CHAPTER IX
MYRON LOSES HIS TEMPER
The next morning Joe was as cheerful and smiling and good-natured as ever, but Myron wasn’t yet ready to forget, and his responses to his room-mate’s overtures were brief and chilling. After breakfast, which on Sundays was a half-hour later, Joe suggested that Myron walk over to the village with him and visit Merriman and see the puppies. Myron wanted to go, for the day was chill and cloudy and generally depressing, but his pride wouldn’t let him and so he answered shortly that he had seen the puppies and he guessed they hadn’t changed much. When Joe had taken himself off Myron felt horribly out-of-sorts and was heartily glad when church time came and, immaculately but soberly attired, he could set forth across the campus. Dinner was at one o’clock, a more hearty repast than most of the fellows needed after a morning spent in comparative idleness. However, no one skimped it. Myron went right through from soup to ice-cream, becoming more and more heavy and gloomy under the effects of an overloaded stomach. He had been placed at a table near the serving-room doors, and, while some of his companions declared that you got your things quicker and hotter by being so close to the source of supplies, Myron disliked having the doors flap back and forth directly behind his back and detested the bursts of noise and aroma that issued forth at such times. Today he resented those annoyances more than ever and found the conversation about him more than ordinarily puerile.
There were a good many third class boys at his table, fellows of fourteen and fifteen, whose deportment was anything but staid. They were much given to playing practical jokes on each other, such as surreptitiously salting a neighbour’s milk or sprinkling pepper in his napkin. And they were not above flicking pellets of bread when the nearest faculty member was not looking. Each table had a “Head” whose duty it was to see that proper decorum was observed. In some cases the Head was one of the faculty, in other cases he was an older boy. The Head at Myron’s table was a second class chap named Rogers, a stoutish, easy-going fellow who was generally so busy eating everything he could lay hands to that he had no time for correcting his charges. It was unfortunate that young Tinkham, the pink-cheeked, sandy-haired little cherub who sat almost opposite Myron, should have selected today for his experiment with the bread pellet. Tinkham had longed for days to see if he could lodge a pellet against Myron’s nose. To Tinkham that nose looked supercilious and contemptuous and seemed to fairly challenge assault. Until now Tinkham had never been able to summon sufficient courage to dare the sacrilege, but today there was a demoralising atmosphere about and so when, having eaten his ice-cream and having nothing further to live for anyway, he saw Myron’s gaze wander toward the further end of the hall Tinkham drew ammunition from under the edge of his butter dish and with an accuracy born of long practice let fly. His aim proved perfect. Myron dropped his spoon and sped a hand to his outraged nose. Before him, perched on the remains of his ice-cream, was the incriminating missile, and of all those who had witnessed the deed only one remained unsmiling, demure and innocent, and that one was the cherubic, fair-haired Tinkham.
Myron lost his temper instantly and completely. “That was you, Tinkham! I saw you!” The latter statement was hardly truthful, but Tinkham didn’t challenge it. He only looked surprised and pained. “You try that again and I’ll box your silly little ears for you! Remember that, too!” Myron flicked the bread pellet disgustedly aside and glowered at the offender.
“Boo!” said one of Tinkham’s friends, and the younger element became convulsed with laughter. At that, Rogers, who had been bending absorbedly over his dessert, looked up.
“Cut that out, fellows,” he remonstrated feebly.
“We’re only laughing,” giggled one of the boys.
“Wake up, Sam,” said Eldredge, who was Rogers’ age and had viewed the proceedings with unconcealed amusement. “You’re missing all the fun. If you didn’t eat so much – ”
“If he didn’t eat so much he might keep order at the table,” said Myron.
Rogers was too surprised to reply, but Eldredge took up the cudgels in his behalf. “Oh, don’t be a grouch, Foster,” he sneered. “The kid didn’t hurt you. It was only fun.”
“I don’t like the kind, then,” answered Myron haughtily. “After this he can leave me out of his ‘fun.’”
“Oh, piffle! Come back to earth! If I’d been Tinkham I’d have shied the whole loaf at you. Then you’d have had something to kick about.”
“The something would have been you, then,” retorted Myron.
“Would it? Is that so?” Eldredge glared angrily across the table. “Think you’re man enough to kick me, do you? Why, say – ”
“Dry up, Paul!” begged Rogers. “Tasser’s got his eye on you.”
