“Oh, please, I can’t,” replied Harvey. “I’m in a hurry. I—I will next time.” “I said now!” exclaimed North putting out a hand, and catching the small chap roughly by the shoulder. “_Now_, do you hear! Not next week, but _now_. What’s getting into you fellows from the prep, anyhow? Take that bat!” and the bully brought it down with considerable force on Harvey’s shoulder. The little lad gave a cry of pain, and started to run, breaking from North’s hold. With a coarse expression the larger student threw his heavy glove at the little boy, catching him on the back of the head. Then, with a quick jump North was at his side again, and had the little fellow’s arm in a cruel grip. “Try to run away from me; will you?” he demanded. “I’ll show you that it won’t do to fool with me—you prep. kids are getting too fresh. Now you get down on your knees and beg my pardon, and then take my glove and bat, and Mersfeld’s bat too.” “Oh, North—” began the pitcher, who was a fairly decent chap. “Let me manage him,” exclaimed the bully. “These kids have to be taught their place. Get down on your bones, now!” He seized the frail lad’s hands in his strong ones, and bent them over backward. “Oh, Mr. North! Please don’t. I—I won’t do it again! I’ll carry the bat! Oh, you’re breaking my hands!” He cried out in agony, and Mersfeld took a step forward half intending to interfere. But he did not get the chance. Some one with blazing eyes leaped from behind the clump of bushes and confronted the bully. A clenched fist was drawn back, and then shot forward. Right on the point of North’s aristocratic chin it landed with a sound that could be heard for some distance. Backward the bully was hurled, almost turning over, and then he slumped down on the grass. He stayed there for several seconds, and then got up slowly. “Who—who did that?” he asked thickly, for he was a bit dazed. “I did,” answered Cap Smith quietly, “and if you want any additional just try some more of your bullying tactics on boys smaller than yourself.” North staggered to his feet, and rushed at Cap. “Not here! Not now!” cried Mersfeld, throwing himself in front of his crony. “Meet him later! There’ll have to be a fight, of course?” and the pitcher looked at Cap. “Of course,” was the grave answer. “All right. I’ll see one of your friends,” for these matters were rather scientifically arranged at Westfield, on certain occasions. “See Bill or Pete,” answered Cap, as he turned aside and strolled up the campus. CHAPTER XXIII THE FIGHT “Time!” It was the call of the watch-holder, and, as he spoke the word, two scantily clad figures leaped toward each other. “Take him easy now, Cap!” cautioned Bill to his larger brother. “Go in and finish him!” advised Mersfeld to North, for whom he was acting as second. Merton was keeping time, and Ward, the other Senior who had been the unbidden guest at the little spread was referee.