It was Tom Reade, who, just as Mr.Fits started forward, and was still moving, thrust the crowbar between his legs.
Flop! Fits struck the earthen floor rather heavily, the chair flying over the head of Dick Prescott and landing beyond.
"Good chance!" cheered Harry Hazelton, bringing down his stick of firewood with a blow that resounded.
Tom Reade now raised the crowbar once more, standing where he could aim at the fellow's head.

Tom was both too generous and too tender hearted to have struck a human being over the head with such an implement, even had Fits given provocation.
"Don't get up, Mr.Fits," warned Dick, still gripping the air rifle.

"If you start to do so, it will be the signal for something to happen." Their nerves tense from the peril of their surroundings, the Grammar School boys, none of whom were cowards at heart, even though they were pretty young, looked positively fierce in the eyes of the prostrate foe.
"You don't any of you dare hit me," he sneered, with an attempt at bluster.
"Don't we ?" scowled Dave Darrin.

"Then start something--we'll do the rest." "Get back with that crowbar!" ordered the fellow sullenly.

"Put that air rifle down, and drop that bow and arrow." "Get up and make us," advised Dick Prescott almost placidly.