As Old Dut spoke he "shucked" his own coat, tossing it to the curb.
"Wait, Mr. Jones, and we'll get a policeman," urged Dick.
"Wait and see how badly I'm going to need one," returned the schoolmaster.
"This affair is none of your business," growled Mr. Fits.
"Yes, it is!" insisted the principal of Central Grammar. "You were going to attack two of my boys. If you'll go along peaceably to the police station with me, then I'll let you off from a thrashing. But don't try to run away, for I warn you that I've kept up fairly well the sprinting of my old college days."
"I won't go with you, and I won't run," uttered Mr. Fits defiantly.
"Then get off your coat, for I'm going to start in," Old Dut warned the wretch.
Something in the schoolmaster's eye and voice told Fits that he would do well to get himself in trim at once. Off came his hat and coat.
"Look out, you ferrule-tosser!" jeered Mr. Fits, and led off with one fist after the other.
It had often been remarked, in undertones by Grammar School boys, that Old Dut was fine at thrashing boys, but that it would be different if he had a man of his own size to tackle.