

Joe shook his head. “Got a date, Keith, with a guy named Eldredge.”

Keith nodded and waved, but, after Joe had passed from sight around the corner of the building, he pursed his lips thoughtfully and stared out into the early morning world. Gradually a smile curved his mouth. “Paul Eldredge,” he murmured. “Guess we’ll look into this.” He donned a dressing-gown and passed into the corridor and along it until he reached a window that overlooked Linden Street. Joe was just sauntering through the gate, hands in pockets, nonchalance expressed in every motion. But Keith noted with satisfaction that he turned to the right into Apple Street and presently crossed that thoroughfare and disappeared into the lane that led toward the abandoned brickyard. Keith whistled expressively if subduedly and went quickly back to his room and aroused Harry Cater by the simple method of pulling the clothes from him. “Katie,” as he was called, groaned, clutched ineffectually for the bedding and opened one eye.

“Wake up, Katie,” said Keith. “Joe Dobbins has a scrap on with Eldredge at the brickyard. Come on!”

“Howjuno?” muttered Katie.

“He just told me.” That was near enough the truth, Keith considered. Katie opened the other eye, stared around the room and slung one foot over the edge of the bed. “All right,” he said briskly. “Wait till I get a shower and I’ll be with you.”

“Shower? Nothing doing!” Keith was piling rapidly into his clothes. “There isn’t time. This is something a little bit choice, old man, and we don’t want to miss it. Get a move on!”