“How dare you say such things? You—you coward.”
“Well, I ain’t coward enough to steal a girl’s jewels and then––”
“Hold on there, Fanning. Stop right there.”
It was Jimsy’s turn. But Fanning was too much worked up in his vindictive anger to stop.
“I won’t stop,” he shouted. “I’ll say it right out. Roy Prescott is a––”
But before he could utter another word Jimsy’s fist had shot out, and Fanning’s chin happening to be in the way he felt himself suddenly propelled off his feet and elevated into the air. He sought to recover his balance as he reeled, but his foot caught in a bit of turf, and whirling his arms about like one of those figures on the top of a barn he measured his length.
“Had enough?” asked Jimsy mildly, rolling up his sleeves.
“No, you despicable young whelp!” roared Fanning, utterly throwing aside all prudence. “I haven’t.”
He leaped to his feet and rushed toward Jimsy. As he did so Jess gave a shriek. In the angry, half-crazed youth’s hand there glistened a long clasp knife.
“Jimsy! Look out!” cried the girl.