The more Archer considered the matter, the more disgusted he became. It was totally unreasonable and absurd. Runyon had apparently set his heart on forcing a fight—why, Runyon alone knew. Sam felt himself the victim of an inexplicable persecution. He couldn’t hand the persecutor over to friends to chastise, he couldn’t complain to the faculty, he couldn’t put up forever with insults and humiliations. He simply must fight—unless Mulcahy’s sharp wits could devise a way of silencing the rowdy.

Sam found Mulcahy before luncheon, and appealed for help.

“What did you get into such a scrape for?” demanded Mulcahy, with small show of sympathy.

“It wasn’t my fault; he forced me into it.”

“You must have done something to him. He wouldn’t pick on you without some kind of reason.”

“Not a thing. I don’t think I’d ever spoken to him. He’s making a fool of himself and me too. Can’t you go to him and show him how idiotic it is, and get him to shut up? If you don’t succeed in that, tell him I’m ready to fight.”

Mulcahy drew away. “I couldn’t do that, really. It wouldn’t do for me to interfere. I’d like to help you, of course, but I couldn’t get mixed up in a thing of that kind.”

“Why not?” asked Archer, perplexed at his friend’s coldness.

“Well, it would be talked about; some of the faculty would hear of it, and they might not understand my position in it. I couldn’t have them think I was acting as second in a school prize-fight. Then my position on the ‘Seatonian’ has to be considered.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” said Archer, gloomily. “I’ve got into trouble with a cheap mutt, from no fault of mine. I’ve got to have some one to help me.”

“I’ll help you by giving you the best advice I know. Go to Runyon quietly and fix it up.”

“Fix it up!” echoed Archer. “How can I fix it up?”

“Why, tell him you acted thoughtlessly, and are sorry you pushed him. Beg his pardon, and when the thing is over and settled, avoid him. If you don’t patch it up, you’ll be walloped by a good fighter, and very likely get kicked out of school into the bargain.”

Sam stared—glared—at his counsellor. “Go down on my knees to that fellow!” he said, with vibrant voice and flashing eyes. “Swallow all the insults he’s given me and ask for more, beg his pardon for not taking his dirty kicks with gratitude! I wouldn’t do that for a dozen ‘Seatonians’ and a hundred faculties. I wouldn’t do that for any one, not if I knew I was going to be fired the next minute!”

“Don’t blame me, then, if things don’t go right,” returned Mulcahy, seating himself at his desk as if the interview were over. “You’ll just get into the scrape deeper. I’ve given you the best advice I know. My conscience is clear.”

Sam flung out of Mulcahy’s room without a backward glance or a word. Furious with Mulcahy and with the whole ridiculous business, he strode along vowing he would fight without a second, anywhere, at any time. At the corner of Sibley he ran into Kendrick.

“Look out there!” sang out Kendrick’s cheerful voice. “What’re you rushing me for? I’m not Runyon.”

Sam’s face brightened. “Say, Ken, will you be my second if I have to fight that fellow?”

“Sure, I will,” responded the ready Kendrick. “But why do you say ‘if’? You’ve got to fight him.”

“Don’t you think you might go to him and show him what a fool he’s making—”

“It wouldn’t do a bit of good,” interrupted Kendrick. “Nothing’ll cure his disease but some good hard punches in the head. I’d just as lief go and tell him what a fool he is as not. Maybe I’d get a chance to hand him a few myself. Only it wouldn’t do any good.”

“You won’t get into any trouble with the profs by backing me, will you?” questioned Sam, mindful of Mulcahy’s fears.

“Trouble? Supposing I do? The job’s got to be done, hasn’t it?”

“Then go and tell him to come to my room after the four o’clock bell rings. Alsop is at recitation then. He can bring some one with him.”

“All right,” replied Kendrick, cordially. “Trust the thing to me. I’ll arrange everything in proper style, giving him a little of my opinion at the same time. Four o’clock this afternoon at 7 Hale!”

Mr. Alsop took his books and his dignity over to recitation that afternoon, little suspecting the plot against the boasted quiet of his entry. Kendrick had cleared the centre of the room of movables, and now sat on the sofa, nursing his knee and giving final words of counsel. Sam had put on tennis shoes, an old pair of trousers and a jersey, and over this had thrown his coat.

“Don’t accept any rules at all,” advised Kendrick. “Just wade in and hit him any old way. You aren’t fighting for a diamond belt, you’re just defending yourself against bullying; close in on him or throw him; then pummel him. If you stand off, he’ll whack you. You want to rush him.”

