University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
SOME FIGHTING THAT WILL DISGUST
BRUISERS.

One of Towne's comrades in trapping was, as will
be remembered, one Guy Tarleton. This boy, by
some reasoning of his own, had convinced himself that
his party had been “choused out” of the best trapping-ground
by Remsen and Brade's party, and had borne
an undying grudge. He was counted a thick-headed
and rather brutal boy; but, in the opinion of the
School, had a sort of instinctive readiness and skill in
contriving and working against such lesser beasts as
lived in trees, in holes, and in stone fences.

He had been noisy in the few minutes after morning-school,
before dinner, over the suspicion which had
been thrown upon his partners and himself, and proposed
to “make those fellows eat dirt.” His bluster
had had, at that time, little notice taken of it. At
table he had been silenced by the Tutor for loud talking.
After dinner, the pent-up current of his anger
found its way again.

Towne told him that two of the monitors were going
to settle about the rabbit, and went off to some out-door
occupation, leaving him unappeased.

In the few minutes after dinner he had found out
Brade, reading, on one of the stairs, and tried to pick a
quarrel with him, but to no purpose; for Brade told

him, pleasantly, that “he was reading about Franklin
and the icebergs, and wanted to be let alone; that
the monitors' settlement would all be fair, and that
he, himself, would have no quarrel;” and so kept on,
though not quite unruffled, with his book.

Even the words “cowardly” and “mean-spirited,”
uttered near him, disturbed him only long enough to
look up with a contemptuous and impatient smile, and
he was instantly at his book again, only begging Tarleton
to go off.

Of course, boys began to gather, for they could not
have the stairway to themselves; and things went
pretty fast, and a great many words were said in a
short time, as usual in such cases.

There were alert and wary bystanders, as usual.
“Look out!” said one of these, “you'll have old Cornell
after you!”

“No,” said another, of the same sort, “he isn't in:
go ahead!”

So Tarleton went on to say that he wanted satisfaction
from Brade, or Remsen, or Peters, — he did not
care which; he was not going to be called thief for
nothing. And when Brade told him that they had
not called his party thieves, it would have been just as
good to speak to a bull or a bull-dog. He then insisted
that they should say that they were a pack of liars,
and so on, in the usual way of blusterers. “He did not
care which it was, — some of them must give him satisfaction.”

“Remsen and I are the only ones,” said Brade:
“Peters isn't a strong fellow.”

“Then come on,” said Tarleton, “let's have a fair
fight!”

“No,” said Antony, “I've got a particular reason.”

“Oh, yes!” said Tarleton, with the most emphatic
contempt. “Cowards always have.”

“But I have,” said Brade, notwithstanding the
cowardly sound of the words.

“Royal Highness is afraid, and Remsen daresn't, and
Peters is only just strong enough to take a licking,”
said Tarleton, in a triumphant tone.

“There's the bell!” said some one; but, after a moment's
hush, it proved a false alarm.

“Leave out Peters,” said Brade, “and you may come
at me.”

Now the bell struck, and at the same instant a boy
came down the upper stairs, to the first landing, at one
jump, while there was a general stir of the whole group
among whom he came so suddenly, and with such risk
to their limbs.

“Clear the way here, fellows! What's up now?”
said Phil Lamson, who had in this way so abruptly
come down to them; and after shoving the belligerent
Tarleton, and one or two others, up into a corner, he
seized Brade by the shoulders, and, by his own weight
and the force with which he was going, made him run
before him to the school-room door.

At the door Brade escaped from him, and, turning
back, met the little crowd of boys from the stairs, and
called to Tarleton, “Remember! I said I would.”

If a fight with fists be not quite so fearful a thing
to look forward to as the standing up to kill and be
killed with pistols or small swords, there is enough
about the looking forward to make the blood run
faster, and to lay strong hold of the thoughts of a

boy with good feelings. So it must have been with
Brade.

The bell was still ringing, when Remsen made his
appearance, and Brade joined him, and went a little
aside with him, but keeping slowly on, toward the
school-room door.

“Perhaps two of 'em together will be able to do
something!” said Tarleton, sneering, as he went in.

“I've promised to fight Tarleton, and I couldn't help
it. I wish I could have kept out of it, but I couldn't,”
said Brade to his friend.

