Although it was generally known that Davis was a peaceful sort of a fellow, who would not get into trouble if he could avoid it, still all expected he would show resentment at this open insult.
Bascomb stood with an insolent sneer on his face, waiting. As Davis made no move, he broke into a short laugh.
"There's courage for you, gentlemen!" he said, scornfully. "Why, the fellow hasn't as much spirit as a dead mouse!"
Frank was about to speak, when Davis slowly rose to his feet.
"I suppose I am expected to fight in a case like this," he said, his voice shaking.
Some of the cadets who were always eager to see a fight of any sort, no matter how unevenly the antagonists might be matched, quickly said:
"That's right. You must fight."
"I have never done such a thing in my life," declared Davis; "but I do feel like it now. You have laughed at me because I promised my mother that I would not lie, and I will give you a chance to laugh again. I promised her I would not fight, and I shall keep my word."
"Baby boy!"
"Mamma's petsie!"
"Softie!"
These terms of derision came from several sources, and Frank was swift to note every one.
Bascomb laughed again.
"You are altogether too good to live, Baby!" he said. "You make me sick!"
Frank had kept quiet as long as was possible. He saw that Davis did not mean to fight, and he made a resolve to save the plebe if possible by taking up his quarrel.
With two swift steps Merriwell confronted Bascomb.
"Sir," he said, speaking rapidly, and in a low tone, "I have been a witness to this entire affair."
"Well?" sneered the big yearling.
"I want to say that I think Davis perfectly right in refusing to fight you. You are larger and older than he is, you have nearly, if not quite, twice as much strength as he has, and your reputation is that of a slugger. He would not stand a show with you, and you know it, for which reason you have seemed to select him as an object of your bullying attentions."
Frank looked Bascomb straight in the eye, and the big fellow's face grew black with anger.
"What do you want?" he muttered.
"I want to tell you what I think of you, and I am going to do so. Davis has been reared like a gentleman, and it is but natural that he should recoil from contact with such as you."
"Do you mean to say I am no gentleman?"
"That is exactly what I mean to say, sir. No gentleman ever plays the bully, as you have done."
Bascomb made a move, as if he would do something desperate, and, on the instant, two of his particular friends caught hold of him, saying hastily:
"Not now, old man—not here! It would spoil everything."
Now Bascomb was not longing for a fight with Merriwell, and he would gladly have done something to cause the officers to interfere; but, to his regret, he saw that he had been too slow about it. So he sullenly muttered:
"All right, fellows; I won't smash him here."
"But you'll meet him later—you'll have to," eagerly said Rupert Reynolds, a fellow who made a pretension of being "sporty," and who was a great admirer of gamecocks and prize-fighters, for which reason he had grown very friendly with the slugger of the academy. "This affair must be settled in the regular manner."
"I didn't suppose I'd have to fight the whole academy," came sulkily from the bully. "If every sneak in school had somebody to step in and fight his battles, things would soon undergo a change."
As he said this, he cast a contemptuous glance at Davis, who was looking on, in a helpless way.
"You may fight or not, as you like," said Frank, serenely. "But you know what I think of a bully who is too cowardly to tackle a fellow he fears may be his match."
And then, unmindful that Bascomb made another move and was held back by his friends, Frank turned his back and walked round the table to Davis.
"Come," he said, "we will go."
There was a murmur of applause when he turned away, with Davis at his side.
Still Frank knew very well that he had taken an unpopular stand by espousing the cause of a plebe who did not seem to have nerve enough to stand up for his own rights, and he was breaking all precedent and traditions by a show of friendliness for his own fag.
However, Frank was a lad who firmly believed in standing by the right, no matter whether the cause were popular or not, and his sympathy was invariably with "the under dog in the fight." He could not bear to see the weak oppressed by the strong.
His generous heart had gone out to the lad who had been so tenderly and delicately reared, and who declined to lie or fight because he had promised his mother he would not do such things. Somehow Davis did not seem at all like a "sissy-boy" to Merriwell, who believed the plebe had a great deal of moral courage, if he were not physically brave. And Frank had come to believe that moral courage is a higher qualification than physical courage.
In this world there are two classes of heroes, and one class is likely to be grievously misunderstood. First comes the physical hero, the fellow who defiantly faces dangers that are sufficient to turn to ice the blood of another, and yet may succumb to some simple temptation that he knows will lead him into wrongdoing.
Then comes the moral hero, who resists the strongest temptations to do wrong, who fights and conquers in many a silent battle with his passions and desires, who bravely faces ridicule and scorn because he is confident that he is doing right, yet who quails, cowers, trembles, and flees in the face of physical danger.
Who will say which is the greater hero?
As soon as they were in the open air, Davis turned to Merriwell, his voice shaking, as he said:
"You must not fight with that fellow on my account."
"Why not?" asked Frank.
"Because you must not. It would not be right. He is big and strong——"
"But I am not afraid of him."
"That may be true, and still it is not right for you to fight in my place. That will not help me any. I can see that I will not be thought any better of if you fight in my place. You must not fight him!"
Fred was very agitated and excited.
"The matter rests entirely with Bascomb now," said Frank, calmly. "I have expressed my opinion of him in public, and I shall be forced to back up my words if he challenges me."
CHAPTER XLI.
BIRDS OF A FEATHER.
Reynolds and Bascomb came from dinner arm in arm.
"Your time has come to knock out this fellow Merriwell, Hugh," declared the big fellow's sporty companion. "You'll have to do it."
"It looks that way," admitted Bascomb, but there was something ludicrously dubious in both his face and voice.
"Looks that way!" exclaimed Rupert, in a fiery manner. "Of course it looks that way. There's nothing else to be done, and I should think you'd be well satisfied with the opportunity."
"But I am not sure I can do it," confessed the bully, hesitatingly.
"Do it! Why, you ought to do it with one hand tied behind your back."
But Bascomb was not so easily reassured.
"I have boxed with him," said the big fellow, "and I know he