He had thought seriously over this very matter, after being warned that he might sooner or later have trouble with Jim; and as a result his decision was already formed.
When Jim Dilks saw him deliberately taking off his jacket he stared, with a new sensation beginning to make its presence felt around the region of his heart—the element of uncertainty, even fear.
"Wot yer doin' that fur?" he demanded, shaking his head after the manner of a pugnacious rooster about to enter into combat for the mastery of the barnyard.
"Why, you said you were going to lick me, and as this is a very good coat Mrs. Peake gave me, one that used to belong to her boy, Joe, I thought she might feel bad if she saw it dusty or torn," replied Darry, solemnly.
"Say, you bean't goin' ter fight, be yer?" gasped Jim, hardly able to believe his senses, the shock was so great.
"Why, you said I had to. I don't want to fight a bit, but I always obey orders, you see, and you told me I must or leave Ashley. Now, I don't mean to go away, so I suppose I must do the other thing. But I hate to hurt anyone."
"Hey? You hurt me? Don't worry about thet, cub. I reckon I kin wipe up the ground with a feller o' yer build. So yer won't run, eh? Then all I kin say is yer got to take yer medicine, see?"
Naturally, Jim knew next to nothing about the science of boxing, for he had always depended upon his brute strength to pull him through, backed by his really ferocious appearance, when he assumed his "fighting face," as he was proudly wont to term it.
On the other hand Darry had often boxed during the dog watch, with some of the sailors aboard the old brigantine, and since there were several among the crew who prided themselves on a knowledge of fisticuffs, he imbibed more or less of skill in the dexterity shown in both self defense and aggressive tactics.
At the same time Darry had seldom been called upon to utilize this knowledge, for he was of a peaceful nature, and would shun a fight if it could be done in honor.