“Why, he can't whip you, I don't believe, Anty,”
said Remsen.

“But I wanted to be confirmed,” said Antony.

“Oh, well! I don't believe a fight'll stop you, if you
don't kill anybody, or gouge his eye out, or something.
If I had to fight, I'd fight.”

“I used to,” said Antony; “but I wanted to leave
off.”

The bell was silent, as he spoke; and every one hurried
into the school-room, and to his seat, for the half-hour
after dinner.

The Rector of the School, or “Caput,” as the boys
more often called him, coming in, as the bell stopped,
to read out the inflictions, was generally observed of
almost all the young eyes, and was thought by the
boys to represent dignity and scholarship and authority
very well; for though he was, if any thing, rather
short, yet he had thick, curling black hair, and a clear
eye and ruddy cheek, and a good strong voice.

When the lines were read out for that day, as
everybody had been predicting, in the school-phrase,
that “Towne would have to catch it” for breaking

“bounds,” he sat up straight, like a man of mark, before
his name was reached, and exchanged side-glances
with Wilkins and Will Hirsett, who was always at
any one's beck in the school-room. Brade's five lines
for tardiness that morning, being his first, were remitted,
as usual in such a case.

Ten lines were read for Gaston, for disorder in going
to breakfast; and at this Towne nodded his head, emphatically,
to one side, with a smile of much content,
as if clinching that infliction for the trick played upon
him about the Latin for rabbit. Gaston, before he bethought
himself, made a half motion as if to rise and
protest on the spot, and sat looking indignant. Presently,
however, a happy thought seemed to strike him,
and he set himself to writing very fast.

And so the list went on: disorder, tardiness, noise in
dormitory, misbehavior at table, received their awards.
Remsen had his five lines for tardiness. Tarleton
came off clear, this time. Towne got double for breaking
bounds, and, with all his accumulation of lines
before, was in so bad a plight that he now looked quite
chop-fallen. Among his other companions in misery
was Wilkins, as usual; and Wilkins's look was one
combined of surprise and resignation.

Brade's hand went up, but was instantly dropped
again: he looked uncertain.

Gaston's hand was instantly up, after the reading-out
of the lines, and stayed up; and by this time he had a
smile of inward satisfaction on his face. His name was
called, and he stood up with a small paper in his hand,
and asked leave to read a plea for a mitigation of sentence.

“Well!” said the Rector.

“`My offence, as I understand it, sir,'” said Gaston,
reading, “`was giving one of the boys the word pediculus,
which means lou—'” (“No matter what it
means,” said the Rector, “or say `small beast of prey.'”)
“`for cuniculus, which means rabbit. Now, with the
boys, a rabbit and a hare are the same thing; so,
in taking the word pediculus (lous— small prey —)
for hair, I have only used that figure of speech called
Synecdoche, which is `the taking of a part for the
whole.' Most respectfully submitted. Edward Gaston.'”

The Tutor, who had doubtless heard the story of
the morning, began to turn over leaves, and to try to
smooth his face, so that the School began to smile.
When Gaston, being perfectly self-possessed and full
of fun, stopped, very meaningly, at the word “hair,” and
then at “Synecdoche,” little Meadows began to titter;
Thompson Walters, a big boy, to giggle; Hirsett (from
sympathy, of course), to snicker; Brade, however unpleasant
his deeper thoughts might be, could not help
smiling; Blake went down upon his desk in a sort of
convulsion. The Tutor gave way moderately, as Gaston
finished; little Meadows, Walters, Hirsett, Wilkins,
Blake, indiscriminately gave way, and the whole School
presently was in a roar, except Towne, who looked
indignant.

The Rector exchanged a few words with the Tutor,
and then announced that although Gaston had mistaken
a little the ground of his infliction, yet, considering the
ingenuity of his plea, the same figure of speech should
be applied to the penalty, — a part for the whole, —
leaving him two lines instead of ten. At this a great
many congratulatory eyes sought Gaston's, who handsomely

acknowledged the indulgence, and sat down
very radiant with his success.

At this point, Brade had apparently made up his
mind and held up his hand resolutely; his request he
brought up to the ear of the Rector; and it was that,
as Remsen had to work out lines for tardiness, his own
might not be remitted. This was kindly refused.

