It was Blackie Dawson who spoke at last. “I take it, Jack,” he spoke slowly, “you are insinuating that these boys took the fox from your trap. Let me tell you, old man, that sort of thing calls for a fight; in the north it does.”
Jack made no reply, but Johnny did.
“I’m sorry,” he said, speaking slowly. “It doesn’t mean a fight to me.”
“You won’t fight?” Blackie stared at him.
“Not to settle a personal grudge,” Johnny replied slowly. “If Jack wants to think we took the fox from his trap, that’s his privilege. If he would like to examine the fox that’s his privilege also. But I’m not going to beat him up just to make him take back something he’s said. That might seem to be a point of honor but we all have our own codes of honor. It may seem queer but I’d rather take an insult than give someone a beating.”
“Take a beating you mean,” Jack sneered. He was nearly twice Johnny’s size.
“Joe,” said Johnny, turning to the store-keeper, “you told me you got two pairs of boxing gloves through the mail.”
“Sure, Johnny, I did. Here they are.” Reaching behind him the store-keeper drew out two pairs of gloves.
“Put ’em on, Johnny,” Blackie encouraged.
“Put ’em on! Put ’em on!” came from all over the room. There was a stir of expectancy in the air.