“Well, there’s seve-re-al things you could do. You might work the plug-ugly over. It couldn’t hurt his looks none, an’ it might improve ’em. That’s one suggestion. I’ve got others where that come from.”
“He’s a bad actor. I expect he’d half kill me,” Bob muttered.
“I reckon he would, onless you beat him to it. That’s not the point. You got to fight him or admit you’re yellow. No two ways about that.”
“I can’t fight. I never did,” groaned Dillon.
“Then how do you know you can’t? If you can’t, take yore lickin’. But you be on top of him every minute of the time whilst you’re gettin’ it. Go to it like a wild cat. Pretty soon something’ll drop, an’ maybe it won’t be you.”
“I—can’t.”
Dud’s blue eyes grew steely. “You can’t, eh? Listen, fellow. I promised Blister to make a man outa you if I could. I aim to do it. You lick Bandy good to-night or I’ll whale you to-morrow. That ain’t all either. Every time you let him run on you I’ll beat you up next day soon as I get you alone.”
Bob looked at him, startled. “You wouldn’t do that, Dud?”
“Wouldn’t I? Don’t you bet I wouldn’t. I’m makin’ that promise right now.”
“I thought you were—my friend,” Bob faltered.