“Whut you goin' to do about it?” asked Allaphair, secretly thrilled. To her surprise the little man seemed neither worried nor frightened.
“Nothing,” he said, adding the final g with irritating precision; “but I have never backed out of a fight in my life.” Allaphair could hardly hold back a hoot of contempt.
“Why, he'll break you to pieces with his hands.”
“Perhaps—if he gets hold of me.” The girl almost shrieked.
“You hain't going to run?”
“I'm not going to run; it's no disgrace to get licked.”
“But if he crows over ye atterwards—whut'll you do then?”
The teacher made no answer, nor did he answer Jay's message. He merely went his way, which was neither to avoid nor seek; so Jay sought him. Allaphair saw him the next Friday afternoon, waiting by the roadside—waiting, no doubt, for Ira Combs. Her first impulse was to cross over the spur and warn the teacher, but curiosity as to just what the little man would do got the better of her, and she slipped aside into the bushes and crept noiselessly to a spot whence she could peer out and see and hear all that might happen. Soon she saw the school-teacher coming, as was his wont, leisurely, looking at the ground at his feet and with his hands clasped behind his back. He did not see the threatening figure waiting until Jay rose.
“Stop thar, little Iry,” he sneered, and he whipped out his revolver and fired. The girl nearly screamed, but the bullet cut into the dust near Ira's right foot.
“Yuh danced purty well t'other night, an' I want to see ye dance some more by yo'self. Git at it!” He raised his gun again and the school-teacher raised one hand. He had grown very red and as suddenly very pale, but he did not look frightened.