The country towns can't hold 'em." Dick went briskly down the street, whistling blithely, as a boy will do when he's healthy and his conscience is clear.
A block below another boy, betraying the hang-dog spirit only too plainly, turned the corner into Main Street.
It was Phin Drayne, out for one of his night walks.

Fearing that he might be insulted, and get into a fight with some one, Drayne had armed himself with one of his father's canes.

The stick had a crook for a handle.
Prescott caught a glimpse of the other boy's face; then he turned away, hastening on.
"I'm not even worth looking at," muttered Phin to himself.
Just as Dick went past, Phin seized the cane by the ferule end, and lunged out quickly.
The crook caught neatly around one of Dick's ankles just as the foot was lifted.
Like a flash Prescott went down.

One less nimble, and having had less training, might have been in for a split kneecap.

But Dick was too much master of his body and its movements.