“I won’t dry up,” retorted the insulted Eldredge. Nevertheless he dropped his voice beyond the hearing of the neighbouring instructor. “If that stuck-up mollycoddle thinks he can talk about kicking me and get away with it he’s all wrong, believe me!” The younger boys were listening in open delight and Tinkham was fairly squirming with excitement. “Get that, Foster?”
“I heard you,” replied Myron indifferently.
“You did, eh? Well, any time you feel like – ”
“Rogers, what’s wrong at your table?” It was Mr. Tasser’s voice, and Eldredge stopped suddenly and gulped back the rest of his remark.
“I – I – that is, nothing, sir,” stammered the Head. Then, to Eldredge in an imploring whisper: “Shut up, will you?” he begged. “Want to get me in wrong?” Eldredge muttered and shot venomous looks at Myron while the youngsters sighed their disappointment. Myron folded his napkin and arose leisurely, aware of the unsympathetic regard of his companions, and walked out. In the corridor he waited for a minute or two. He had no desire to carry matters any further with Paul Eldredge, but he felt that if he hurried away that youth might misconstrue the action. However, Eldredge didn’t appear and so Myron went across to Sohmer, still sore and irritated, to find an empty study. Eldredge’s failure to follow Myron out of the dining hall had been due entirely to discretion. With Mr. Tasser’s penetrant and suspicious gaze on him, he decided that it would be wise to avoid all seeming interest in Myron.
Joe failed to return to the room, and after trying to do some studying and finding that he simply couldn’t keep his mind on his task, Myron pulled a cap on and sallied forth again. It was misting by then, and a chilling suggestion of autumn was in the air. When he had mooned along the country road that led toward Cumner for a mile or so without finding anything of interest he turned back toward the town. A hot chocolate in a corner drug store restored his spirits somewhat and, having no better place to go, he crossed the railroad and made his way through the dreary quarter that held the residence of Merriman. He didn’t suppose Merriman would be in, but it was something to do. Recalling former instructions, he didn’t bother to ring the bell this time, but opened the door and climbed the dark stairway to the second floor. That Merriman was in became known to him before he had groped his way to the room, for from beyond the closed portal came the sound of voices. For a moment Myron hesitated. He hadn’t bargained on finding visitors there. But the loneliness of Number 17 Sohmer on this Sunday afternoon decided him, and he knocked. Merriman’s voice bade him enter and he opened the door on a surprising scene.
On the decrepit window-seat reclined Joe Dobbins. Close by, in the room’s one armchair, with his feet on a second chair, was Merriman. Between the two was a corner of the deal table, dragged from its accustomed place, and on the table was the remains of a meal: some greasy plates, a coffee pot, cups, bits of bread, about a third of a pie, a half-eaten banana, a jar of milk. The room, in spite of a wide-open window, smelled of sausages. On Joe’s chest reposed Tess, the terrier, evidently too full of food and contentment to bark, and in Merriman’s lap was a squirming bunch of puppies.
“Come in, Foster,” called the host genially. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, but just now I am weighted with family cares. Find a chair and draw up to our cosy circle. Have you had food? There’s some pie left, and I can heat some coffee for you in a second.”
“I’ve had dinner, thanks, a good while ago.” He carefully lifted a dozen or so books from a chair and took it across to the window. He felt rather intrusive. And there was Joe grinning at him from the seat, and he was supposed to have a grouch against Joe.
“Well, have a piece of pie, won’t you?” begged Merriman hospitably. “Sure? We were sort of late with our feed. What time is it, anyway? Great Scott, Dobbins, it’s nearly four! How long have we been sitting here?”
“I’ve been here ever since I worried down that last piece of pie,” said Joe, “and I guess that was about an hour and a half ago. You ought to have showed up earlier, Foster. You missed a swell feed!”
“Sausages and potatoes and pie,” laughed Merriman. “Still, we managed to nearly kill ourselves: at least, I did.” Joe groaned and shifted the terrier to a new position. “Been for a walk, Foster?”
“Yes. It’s a rotten day, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Merriman glanced through the window in faint surprise. “I hadn’t noticed. Sort of cloudy I see. By the way, I’ve sold one of these little beggars.”
“Have you? They’ve got their eyes open, haven’t they?”
