IN THE MILKSOP CLASS?
"Good! And I'll hold the stakes!" cried Tom Reade jovially, as
he took light hold of Drake's arm.
"Let Miller at the boy!" howled one of the bystanders. "He'll
show the boy something. The kid is getting big enough to learn,
and he ought to be taught."
"I'll fight Miller, if he has the sand!" proclaimed Dick, who
now had his own reasons for wanting to sting the liquor seller
into action. "I'll fight the bully, but not here in a saloon
yard. There is a vacant lot the other side of the fence. We'll
go in there and see how much of a fighter he is."
More citizens had gathered by this time, and there was every sign
of an intention to stop further trouble. But Dave Darrin sprang
into the crowd, saying, almost in an undertone:
"The respectable men here don't want to try to stop this affair.
A lot of useful manhood depends upon the issue. Don't worry
about my friend, if he does look rather young. He can take care
of himself, all right, and he is calling for a fight that ought
to be fought. You respectable men in the crowd keep still, and
just come along and see fair play---that's all."
Dave's earnest eloquence won over many of the men representing
the better element of the crowd.
"Jove! He's a plucky boy!" cried one man.
"But Miller will pound him to a pulp!"
"Come along, everyone, and see whether rum or water is the best
drink for fighting men!" insisted Tom Reade.
There was a general movement toward the vacant lot. Miller was
muttering angrily, while some of his red-nosed victims were jeering.
In the field Dick took off his hat and coat, then his tie, and
passed them to Dan Dalzell.
"Dave," whispered Prescott, "you stand by as my second, but don't
make any too stiff claims of foul. This will have to be rough
work, from the start."
Miller, already in his shirt sleeves, did not feel that he had
any need of special preparation. Prescott looked altogether too
easy. Not that Miller lacked experience in such matters. In
other years he had been a prize-fighter of minor rank, and had
been considered, in his class, a fairly hard man to beat.
"Now, stand up, boy," ordered the saloon keeper, advancing. "And
take back the crack you passed to me."
"Let's have it," taunted Dick, throwing himself on the defensive.
Miller aimed a vicious blow but did not land. Instead, Prescott
hit him on the short ribs.
"If you're going to fight, stand up and take your medicine!" roared
Miller, in a rage.
"Handle your own foot-work to suit yourself!" Dick retorted.
"I'll do the same. But you can't fight, anyway!"
That taunt threw the liquor seller into a still greater rage.
With a yell he sprang at Prescott. But again Dick failed to
be there.
The high school boy was not having an easy time, however. Miller's
strength was formidable, and Dick knew that he could not stop
many straight blows from his opponent without disaster.
Two merely glancing blows scraped the lad, who had landed four
blows on Miller. The big fellow, however, seemed able to endure
a lot of punishment.
"I didn't come out here to run a race!" Miller insisted, as he
tried hard to corner the boy.
"Then stand still, and I won't hit you so hard!" mocked Prescott,
as he struck the man again on the short ribs.
Then, of a sudden, Prescott hit the earth. He had miscalculated,
and Miller's left fist had landed on his nose.
With a hoarse laugh Miller started to follow up the advantage
with a kick.
"Here! Come back! None of that!" shouted a citizen, throwing
his arms around Miller's neck. "Let the boy get to his feet.
Fight fair or---we'll lynch you when it's over!"
But Dick was up, the blood flowing freely from his nose. Yet
he was hardly less cool as Miller was released and the two again
faced each other.
"Finish him up, Miller, and we'll get back to pleasure!" laughed
one of the drunkards in maudlin glee.
"The boy has no show. This is an outrage!" protested an indignant
citizen. "It ought to be stopped."
As the two sparred Dick suddenly saw his chance to get in under
the powerful guard of his antagonist and landed a hard blow on
his solar plexus.
"Umph!" grunted Miller, as he partly doubled up under the force
of the blow.
That instant was enough for Prescott to drive in a blow that nearly
closed one of the big fellow's eyes.
"Stop this fight!" yelled the same citizen.
"Don't you do it!" warned another. "The boy is taking care of
himself all right. Let him wind the bruiser up."
Now Miller, smarting and fearing accidental defeat, forgot caution
and tried to rush in for a clinch. But this was the kind of attack
that Prescott was skilled in dodging.
Dick gave ground before the furious assault, but he did so purposely.
Back he went, step by step.
"Miller's got him!" cheered the liquor seller's friends.
At last Dick found what he wanted, the opportunity to drive in
again on the big fellow's wind. Miller gave vent to another grunt,
followed by a howl, as he felt a stinging fist land against his
other eye.
Now, Dick had his man blinded, ready for the finish. A high school
fist landed on the side of the big fellow's throat, sending him
to his knees. Dick took but half a step backward as he waited
for the big fellow to get to his feet. The instant that Miller
rose Dick darted in, landing his right fist with all his strength
on the tip of the man's chin.
This time the work was complete. Miller went down. Dick, smiling,
though breathing quickly, stood over his fallen opponent, counting
slowly to ten.
Then, in a moment, those who had favored the boy's side in the
fight realized just what had happened.
Loud cheers arose from the crowd. Tom Drake was one of the first
to dart in and seize young Prescott's right hand briefly before
another man wanted to shake it. Dick was fairly made to run a
gauntlet of handshaking.
Most of Miller's "friends" retreated in sulky bad humor. Three
of the liquor seller's followers, however, picked the big man
up, staggering under his weight, and bore him behind the door
that had closed on more than one man's career.
"What do you think of that, Mr. Drake?" demanded Tom Reade jubilantly.
"Do you put Dick Prescott in the milk-sop class?"