"Oh, we don't feel ready for anything more festive than a lynching
party," muttered Dave, hotly. "See here, you-----"

"I s'pose ye think ye can do all ye wanter to me, jest because
I've been doin' my stretch?" demanded Tip, aggressively. "But
don't be too sure. Take yer hand offen my shoulder!"

Dave didn't show any sign of immediate intention of complying.

"_Take it off_!" insisted Tip.

But Dave met the fellow's baleful gaze with a cool, steady look.
Tip, muttering something, edged away from under Dave's extended
hand.

"Now, ye wanter understand," continued young Scammon, "that I
can't be played with, jest because some folks think I'm down.
If you come fooling around me you'll have to explain or apologize."

"Tip," questioned Dave Darrin, sharply, "why did you just throw
two brickbats at Dick Prescott's head?"

"I didn't," retorted Tip, stolidly.

"You _did_."

"I didn't."

"Tip," declared Dave, solemnly, "I won't call you a liar. I'll
just remark that you and truth are strangers."