“Sort of half open,” chuckled Merriman. “Maybe they’re too fat to open them any wider. This is the one that’s sold. His name is – what was it you named him, Dobbins?”
“Zephaniah,” answered Joe gravely, “Zephaniah Q. Dobbins.”
“What’s the Q for?” laughed Merriman.
“Haven’t decided yet. I just put that in for the sound. You see, Foster, I’m calling him Zephaniah after an old codger who used to live near us up at Hecker’s Falls, Maine. Zephaniah Binney was his name. He used to be a cook in the logging camps, but he got so fat tasting the things he cooked that he had to quit. After that he used to sit in front of his shack all day, tilted back in a chair, and look for work.”
“Look for work?” laughed Merriman.
“Yeah, he was always on the look-out for a job. ’Most strained his eyes looking. But somehow he never found one; leastways, he hadn’t when I saw him last. Funny old codger. Warren Wilson, who was postmaster and ran the store and one thing and another, used to bring the Bangor paper to Zeph every day and Zeph would study the advertisements mighty carefully. Guess he knew more about the Bangor labour market than any man alive. ‘I was readin’ where one o’ them big dry-goods houses is wantin’ a sales manager,’ Zeph would tell you. ‘It don’t say how much they’re willin’ to pay, though. If I knew that I’d certain’y communicate with ’em, I would so. Maybe they’ll make mention o’ the salary tomorrow. I’ll just wait an’ see.’”
“And he’s still waiting?” chuckled Merriman.
“As far as I know.”
“What does he live on?” asked Myron. “Has he got money saved?”
“No, he’s got something better; he’s got an up-and-coming wife who works just as hard as Zeph – looks. She’s a wonderful woman, too, Mrs. Binney is. She’s lived with Zeph thirty years or more and she ain’t – hasn’t found him out yet. Or, if she has, she don’t let on. If you ask her has Zeph got a job yet she’ll tell you, ‘No, not yet, but he’s considerin’ acceptin’ a position with a firm o’ commission merchants down to Boston.’ And all the considering Zeph has done is read an advertisement in the Bangor paper where it says the Boston folks want a few carloads of potatoes!”
“It’s sort of tough on the puppy, though,” murmured Myron.
“Well, there’s a strong resemblance between him and Zephaniah,” said Joe. “I’ve been watching him. He doesn’t push and shove for his food like the rest of them. He just waits, and first thing you know he’s getting the best there is. If that ain’t like Zeph I’ll eat my hat.”
“Where are you going to keep him?” inquired Myron.
“In my room – when I get it. He won’t want any better than I have, I guess. I don’t suppose he’s going to kick because there isn’t much of a view.”
Merriman asked about the new quarters and Joe supplied a drily humorous description of them. The room began to grow dark and the boy’s faces became only lighter blurs in the twilight. Tess went to sleep and snored loudly. Myron listened more than he talked, conscious of the comfortable, home-like atmosphere of the queer, illy-furnished room and putting off from minute to minute the return to school. But at last the town clock struck six and Joe lifted the terrier from his stomach, in spite of protests, and swung his feet to the floor.
“I’ve got to be going,” he announced. “Haven’t peeked into a book since Friday.” He yawned cavernously. “You coming along, Foster?”
“Yes, I guess so.” Myron was glad to be asked, but he was careful to keep any trace of cordiality from his voice.
“Well, come again,” said Merriman heartily. “Both of you. Sunday’s an off-day with me and you’ll usually find me in about noon.”
“Me? I’ll be back,” declared Joe. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal since I left home like I enjoyed that dinner. Brother, you sure can cook sausages!”
“I like that guy,” said Joe when he and Myron were traversing the poorly-lighted street that led toward school. “He don’t have any too easy a time of it, either, Foster.”
“No, I guess coaching isn’t much fun,” Myron agreed.
“Well, he told me he liked it. Maybe he has to. He says he’s put himself clean through school that way. His father and mother are both dead and the only kin he’s got is an old aunt who lives out West somewhere. He says she’s got a right smart lot of money, but the only thing she ever does for him is send him six handkerchiefs every Christmas. Says it’s a big help, though, because he doesn’t have to buy any. He’s a cheerful guy, all right, and the fellows hit on a swell name for him.”
“What’s that?” asked Myron.