Tarleton, whose ears were open to what was passing,
fashioned, out of white paper, something which,
from its shape and size, might be taken to be a paper-knife,
or possibly a white feather, and this he set, for
a moment, against his head. It must have been recognized
in the school as a conventional symbol of
something; for Hirsett grinned, and Wilkins, as well as
others, looked intelligently at it during the moment
that it was displayed.

After denying Brade's request, the Rector, by way
of compensation, perhaps, gave him an outlined map
of Cisalpine Gaul to make, while Remsen was working
out his lines. This the boy did not accept so cheerfully
as might have been expected, and, turning a little
slowly away, was just in time to see, as he doubtless
did, Tarleton's contemptuous look, and the knowing
smiles of some others. He blushed most deeply.

The afternoon half-hour went by: the free boys were
dismissed, and the others set about their expiatory
tasks. Brade put himself strongly to his map of Gaul.

Remsen had the once honored but now discredited
old watch on his desk, where many laughed at it; some
of whom, perhaps, had wondered, heretofore.

Meantime, while, in the somewhat restless hush and
awe of the school-room, after school, as in the silent
Lower Places of the old Mythology, tasks were

worked out, and fretful shades sought leave, again and
again, of the grim Ferryman (here it was Tutor Cornell)
to cross the boundary-stream, great things were
doing, out of doors.

As soon as school had been let out, Tarleton had begun
to grumble near the door, because he and his partners
had been accused of stealing another fellow's rabbit.
Remsen and Brade, as we have seen, were both in the
school-room; and, of that party of trappers, the only
free member was the slight and unpractical Alonzo
Peters. This day he was a little late in making his
appearance, being among the last boys to come out;
and there already was Tarleton, in a group of two or
three who had no play or business more urgent than
to stop and listen to him proclaiming his indignation.
Tarleton was a heavy fellow for his size, and not pleasant-looking;
and the expression and ways of dog or
cat, or man, or other beast, provoking fight, do not make
him look better.

Peters came on, with his head in the air, sauntering
and abstracted, and was passing by Tarleton and his
surrounders, without seeing any thing strange in them,
although the by-standers opened out to each side, with
their eyes fastened very meaningly on the unsuspecting
Peters.

“They'll have to give us satisfaction,” Tarleton was
saying. “We ain't to lose our trapping-ground, and
then be called a thief for nothing.”

Saying this, he walked away to one of the heaps of
autumn-leaves swept up to be carried away, and kicked
it asunder.

“Here's Peters!” said one of the by-standers. “He's
one of 'em, but you don't want” —

“Peters ain't any thing!” said Tarleton, contemptuously.
“He wouldn't dare to say his hat was his own;”
and he looked at him with scorn.

This free use of his name attracted the attention of
the abstracted boy, and he stopped. “Why ain't I any
thing, Tarleton?” he asked, in a tone very far from
warlike, — indeed, in a deprecating and aggrieved
voice.

“You're no fellow to stand up for yourself: if a toad
jumped up at you, you'd go over,” said Tarleton to the
admirer of the institution of chivalry.

“Well, I don't like toads,” said Peters, taking this
for a serious accusation, whether it had been so intended
or not, and half confessing, while excusing it.
While he spoke, he resorted to the same pile of leaves,
and spread them asunder with his foot.

“Oh, well! I mean you're a coward. There's no
use talking to you,” said Tarleton.

“No, I ain't a coward,” said Peters, holding himself
up as awkwardly and absurdly as a dromedary or a
giraffe. The boys, who were looking on, laughed.

“I don't believe you'd strike a baby back,” said
Tarleton.

“No, that's just what I wouldn't do,” said Peters.
He was looking very pale, poor fellow! and yet it's
only for his sake, and certainly not for Tarleton's sake,
or for our own pleasure, that we write this part of our
story. “And I don't approve of bringing people all
up, because one says another's wrong: it isn't the right
way. But who's done any thing to you, I should like
to know?”

“I don't like to be called thief, just at this present
moment,” said Tarleton, walking up to him, with his

two fists down at his sides, like fighters in drawings,
and very likely in real life.

“I didn't call you a thief,” said Peters, drawing backward.

It must be said, for the witnesses of the scene, that
they did nothing to help on a fight, or, as it would most
likely prove, a flogging for poor Peters.

