"Sure thing," jokingly remarked one of the lads at length, "take him on, Pete, and break him in two. We'll see fair play!"
"Is it a go?" asked Jimmie, unbuttoning his jacket.
"Why, kid," warned the one addressed as Pete, "you better run home and tell your mother to wipe your nose. This ain't no place for a nice little boy like you. You'll get stepped on!"
"You're not able to do that!" flashed back Jimmie, paling with anger. "Your feet are big, but not big enough!"
"Now, don't get personal, or I'll have to hurt you!"
Jimmie's jacket and hat were on the ground. He stood erect, keeping a watchful eye on the group gathering more closely.
"Come on, now," he offered, "I'm giving you a fair chance. If you fellows want to be square and right, pick out one of your gang, and if I lick him, we win. If not, you are welcome to the town. This trouble has got to stop some time, and it might as well be now!"
"You guys started it, anyhow!" declared Pete, with an air of injured innocence. "We ain't done nothin' to you!"
"You don't call throwing milk bottles into the road to cut our tires anything, then? Maybe you don't call it anything to throw a bat into my machine or to shoot at us?" queried Jimmie.
"Aw, go on!" sneered Pete, loftily. "You're too little!"