The High School Boys' Training Hike Part 37

"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 d.i.c.k took off his hat and coat, then his tie, and pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 cla.s.s, a fairly hard man to beat.

"Now, stand up, boy," ordered the saloon keeper, advancing. "And take back the crack you pa.s.sed to me."

"Let's have it," taunted d.i.c.k, 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!" d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k failed to be there.

The high school boy was not having an easy time, however. Miller's strength was formidable, and d.i.c.k knew that he could not stop many straight blows from his opponent without disaster.

Two merely glancing blows sc.r.a.ped 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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.

d.i.c.k gave ground before the furious a.s.sault, but he did so purposely.

Back he went, step by step.

"Miller's got him!" cheered the liquor seller's friends.

At last d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k 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. d.i.c.k took but half a step backward as he waited for the big fellow to get to his feet. The instant that Miller rose d.i.c.k 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. d.i.c.k, 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. d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k Prescott in the milk-sop cla.s.s?"

CHAPTER XXI

THE REVENGE TALK AT MILLER'S

"Let's get out of this place," whispered d.i.c.k in Dave's ear as Darry helped him to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

"There, the bleeding has stopped," muttered Dave. "Now, put on your coat and b.u.t.ton it up. Then the blood stains on your s.h.i.+rt won't show."

Tom Drake had very little to say, but he kept close to Prescott.

"Shall we walk down the road a bit, Mr. Drake?" asked d.i.c.k, as soon as he had his coat on.

"I'm in a hurry to get home," nodded the young workman. "I shall know where I belong, after this. No more of Miller's for me!

For that matter," the young man added, with a hearty laugh, "I don't believe Miller would ever let me in his place again. Of course, in his own mind, he will blame me for what happened to-night."