“A pretty fellow you are, to be talking about knights,
when they were fighting all the time, and you daresn't
strike your shadow!” said Tarleton, as scornfully as
Goliath of Gath.

“I don't want to be swollen up, and all black and
blue,” answered Peters. “What good does that do?
You know very well it'll all be settled right; and nobody's
hurting you at all.”

“That's the way you like it!” said Tarleton. “You'd
better go, and send somebody else. Brade's showing a
pretty big white feather: a little piece of it'll do for
you.”

“I ain't a bit more afraid'n anybody else, and everybody
knows Brade isn't a coward,” said the pale, awkward
fellow: “but I don't see what good fighting'll
do.”

“Some of you have got to take back about our being
thieves, or else you'll all have to stand up to it. You'd
better leave it to somebody else, that ain't a coward,”
said Tarleton.

“Oh, no!” said Peters, as pale as possible, and with a
dampness on his forehead: “if anybody's got to do it,
I may as well as anybody. I'd rather do it than get
out of the way, and leave it for anybody, as if I was a
coward.” The boy, judged by his looks and voice,
seemed not very far from tears; but his speech was as

stout as if he were master of all arts of attack and
defence, and ready to use them the next moment.

“Well, what you've got to do is just to say you
know we didn't steal your rabbit, and you fellows lied;”
said Tarleton, laying down pretty hard terms.

This, of course, Peters, though pale as a sheet, refused.
Judged by the sight, Alonzo Peters might have
been thought a flimsy fellow; and here he was, a sort
of champion for two others.

“Well, come on then!” said Tarleton, setting off up
the hill.

Peters went silently along; and the boys, who had
already given their time to listen to the preliminary
discussion in words, showed great alacrity in giving
more of it to the final discussion now proposed with fists.

“Old Wilson will find you out, and you'll have `The
Cap' down on you,” said one of these attendants, consolingly,
while he walked.

The two principals (if our flimsily-made and almost
feeble-looking friend, Alonzo Peters, could be called a
principal) went on in silence, Peters a little behind,
but now and then, with his quick, uneven steps, getting
on close to Tarleton, and then falling back. Neither
Brade nor Remsen appeared, and Peters must meet
the occasion.

The accompanying boys, leaving the two others to
keep silence, if they would, talked pretty freely.

“'Tain't fair, anyhow, Wadham,” said one, whom the
reader will recognize by his mouth and ears as Hirsett.
“Tarleton's twice as big as Peters any day,” — a statement
not literally true, if one judged by the eye, for
Peters was the taller, though the other might a good
deal outweigh him.

“But didn't old Pete stick up for himself? I tell
you!” said Wadham, in a sentence of mixed construction.
“Who'd ever ha' thought it was in him?”

Certainly the ungainly and almost shambling admirer
of knights and their doings seemed a very poor
match for the closely-knit, square-built fellow, who was
leading the way to a convenient field of battle. Moreover,
while they were speaking, Peters might have been
heard saying, “I don't see what good there is in banging
and beating!”

There was a large oak standing not far behind the
gymnasium, spreading over a broad stretch of what in
summer was greensward, and was now brown sod, — a
favorite lounging-place for the boys during all the time
of out-door games. Under this stalwart tree was room
enough for all the clothing stripped off for base-ball;
and in any bright day of colder weather, when the
ground at its foot was fit, it has been still a favorite
resort for its summer friends, because it haughtily holds
fast its strong leaves against the fury of all winter
winds, both damp and dry, and looks like a great
shelter, when of its weaker neighbors Dante's simple
story has come true, —

Most boys care little for natural objects, which only
stand still, and can do nothing for them. This tree
was nearer than common trees to the Bartholomeans.

“Old Quercus” the boys affectionately called it, out of
their books; and, of course, soon, if not from the outset,
gave to its surname a twist into English pronunciation,
which made two short words of it, and which led
Jake Moody to say that “he'd heard himself called a
`queer cuss' a hundred times; but he didn't know what
these boys wanted to go and call that tree so for.”
Near this fine old forest tree was a little group of three
or four evergreens, and straight on toward this Tarleton
strode, without stopping and without further speech.
He threw off, hastily, his jacket under the tree, as he
passed, and went straight on, till he got the little clump
of evergreens between him and the West Road, from
which, though at a little distance, there was nothing
else to hide him.