“Why, his name is Andrew Merriman, you know, and so they call him ‘Merry Andrew.’ Cute, ain’t it? He works hard every summer, too. Last summer he was a waiter at a hotel and did some tutoring besides. He’s a hustler. Doggone it, Foster, you’ve got to hand it to a guy like that!”
“Yes,” Myron agreed. Mentally he wondered that Merriman didn’t choose a less menial task than waiting on table. It seemed rather demeaning, he thought. Joe was silent until they had reached the end of School Street and were entering the campus gate. Then:
“Say, I’d like to do something for him,” he said earnestly. “Only I suppose he wouldn’t let me.”
“Do something? What do you mean?” asked Myron.
“Well, help him along somehow. Fix it so’s he wouldn’t have to work all the time like he does. The guy’s got a great bean on him. Bet you he knows more than the Principal and the rest of the faculty put together. A fellow like that ought to be able to go ahead and – and develop himself. See what I mean? He’s too – too valuable to waste his time serving soup and fish in a summer hotel. If I did it it wouldn’t hurt none, but he’s different. If I had my way I’d fix him up in a couple of nice rooms with plenty of books and things and tell him to go to it.”
“But I don’t just see how you could do anything much for him,” said Myron.
“No, I guess he wouldn’t let me.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, it would take a good deal of money, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Well, I’m just talking. No harm in that, eh? I’m not going over to supper. I couldn’t eat anything more if I was paid for it. See you later, kiddo.”
For once Myron failed to resent that form of address. In fact, he scarcely noticed it. Going across to Alumni Hall, he found himself looking forward with something akin to dismay to the time when Dobbins should have left him to the undisputed possession of Number 17!
CHAPTER X
THE CHALLENGE
Myron had quite forgotten Paul Eldredge and the incident of the bread pellet and only remembered when he seated himself at table and caught Eldredge’s unfriendly stare. As he was late, Eldredge and the others were nearly through the rather modest repast, and smiles and whispers across the board appraised him of the unpleasant fact that he was suspected of having delayed his arrival in order to avoid encountering his table companions. Being far from the truth, this displeased him greatly and as a result he bore himself more haughtily than ever, thereby increasing the disfavour into which he had fallen at noon. Young Tinkham raised a snigger amongst his cronies by ostentatiously rolling a bit of biscuit into a pellet, but he didn’t throw it. Presently Myron was left alone, to his satisfaction, Eldredge passing him with a challenging look that would have given him cause for thought had he seen it. At the moment, however, Myron was looking into the bottom of his cup and so had no forewarning of what was to occur.
If Eldredge was in the corridor when he came out ten minutes later Myron didn’t see him. It was not until he was half-way along the walk toward Sohmer that he again recalled Eldredge’s existence. Then he heard his name spoken and turned. Two fellows came toward him, the lights of Goss Hall behind them so that it was not until they had reached him that he recognised them as Eldredge and Rogers. It was Eldredge who had called and who now spoke.
“Been looking for you ever since dinner, Foster,” said Eldredge accusingly. “Kept sort of scarce, haven’t you?”
Rogers laughed softly, nervously. Myron stiffened.
“You couldn’t have looked very hard, Eldredge. I was in my room – ”
“Oh, no you weren’t!” interrupted Eldredge triumphantly. “I looked there.”
“Until half-past three – or three.”
“Or half-past two – or two,” mocked the other.
“Well, what of it?” asked Myron coldly. He knew now that Eldredge intended trouble. “What did you want me for?”
“Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to give you something.”
“I don’t want it, thanks,” replied Myron. He turned to go on, but Eldredge stepped in front of him.
“Don’t, eh? Wait till you know what it is, Mister Smug!” Eldredge’s arm shot out. Although he had not guessed the other’s intention, Myron caught sight of the movement and instinctively stepped back. The blow, aimed at his face, landed lightly on his chest. Prompted by a rage as sudden as Eldredge’s attack, Myron’s right hand swept swiftly up from his side and caught his opponent fairly on the side of the face with open palm. The sound of the slap and Eldredge’s snarl of mingled surprise and pain came close together. Staggered by the blow, Eldredge fell back a pace. Then he sprang forward again.
“You – you – ” he stammered wildly.
