Miller aimed a vicious, open-hand blow at young Prescott’s face.  It didn’t land, but, instead, Dick’s right hand went up smack! against the fellow’s cheek.

“Hang your impudence!” roared Miller, angrily.  “I’ll pay you for that!  I’ll teach you!”

He made a rush at Dick, but two men who had been attracted by the commotion jumped in between them.

“Hold on, Miller!” objected one of these passers-by.  “You can’t pummel a boy!”

“I’ll make him howl for hitting me!” roared Miller, doubling his big, powerful fists.  “Get out of my way, or I’ll run over you!”

“Get out of his way, please!” cried Dick suddenly.  “Let Miller at me, if he wants.  I’m willing to fight him.  I’ll fight him for Tom Drake’s right to be a man!”

CHAPTER XX

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.