“I would; I’d do it. And if he gives you any of his impudence, slap his face for him. You’ve got a right to; he’s no better than you are, out of ranks. He deserves a good thrashing, anyway, and I’d like to see him get it.” They were crossing the hall now, toward Brightly. Belcher was working himself into an appropriate frame of mind for the attack on his intended victim. “Give it to him, Belch!” urged Brede again, in a whisper; “give it to him! I’ll stand by you. I’ll see you through it.” Thus encouraged, Belcher loosed his hold on the captain’s arm and walked directly up to Brightly, while Brede, standing at a little distance from them, looked on with a cruel light in his gray eyes and a cruel smile on his thin lips. He did not care so much that Belcher should be protected as he did that Brightly should be punished. He was shrewd and unscrupulous; he was proud and boastful. By his craft he had gained standing in his studies; by his self-laudation he had gained a following in the school. But Brightly had seen through him, had measured him, had disliked him from the start. Brede knew it, and it angered him. He employed every means in his power to hurt Brightly without incurring the risk of a personal encounter. His triumph when he obtained the ranking cadet-office was great but short-lived. Brightly ignored him and snubbed him more after that than he ever had before, and this engendered hate in his heart. He longed to see this fellow humbled, subdued, punished, degraded. This was why he was urging Belcher on. He knew that Belcher would probably get worsted in an encounter; he did not care for that if only Brightly were disgraced. Belcher stepped before the adjutant in a threatening attitude, with his hands clinched at his side. “I want to know,” he said, “what right you had to insult me in the ranks to-day, and to strike me with your sword?” Brightly folded his arms, and looked coolly at his antagonist. “I do not,” he replied, “explain my conduct as an officer to a private in the ranks.” “Your conduct as a bully!” exclaimed Belcher. “An officer who is a gentleman wouldn’t be guilty of doing what you did to-day. You were given the office of adjutant because it was a place where you could do the least mischief, and you wouldn’t have got that if your mother hadn’t come here and begged it for you. You got it out of pity.” Brightly’s eyes began to flash, but his arms still remained folded. “That’s a lie,” he said deliberately. Already a crowd had gathered around the two boys. Some had heard Belcher’s loud words, others had scented the trouble from afar. They swarmed to the scene of conflict, as boys always do, like honey-bees to a field of clover. They were pressing in wildly toward the two disputants. They had expected a quarrel between them, and now it was on. They were bound to see and hear the whole of it. Belcher had worked himself into a white heat.