“It’s the craziest fool thing I ever got into,” groaned Sam. “There’s no sense in it at all. I never did anything to the mucker.”

“What’s the good of going over that again! When a rowdy sets on you in the street, you’ve got either to fight or to run. It’s no use to tell him he isn’t acting like a gentleman. If Runyon insists on fighting, you’ve got to fight him, or get some one else to do it for you, or appeal to the faculty for protection.”

“I know it!” growled Sam, whose temper was growing vicious. “I’m going to fight.”

“You’re going to win, too,” observed Kendrick, with a sage nod, falling in naturally with the orthodox practice of encouragement pursued by seconds since the days of Homer. “He’s nothing.”

A bold knock at the door announced the coming of the enemy. Runyon walked in, followed by Brantwein, his supporter. Brantwein was a radical, avowing and defending extreme socialist ideas. He was beating his way through the school. He sold peanuts to the fellows on the bleachers at the ball games, devised various means, effective and ineffective, of getting marks without excessive work, put the shot with considerable success, and protested generally that his name did not mean “brandy,” because it was not spelled with a double n. None the less he was dubbed “Brandy” from the day of his advent. He was generally against the government, and he liked a scrap.

Runyon took off his coat immediately. “We’ll follow the Marquis of Queensberry rules,” he proclaimed. “No hitting below the belt and no clinching.”

“Rules nothing!” answered Kendrick, curtly.

“What’s all this for, anyway?” said Archer. “I’ve nothing against you to fight over.”

“I’ve got something against you,” returned Runyon, “and you ain’t goin’ to crawl out of it now!”

At this taunt a white spot appeared on each of Sam’s cheekbones, and an ominous light flashed into his eyes. He drew off his coat—slowly, because he wanted time to consider his opening. Runyon caught the change of color in his opponent’s face, and misinterpreted its meaning. Fearing that the long-suffering Archer might be still reluctant to use his fists, and that the Éclat which he had striven for might at the last moment escape him, he stepped forward and swung the flat of his hand in a stinging slap against Sam’s cheek.

The effect far exceeded Runyon’s expectations. Sam’s long-suppressed anger at being forced into a ridiculous position flared into scorching fury. With every nerve alert and every muscle quivering, he flung the coat aside and leaped forward. He came too quick and too hard for his enemy’s artistic defence. The blow that should have felled him to the floor, wildly and feebly aimed, glanced harmless from his lowered, plunging head. The next instant, Sam’s arms were encircling Runyon’s waist, his head was planted safely against his opponent’s chest; the on-rush of his dive swept the boxer, drumming vainly on the muscle-armored shoulders, back against the wall. They struck the doorpost with a force that slammed Runyon’s head against the wood. Before he could recover, Archer caught his footing, and whirling his confused assailant about, threw him to the floor and fell heavily upon him.

What followed was totally contrary to the conduct expected of a well-mannered hero of a boy’s book. Never was mighty fighter so soon despoiled of his martial ardor, or so quickly brought to piteous appeal for mercy. The seconds together dragged the infuriated tiger from his prey. And while Kendrick in the corner of the study was bringing Archer back to his normal state of charity and patience, Brantwein was swabbing Runyon’s swelling, red-smeared face in the bedroom, and muttering a combination of consolations and invectives.

“He didn’t fight fair!” sputtered Runyon, when his breath returned and his throat was clear.

“Oh, shut up!” retorted the socialist. “You got what was coming to you.”

“Didn’t I tell you the way to fix him!” boasted Kendrick, when the door closed behind the battered, cowed Runyon and his disappointed second. “If you had fought according to ring rules, he’d have knocked you all over the place.”

“Supposing he had done it, what then?” asked Sam, looking ruefully at his knuckles.

“Then I should have insulted him,” answered Kendrick, promptly, “and if he did for me, some one else would have come up. He’d never have got through the year without a good whaling.”

Runyon went home the next day for comfort and repairs. And when he was repaired and comforted, not daring or not caring to face the jeers of his schoolmates, he decided not to return to the scene of his defeat, but to work in a department store instead. Some time after his disappearance, some innocent asked a friendly instructor whether Runyon was expelled on account of his fight with Archer, and thus put the keen noses of the faculty on the scent. So, long after the school had ceased to talk of it, the history of the Battle of 7 Hale was revealed to the authorities.