But Rogers, stout and unwieldy, threw himself between in a panic of entreaty. “Don’t, Paul! Not here! Some one’s coming! You’ll get the very dickens! You crazy dub, will you quit? Paul– ”
“No, I won’t!” grunted Eldredge, trying to shove Rogers aside. “He can’t hit me and get away with it! I’ll show him – ”
“Let him alone,” said Myron.
“No! Aw, quit, Paul! Honest, some one’s coming down the line. It won’t hurt you to wait a minute, will it?” Rogers was panting now from the double exertion of being a human barrier and a suppliant. But he won, for Eldredge, almost as angry with his friend for delaying revenge as with his enemy, but utterly unable to get past him, stopped his efforts in despair.
“What do you mean, wait a minute?” he demanded, alternately glaring at Rogers and Myron.
“Well, wait until tomorrow,” panted Rogers. “You know what’ll happen if you fight here. Do it regular, Paul.”
“Tomorrow! Where’ll he be by that time?” asked Eldredge scathingly.
“Shut up!” cautioned Rogers hoarsely. “You’ll have a crowd here in a minute!” Already a group of three fellows had paused a little way off and were peering curiously through the darkness. “Listen, will you? You fellows can settle this just as well tomorrow as you can now. Fix it up for the brickyard at – at what time do you say, Foster?”
“Any time he likes!” answered Myron obligingly. Then, remembering that there were such things as recitations, he added: “Before breakfast: say a quarter to seven.”
“You won’t want any breakfast when I get through with you,” growled Eldredge.
“That all right for you, Paul?” asked Rogers. By this time he was leading the others by force of example along the walk.
“Sure.”
“Good! A quarter to seven, then, at the brickyard. Come on, Paul. So long, Foster!”
Myron made no answer as he strode on toward Sohmer. His pulses were still pounding, although he had managed to control his voice fairly well, and he was experiencing a sort of breathlessness that was novel and not altogether unpleasant. But, to be truthful, contemplation of tomorrow morning’s engagement with Eldredge at the brickyard, wherever that might be, did not fill him with unalloyed bliss. In fact, as excitement dwindled something very much like nervousness took its place. Myron was not a coward, but, as he climbed the stairs in Sohmer, he found himself wishing that he had kept his temper and his tongue under control yesterday noon!
Joe Dobbins, with both lean, sinewy hands desperately clutching his tousled hair, was bent over a book at the study table. Joe’s method of studying was almost spectacular. First he removed his coat, then his collar and tie. After that he seated himself on the edge of his chair, twined his ankles about the legs of it, tilted it forward until his elbows were on the table, got a fine, firm grip on his hair with each hand, took a long agonised breath – and plunged in! Studying was just as hard for him as it looked, and it is greatly to his credit that he succeeded at it as well as he did. Just now he looked up at Myron’s entrance. For a moment he stared vacantly. Then his hands dropped from his head, the chair thumped back into normal position and he came out of his trance.
“Hello,” he said vaguely.
“Latin?” asked Myron.
“Math,” was the sad response. Then, sensing something unusual about his room-mate, he asked: “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You look like some one had dropped a firecracker down your neck, or something. What’s disturbed your wonted calm? Say, how’s that? ‘Wonted calm!’ Gee, that’s going some, ain’t it? I mean, is it not?”
“Great,” said Myron absently. He went into the bedroom and methodically changed coat and vest for a grey house jacket. When he emerged Joe was still unsatisfied.
“Going to study?” asked the latter.
“Yes – no – I don’t know. I ought to.” But Myron seated himself at the window instead of at the table and took one leg into his interlaced hands. Joe watched him solicitously. After a minute Myron asked with elaborate unconcern: “Did you ever fight any one, Dobbins?”
“Me?” Joe chuckled. “Well, I’ve been in a couple of scraps in my time. Why?”
“Just wondered. What – how do you go at it?”
“Me?” Joe leaned precariously back in his chair. “Well, I ain’t got but one rule, Foster, and that’s: Hit ’em first and often.”
“Oh! I – I suppose boxing is – quite an art.”
“Don’t know much about boxing, kiddo. Where I come from they don’t go in for rules and regulations. When you fight – you fight: and about the only thing that’s barred is kicking the other fellow in the head when he’s down! A real earnest scrap between a couple of lumber-jacks is about the nearest thing to battle, murder and sudden death that you’re likely to see outside the movies!”
