A Debt of Honor

“Look here, Jake Amsden!” said Gerald in a fearless tone, “the wallet and money were stolen by you from Mr. Wentworth, and he only took what belonged to him.”

“That’s a lie!”

“It’s the truth.”

“Did you see me take it?”

“No, but my father woke up in the night, and saw you bending over Mr. Wentworth. That was when you took the wallet.”

“Your father was dreamin’! It’s all a made up story. Jake Amsden ain’t no thief.”

“I shan’t call you any names. I only tell you the facts in the case.”

“Look here, boy, you’re mighty independent for a kid. Do you know who I am?” and Jake, with his arms akimbo, faced Gerald threateningly.

“I know who you are very well, Mr. Amsden.”

“Mr. Amsden! Well, that’s all right. You’d better be respectful. Do you know what I’ve come here for?”

“Suppose you tell me.”

“I’ve come here to thrash you within an inch of your life.”

“What for?” asked Gerald, who didn’t seem as much overwhelmed as Jake Amsden anticipated.

“For robbin’ me of a wallet full of money.”

“I told you already that I had nothing to do with taking the wallet. You must see Mr. Wentworth about that.”

“But he isn’t here.”

“You may see him again some time.”

“That don’t go down. He’s gone away, but you are here. I’m goin’ to take it out of your hide.”

“I am only a boy, Mr. Amsden. Won’t you let me off?”

Gerald seemed alarmed, and Jake Amsden was pleased at the impression his threats appeared to have made.

“How much money have you got about you?” he demanded.

“Not quite two dollars.”

“Didn’t your father leave you any?” asked Jake, incredulous.

“My father was a very poor man. He had no money to leave.”

“Then it’s all the wuss for you, youngster. I’m goin’ to tan your hide, and don’t you forget it!”

Jake slipped off his coat, and advanced in a menacing way.

Gerald dodged him, and tried to escape. For a time he succeeded in eluding the grasp of his antagonist, and the delay only infuriated Amsden the more.

At last he managed to catch Gerald, and with a savage cry of triumph bore him to the ground.

“Now I’ve got you!” he exclaimed, “and I’m goin’ to pound you till you won’t know where you are.”

He pinioned Gerald to the earth, and the boy would have fared very badly, but for the timely assistance of his guest.

Jake Amsden was preparing to carry out his threat, when something unexpected happened, and he was under the impression that he had been struck by a cyclone. The English tourist had been awakened by the discussion, and comprehending from what he heard that Gerald was in a tight place, he hastily threw on his clothes, and at the right time darted out of the cabin, seized Jake by the collar with one hand while with the other he planted a blow in his face, nearly stunned him, and dragging him from Gerald hurled him forcibly upon the ground six feet away.

“Jumpin’ Jehosaphat! What have I struck?” muttered Jake, looking around stupidly, as he lay on his back without attempting to get up.

CHAPTER XII

AN INTERNATIONAL COMBAT

“Excuse my want of ceremony,” said Noel Brooke nonchalantly. “I would have waited for an introduction but there wasn’t time.”

“Who are you?” gasped Jake Amsden.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the Englishman, raising his hat as ceremoniously as if he were addressing a Chicago millionaire. “I am the Hon. Noel Brooke, of England, at your service.”

“An Englishman? That is worse than all. That Jake Amsden should live to be floored by an Englishman!”

“My friend, I hope that is no disgrace. There are plenty of your countrymen who could floor me.”

“But I can’t understand it,” said Jake, rising with difficulty from his recumbent position. “You don’t weigh within twenty-five pounds of me.”

“It isn’t always weight that counts – it’s science. I learned how to box when I was at Eton.”

“I think I could lick you in a fair fight,” went on Jake, surveying the trim figure of his antagonist, who was at least three inches shorter than himself. “You hit me when I wasn’t lookin’.”

“True enough! Would you like to try it again?”

“Yes.”

“I’m ready.”

Gerald awaited the result not without anxiety. Certainly the two did not look very well matched. Jake Amsden was a broad-shouldered, powerfully built man of five feet ten, and would tip the scales at a hundred and eighty pounds. Noel Brooke was three inches shorter, and did not look to weigh over a hundred and fifty.

“I am afraid Jake will be too much for him,” he thought, “and if he is, it will be my turn next.”

Evidently Jake was of the same opinion.

“Why, you’re a Bantam compared to me,” he said. “You’ll think you’ve been struck by a cyclone.”

“Strike away – cyclone!” said the Englishman calmly.