“Strike me, will you?” flashed Don, throwing himself on guard.

George Melville, aghast at Jack’s presumption in attacking his son, now stepped back, satisfied that Don must avenge the insult.

A dozen boys, talking over baseball nearly a block away, saw the start of this encounter.

“Fight! fight!” they yelled, gleefully, and raced down the street.

The cries readied the private office in the boatyard.  Suspecting, partly, what might be up, Jacob Farnum snatched his hat, running out.  David Pollard followed.

“You young puppy!” almost screamed.  “I’ll teach you a lesson that you need.”

“I’m usually particular about where I get my training,” retorted Jack Benson, insulted and stung past his power to endure.

Yet Captain Jack did not attempt to follow up that first blow.  Throwing himself into the attitude of defense, he waited.

Don Melville did not keep him long waiting, but rushed at the shorter youth, intent on sending him to earth.

“Hit him like a gentleman, Don!” called his father.

Whatever way that might be, Don Melville struck out, his blood at the white heat of rage.  With such force did he aim the blow that, when nimble Captain Jack failed to be in the way to stop it, Don pitched forward, falling to his knees.

“Hooray!” yelled some of the on looking boys, derisively.

Jack halted before his foe, smiling at him quietly.

“Know any more stunning tricks like that one?” Benson inquired.

“I’ll show you!” panted Don, leaping up.  As he did so, he caught sight of the smiling faces of Messrs. Farnum and Pollard, strolling up from the boatyard gateway.

As he faced the smiling submarine boy, young Melville was quick to realize that he must cool down if he did not want to become a laughing stock for the street crowd that was swiftly forming.  Half a dozen workmen employed in the yard had climbed up onto the fence.

“Mind you,” said Jack, coolly, “I don’t want to hurt you.  You started this, Melville.”

The sheer coolness of this speech once more carried Don Melville out of the bounds of reason.  On the “gym” floor Don had studied the art of boxing well, but he had not learned all he needed to know about coolness.

“You young hound!” he snapped.

“You said something like that before,” Jack laughed.  “Is that all you can do?  I feel as though I were wasting my time.”

“Do you?” mocked Don.  “Take that, then!”

This time he leaped forward, feinting with his left hand.  But Jack was not to be caught like that.  Instead, he parried against the real blow delivered with Don’s right fist.  The force of the parry threw Don to his left.  Just at that instant Benson passed behind his opponent, landing a stinging blow on the other’s neck.  Down flat to the ground went the Melville heir, hitting his nose roughly and starting the blood.