“I didn’t mean that sort of fighting,” said Myron distastefully. “Fellows at – well, say, at school don’t fight like that, of course.”
“No, I don’t suppose so. I guess they stick to their fists. Anyway, they did where I went to school. We used to have some lively little scraps, too,” added Joe with a reminiscent chuckle. “I remember – But, say, what’s your trouble, Foster? Why are you so interested in fighting?”
“Oh, I was just wondering,” answered Myron evasively.
“Yeah, I know all about that. Who you been fighting?”
“No one.”
“Who you going to fight?”
“I haven’t said I was going to fight, have I? I was just asking about it. Maybe I might have to fight some time, and – ”
“Sure, that’s so. You might. You can’t ever tell, can you?” Joe picked up a pencil and beat a thoughtful tattoo on the blotter for a moment. Then: “Who is he? Do I know him?” he asked.
“Know who?” faltered Myron.
“This guy that’s after you. Come on, kiddo, open up! Come across! Let’s hear the story.”
So finally Myron told the whole thing, secretly very glad to do it, and Joe listened silently, save for an occasional grunt. When Myron had finished Joe asked: “So that’s it, eh? Tomorrow morning at a quarter to seven at the brickyard. Where’s this brickyard located?”
“I don’t know. I must ask some one.”
“Yeah. Now tell me this, kid – I mean Foster: What do you know about fighting?”
“Not much,” owned Myron ruefully. “I saw a couple of fellows at high school fight once, but that’s about all.”
“Never fought yourself?”
Myron shook his head almost apologetically. “No, I never had occasion to.”
Joe snorted. “You mean you never had a chance to find an occasion,” he said derisively. “You were kept tied up to the grand piano in the drawing-room, I guess. Think of a husky guy like you getting to be seventeen years old and never having any fun at all! Gee, it’s criminal! Your folks have got a lot to answer for, Foster, believe me! Here, stand up here and put your fists up and show me what you know – or don’t know.”
Myron obeyed and faced the other awkwardly. Joe groaned.
“Gee, ain’t you the poor fish? Stick that foot out so you can move about. That’s it. Now I’m going to tap you on the shoulder, the left shoulder. Don’t let me!” But Myron did let him, although he thrashed both his arms about fearsomely. “Rotten! Watch me, not my hands. Now look out for your face!”
A minute later Joe dropped his hands, shook his head and leaned dejectedly against a corner of the table. “It’s no use, kiddo, it’s no use! You’ll be the lamb going to the slaughter tomorrow. Ain’t any one ever taken the least interest in your education? What are you going to do when that Eldredge guy comes at you?”
Myron smiled wanly. “I guess I’ll just have to do the best I can,” he said. “Maybe he isn’t much better than I am.”
“Don’t kid yourself. When a guy picks a quarrel the way he did it means he knows a bit. Still, at that – ” Joe stopped and stared thoughtfully at the wall. Then: “What’s his full name?” he asked.
“Paul Eldredge is all I know of it.”
“That’ll do. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Joe picked up his cap and made for the door. “Nothing like knowing what you’re up against,” he said. “Sit tight, Brother, and leave this to me. If I was you I’d do a bit of studying, eh?”
Myron followed the advice. Just at first it was hard to get his mind on lessons, for his thoughts kept recurring to the coming encounter and when they did he squirmed uneasily in his chair and felt a kind of tingling sensation at the end of his spine. On the football field Myron had often taken blows and given them in the excitement of the game. He had had some hard knocks and had seen plenty of rough playing. He couldn’t remember ever having been afraid of an opponent, although he had more than once entered a contest with the knowledge that the enemy was “laying for him.” But, somehow, this was different. What resentment he had felt against Paul Eldredge had passed, and so even the spur of anger was lacking. He would have to stand up there tomorrow morning and be knocked around at Eldredge’s pleasure, it seemed, for no very good reason that he could think of. It was rather silly, when you came to consider it calmly. Eldredge had been rude to him, he had been rude to Eldredge, Eldredge had struck him, he had struck Eldredge. Now when things were nicely evened up he must take a licking! Well, he supposed there was no way out of it short of acting like a coward. He would have to take what was coming to him, getting off as easily as he could, and try to like it! Well, he had taken punishment before and could again. Having reached that conclusion, he managed to get his thoughts back to his studies and was going very well when Joe returned.