CHAPTER X
TIP SCAMMON TALKS---BUT NOT ENOUGH
If that ugly blow hadn't proved a glancing one, Dick Prescott
might have been for a long siege of brain fever.
As it was, he was slightly stunned for the moment.
By the time he could leap up and look about him, rather dizzily,
his late assailant had made a clean escape.
"No time to waste on a fellow who's got away," quoth Dick.
He staggered slightly, at first, as he hurried from the yard back
into the alleyway.
"Now, you quiet down!" commanded Dave Darrin hoarsely. "No more
from you, Mr. Thug!"
"Lemme go, or it'll be worse for ye!" threatened a harsh voice
that, nevertheless, had a whine in it.
"What use to let you go, Tip Scammon?" demanded Darrin. "We know
you, and the police would pick you up again in an hour."
"Lemme go, and keep yer mouth shut," whined the fellow. "If ye
don't, ye'll be sorry. If ye _do_ lemme go, I'll pay ye for the
accommodation."
"Yes," retorted Dave, scornfully. "You'd pay us, I suppose, with
money you picked up in some way resembling the trick you played
on Dick Prescott."
"Well, money's money, ain't it?" demanded Tip, skeptically.
"Some kinds of money are worse that dirt," growled Greg Holmes.
This was the conversation, swiftly carried on, that Dick heard
as he stepped back to his friends.
Scammon was lying on his back on the ground, with Dave seated
across his chest. Greg bent back the wretch's head, holding a
short club that the two freshmen had taken away from Tip in the
scuffle.
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