“Now,” said he, “if the fellow's got the heart of
a mouse as big as your thumb, let him show it! I'm
ready for him.”

Peters was not yet ready; for he fumbled at the buttons
of his jacket, and tried, more than once, to get it
off before it was unbuttoned.

“I don't suppose I have got one,” he answered to his
adversary's challenge; “but I guess I've got the heart
of a boy, as I ought to have.”

“I tell you what,” said Wadham, “that chap's got
grit in him! — Don't get flurried, Peters! Let me help
you;” and he began to unbutton Peters's jacket for
him, as the boy's own fingers found it hard to do.

“I don't want to fight a bit,” said this self-offering
champion; “and I don't see any good in it: but I ain't
a coward, — he'll find that out. I won't run away, and
let others take it;” and he half sobbed as he spoke,
while Tarleton seemed as steady as the old tree itself.

“Now,” said Peters, moving up, as soon as he was
rid of his coat, to the other, who was waiting for him,
“what do you want to fight for?”

“Oh! I don't,” said Tarleton, in answer to this last
appeal, “I only just want to box a baby's ears;” and
he gave Peters a very solid slap on the side of the head
as he spoke.

Peters staggered, but came back again, facing his
antagonist. “Don't do that again!” he said; but
without making any assault, or even putting himself
in a posture of defence.

Meantime, neither Brade nor Remsen nor any one
else came near.

“No, I won't do that again,” said the self-possessed
Tarleton. “I'll try this;” and he struck him on the other
side of the head a heavy blow, which sent the victim
staggering in the other direction.

“I told you not to do that!” sobbed Peters, recovering
himself, and coming back face to face with the
fighter. Then, suddenly straightening himself and
throwing back his head, he followed his instinct,
rushed forward, and, instead of striking loose, wild
blows, flung his long arms round the other boy, who
was acting without the least caution and was not at all
prepared for any such movement. Immediately, the
long arms being locked behind Tarleton's back, held
him, like the hug of a cuttle-fish, just above the elbow,
so that he could not lift a hand.

Tarleton, thus unexpectedly seized, made a sudden
and violent effort to break out of it, but, tripping backwards
as he did so, fell to the ground, with Peters on
top of him. The on-lookers ran up.

“Don't touch 'em!” cried Wadham, — an injunction

which neither of the others seemed inclined to violate.
“Old Peters will take care of himself.”

On the ground the fighter struggled fiercely; but
the long arms held him fast. “Keep still, now, — you'd
better!” said Peters.

“This ain't fighting!” cried Tarleton, from below.

“Why ain't it? It's my way of fighting,” answered
Peters, whose hands and arms, between the ground and
the other's body, must have been hurt in the struggle.
“You fought your way, and I fought my way. I showed
you I wasn't afraid.”

“You daresn't face me!” said Tarleton. “Let me up!”

Alonzo Peters, however, seemed to know what he
was about, and answered with spirit, —

“No, I won't! I won't let go till my arms come off.
I'm facing you now;” and he set his teeth together,
and held on with new strength. The other, being thus
grappled, grew more and more indignant and furious
to no purpose; and it may be supposed that, all this
time, his hair was tangling with dirt and grass and
chips, and his neck sharing in the discomfort.

“You shall get up when you promise to let us alone,”
said the upper one, who, if he could only keep his place
and keep the other down, was, to all intents, conqueror,
and could dictate his own terms.

Of the three partners, it was Peters who was champion.

Whether Tarleton's writhings might not, by and by,
have changed the condition of things, and brought him
to the top, is a question; but just now there seemed
little chance of this, for Peters, with his teeth set, was
exerting more will than strength of muscle, so long as
he could keep his wits about him. So far, although the

two had worked themselves about on the ground a good
deal, and had ruffled the grass and disordered their own
clothing, it seemed to have been done chiefly at Tarleton's
cost; and, so closely had his grappler clung to
him, that he was still bound as fast as ever, and was
still as flat on the ground.

At this moment one of the by-standers raised the cry,
“There's the Cap!” and all but the two combatants
scattered hastily.

“Let me up, you coward!” cried Tarleton. “You
want me to be caught,” — speaking of himself as if he
were the only one concerned, as, in his own eyes, perhaps,
he was.

Peters saw things differently.

“I shall be caught myself, shan't I?” he said.
“You take that back, and promise not to insult us,
nor meddle with us, and I'll do it.”

