Dave's earnest eloquence won over many of the men representing the better element of the crowd.
"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 Dick took off his hat and coat, then his tie, and passed 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 shirt 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 class, a fairly hard man to beat.
"Now, stand up, boy," ordered the saloon keeper, advancing. "And take back the crack you passed to me."
"Let's have it," taunted Dick, throwing himself on the defensive.