Regular exercise in the gymnasium began immediately after the Hillbury game. In Sam’s squad was a fellow from South Boston named Dennis Runyon. Runyon possessed a head ornamented with stiff, bristly hair on top, a stubby nose and pimply cheeks in front, and flaring clam-shell ears at the side. In the vacant spaces of his brain lurked, with other delusions of a large and general ignorance, a fixed idea that every man who was not positively effeminate admired a pugilist. Runyon’s notions as to the meaning of education were hazy; he had come to Seaton with the somewhat vague hope of bettering his prospects in life, bearing a letter of introduction from a cousin who had worked his way through the school and was appreciative of the help which it had given him. This letter from a faithful alumnus procured Runyon’s admittance. Entering a lower class in which the work was, for him, largely review, he gained rank high enough to receive a provisional scholarship.

But Dennis Runyon’s ambitions were not limited to gaining a foothold on the toilsome, uphill road which the self-made man must travel; he thirsted for distinction, especially distinction in athletics. The school football team did not desire his services; his class captain gave him a trial, and quickly dropped him for a smaller man who used his head more and his fists less. The football season passed, the uneventful winter months were at hand, his lesson marks were tending steadily downward. The name of Runyon was still obscure in Seaton.

Dennis went home for Thanksgiving, and offered what excuses he could for his failure to make the expected reputation.

“Don’t you know any fellows at all?” demanded Pete Runyon, an older brother, who had brought some glory upon the family by winning public matches at various boxing clubs.

“Not many,” replied Dennis, candidly. “They don’t take much notice of a new fellow.”

“Why don’t ye get up a fight, then? That’ll show ’em what kind of a man ye are.”

“I haven’t got any reason for fighting.”

“Find one, make one! Pick out one of these fellows who’s stuck on himself and give him a little jaw. He’ll fight when he gets mad enough. Then give him a good upper cut and finish him off easy. They’ll have some respect for you then. Ain’t ye man enough for that?”

“I dunno.”

“Ye ought to be, then. What’ve I learned ye to use yer paddies for? See what it’s done fer me! When I go down the street, the’ ain’t a man in the ward that don’t jump to give me the glad hand. It’s so everywhere. Everybody likes a man that can fight. The boys’ll talk about ye all over the school. Ye’ll be somebody then!”

Dennis returned to school with his brother’s counsel ringing in his ears. He experimented at first with boasts, and anecdotes of hard bouts. The bystanders listened with grins and suggested that he try his skill on Legge. Legge was a heavy-weight football player, old and hard, with the torso of a Roman Hercules, and arms ridged with iron sinews. As Runyon was a light middle-weight, this suggestion could only spring from gross ignorance of the rules of the ring, or be prompted by a spirit of ridicule. When flippant small boys of his class, whose weakness was their protection, fell to asking him, with mock solemnity, for details of these encounters, he became gradually aware that he was being chaffed. Something must be done to impress the contemptuous with his worth.

Exactly why he chose Sam Archer as the person on whom to try the value of his brother’s advice is not easy to determine. Jealousy doubtless entered into the case, a little personal spite, and much of the cunning of the professional sport. Sam’s democratic principles were not quite broad enough to include a friendship with Runyon. Sam had made a class football team when Runyon had not. Sam was tall and therefore looked big, yet being thin was presumably weak—a combination much to be desired in the person to be used by Runyon for demonstration of his prowess. He was, moreover, an independent. Not being a member of any close organization, he was not always surrounded by friends who felt themselves privileged to interfere in his affairs; and though not a fraternity man or a great athlete, he was not so obscure that a victory over him would be inglorious.

Having selected his victim, Runyon’s only problem was to make him fight. It happened soon that chance threw a pretext directly in his way, though he was not quick enough to recognize it. Archer, in the hurried crowding to put away dumbbells after the exercise, stepped on Runyon’s heel and pulled his gymnasium slipper loose. Runyon turned with a scowl, but before his mind awoke to the opportunity Archer had begged his pardon and passed on. The next day Runyon deliberately trod on Archer’s heel, and did not apologize. The result, however, was disappointing; Sam adjusted his shoe and went his way without bestowing a look on the offender.

The boxer now had recourse to more aggressive measures. He pushed young Hartley into Archer on the gymnasium floor, but it was Hartley who turned on him with abuse—and Hartley was too small to notice. He commented with audible contempt on Sam’s performance on the vaulting horse. As he passed Taylor and Archer talking together at the head of the gymnasium stairs, he mocked the phrase which had just fallen from Sam’s lips, and lingered near by to see if his challenge would be taken up.

“What’s that fellow driving at?” demanded Taylor. “Is he trying to get up a scrap with you?”

“It looks like it,” replied Sam. “Perhaps it’s just his way of being funny.”

“He’s getting too fresh. He ought to be squelched!”

“I don’t want to be the one to do it. You don’t gain anything by scrapping with fellows like him.”

Sam’s evident unwillingness to be drawn was just the incentive needed to urge his assailant on. Runyon was one who could be bluffed or cowed, but not placated. Sam was by nature good-humored and patient, capable of holding out on a fixed course to the last gasp, but neither resentful nor pugnacious. When Collins informed Bruce that Archer was good material, but must get speed and fight into him before he could accomplish anything, the coach showed himself a shrewd judge of character, as well as an expert in the psychology of successful racers. As Archer sought to avoid him, Runyon’s conduct grew more offensive. Both were criticised severely by spectators of the performance, the one for not standing up for his rights, the other for acting like a hoodlum.

The crisis came one day early in December, when Runyon, having flung out an unsuccessful gibe in the dressing room, overtook Archer on the stairs and jostled roughly against him. Sam, at last exasperated, gave the bully a push with his shoulder that sent the intrepid challenger hard against the side wall. Runyon rebounded, and striking Archer a blow in the upper arm, squared himself for battle.

“Come on, if you want to fight!” he called derisively. “I didn’t believe you had sand enough.”

“I won’t fight here,” answered Archer.

“Ye won’t fight anywhere, I guess. You’re too much of a coward!”

By this time boys were gathering above and below, and staring at the brawlers with eager, grinning faces.

“Don’t stand his lip, Sam,” said Kendrick, pushing his way up the steps. “Knock the face off him!”

Runyon turned sharply toward the intruder. Whatever his intention, he suppressed it as soon as he recognized the stalwart football player. “He’ll knock the face off me, nit!” said the pugilist. “He won’t even give me a chance to get at him. Shorty Hartley’s about his class.”

The gong for the beginning of exercise sounded.

“I’ll give you a chance this afternoon,” said Sam, hastily.

“Yes, you will!” sneered Runyon, “probably when you have a crowd of friends to butt in.”

“When we can have it out alone,” declared Sam, with a hard look in his eyes and an air of extreme dignity. “I’ll send a second to you this noon.”