Many an abusive and many a sulky answer came
from Tarleton first, and one promise ending in “but —”
At length, as solid steps were heard approaching, the
promise was given as the conquering Peters dictated
it, and with no reservation. Now Peters relaxed his
hold, and the two got up.

“I'm your witness, Peters,” said a strong, young
voice; and Russell, the monitor, appeared, ruddy and
tall and muscular.

“The Caput sent me up,” he said. “He saw you two
fellows.”

Russell then quietly helped the two to right themselves,
ridding Tarleton's hair of some of its gatherings
from the ground, and smoothing Peters. Beginnings
of angry words he cut off short.

The conflict was over; and the chief bodily harm

had been done to Peters, both of whose cheeks were
swollen, and whose hands were a good deal scratched.

Meanwhile the late on-lookers, scattered just as the
contest was very near its end, must have spread abroad
their reports of it as they fled; for now, finding that
only Russell, a monitor, and not the Rector, had gone
to the scene of the battle, a good many boys — some at
full speed — were making the best of their way to the
spot.

Will Hirsett and Dover, with others, were walking
over the scene of the encounter. Not yet were Towne
and Wilkins, free from their imprisonment in the school-room,
to be found in this gathering, in which they had
a nearer interest than most others; nor were Remsen
and Brade to be seen. Will Hirsett and Dover were
scrutinizing the ground.

“Here's where old Tarleton tipped right over backwards,”
said Hirsett, beginning to do the honors of the
place and share his better knowledge with the less fortunate;
“and, I tell you, if old Peters didn't hang on to
him!” he continued, in that style of mixed construction
in which boys surpass all their examples in the classics.
“Look how they scraped the grass up! didn't they?”

“What was it about?” asked Meadows, who brought
to the field the curiosity which animated Old Caspar's
little grandchild Wilhelmine about the great Battle of
Blenheim.

“Why, you know,” said the young historian of Quercus-fight,
“Remsen and Brade and old Peters said they
lost their rabbit, and Tarleton wanted to fight somebody
for calling him a thief; and so Peters wouldn't back
out, and he took it for all three of 'em; an' he got old
Tarleton down” —

“Which beat?” “Which beat?” asked several eager
voices. “Yes, which beat?” repeated Meadows, smoothing
over with his foot some of the ruffled grass, and
having his eyes fixed on the two combatants, while he
spoke to Hirsett. “Did Peters give in?”

“No! I didn't,” answered the undaunted champion
for himself; “ask Russell.”

“He was on top when I came,” answered Russell,
giving the fact in the form least offensive to the other
party.

“Oh, well! it wasn't a fair fight: I tripped up,” said
Tarleton.

“Peters got the best of it, that time,” said Russell;
and Peters's queer eyes proudly sought the recognition
of the cluster of boys who surrounded them.

“It was only chance that I went down. I could
flog him, any day: he daresn't try it over again,” said
the warlike and unsatisfied Tarleton.

“I never wanted to fight,” said Peters, as honestly
as before; “but I wa'n't afraid of being whipped, — you
found that out. I didn't wait for Remsen and Brade.”

“Hooray for old Peters!” cried Wadham. “The
prince of fire-eaters,” added Meadows, who, as the reader
already knows, had a studious and literary turn, and
had doubtless read The Poets. Then the mixed multitude
(half a dozen or so of the younger-form-boys)
took up the completed couplet, in chorus, half-laughing:
—

And the whole company began to follow from the field
the two late combatants, who were walking away, each
by himself, but both keeping in company with Russell.

As the unwelcome song of triumph rose from the
boys behind, and urged its quick waves of sound into
the ears of the one whom it did not honor, he took it
hardly, and repeated his indirect challenge to a renewal
of the fight. This time the Monitor took it up.

“Look here, Tarleton!” he said: “we've had enough
of fighting. It isn't the way of this School: it isn't
Christian. If a fellow's got any wrong, it's easy to get
it made right without going to fisticuffs about it. Every
fellow, except you, has agreed to leave that about the
hare or rabbit to two, to find out all about it, and
we've been down already seeing to it. What's anybody
going to find out, any way, by fighting about a thing?”
he concluded.

Tarleton, without answering, turned as if he had forgotten
something, and went back.