"This is descending to a
low level. We don't want a lot of bickering or mouth-fighting,
and we don't intend to have anything but fair play, either."
"As this is largely my affair," broke in Dick Prescott, who had
had time to cool down a bit, "let me have a chance to make an
offer."
"Go ahead," nodded Thompson.
"Then," proposed Dick, "since you won't let me fight today, why
can't this meeting hold over until my hand is in shape? Then
I'll agree to give Ripley all he wants."
"That's the only sensible thing I've heard said in five minutes,"
declared Frank Thompson, looking about him at other upper classmen.
"Is it the general opinion that the fight hold over for a few
days, or, say, a fortnight?"
"Yes," came back an eager, approving chorus.
"Then so be it," proclaimed Frank. "And now, remember, Ripley,
this fight is not to be pulled off until the school agrees to
it. If you pick any trouble with Prescott until you get the word,
or if you try to find any excuse for hitting him while his hand's
out of shape, then you'll answer to the school for your conduct.
You know what that means, don't you?"
"Humph!" snorted Fred Ripley. "All this fuss about the High School
sneak!"
Again Dick started forward, but Thompson caught him firmly.
"Hold on, freshie!" advised the older boy. "Save it up. Bottle
it. You can have all the more fun out of Ripley when your hand
is in shape."
"His hand is in as good shape as it ever was," retorted Ripley,
scornfully.
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