"The yarn about that hand is another lie." Dick's injured right hand came out of the jacket pocket in which it had rested.

With his left hand he flung down his cap.
"I'll fight---you---anyway!" Prescott announced, slowly.
There were a few faint cheers, though some of the older High School boys looked serious.

Fair play was an honored tradition in Gridley.
Ripley, however, had thrown down his cap at once, hurling his strapped-up school books aside at the same time.
"Wait a moment," commanded Frank Thompson, stepping forward.
He was a member of the first class, a member of the school eleven, and a husky young fellow who could enforce his opinions at need.
"Get back, Thomp," retorted Ripley.

"The cub wants to fight, and he's got to." "Not if he has an injured hand," retorted Frank, quickly.
"He hasn't," jeered Ripley.

"And he's got so fight, if he has four lame hands." "He can fight, then, yes," agreed Thompson.