“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.