Part 11 (1/2)

”'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid of getting hi-i-t! Ya-a-h!”

”Come on and hit me, then,” came back the answer, which admitted of no retort save action.

”We've got to chase 'em out someway.” He turned desperately to Red. ”You and Perry Alford sneak up behind that thick lot of weeds when we start yelling and dancing like everything. Then we'll charge and drive 'em around to your end. But don't let 'em hit you.”

In the meantime, the youngest member of the Mosher family had discovered that his position as ”Red-Crosser” carried only a decoration on his sleeve, which admitted of no honor or excitement whatever. He crept up, un.o.bserved by the excited Fletcherites, raided the cuc.u.mber basket of as many of the missiles as his little pockets would hold, and halted within easy distance to watch the attack on the fortress.

Red and Perry sneaked stealthily to the weed-clump ambush while their comrades showered cuc.u.mbers on the sheltered foe recklessly.

Occasionally the defenders replied with a shot whenever a good mark was presented, but for the most part, they seemed content to keep the box heap between them and their enemies and bide their time. Farther and farther away they edged in response to the flanking movement of the main division of John's army, until Red, deeming the moment opportune, fired.

Perry Alford followed. Silvey, surprised by the sudden attack from the rear, turned and received a cuc.u.mber full upon his half-open lips.

”Who did that?” he sputtered, as he dislodged the acrid fragments from his mouth.

Red threw caution to the winds and danced exultantly out in the open.

”You're a deader. You're a deader. I killed the general. I killed the general.”

Silvey advanced on him furiously. ”I'll punch your face in, hitting me in the mouth that way.”

Brown was ever in ecstasy at the prospect of a fight. ”Come on and do it,” he retorted. ”Didn't last football practice, did you?”

Silvey doubled his fists. His opponent held his ground. The rank and file of the two armies dropped their cuc.u.mbers and gathered in a little semi-circle to watch the fight. The youngest Mosher boy crept up and balanced himself unsteadily on one foot. In his right hand he held a cuc.u.mber, and on his face shone set determination.

”Wanta fight,” he cried, as the combatants began the inevitable preliminary sparring. ”_Goin'ta_ fight!”

The next moment, a cuc.u.mber caught Silvey squarely in the eye. The latter turned, dug viciously in his pocket for ammunition, and fired a handful of cuc.u.mbers at his a.s.sailant without perceiving, in his blind rage, who it was. Yell after yell filled the air.

”Now look what you've done,” exclaimed Mosher miserably. ”Just watch me catch it when he gets home.”

”Well,” Silvey snapped, still angry as the others gathered around the infant, ”I told him to keep out of the cuc.u.mber basket. What did he throw at me for?”

The wails continued. Skinny bent anxiously over his brother. ”Come, buddy,” he coaxed. ”You're not hurt badly.”

”W-a-a-a-h!” The boys began to feel alarmed.

”Where did he hit you?”

”W-a-a-a-h!”

Silvey looked down remorsefully. ”Here, kid, here's some cuc.u.mbers. You can hit me as hard as you want and get even.”

”W-a-a-a-h!”

Once more, Mosher tried to a.s.suage his brother's grief. ”Look at the funny man who's coming over to see you. Don't let him find you crying.”

The ”funny man” proved to be the school physician who was returning from a professional call. He dropped his medical case on the turf and stooped over the prostrate urchin, who promptly kicked him in the s.h.i.+ns.

The doctor drew back hastily. ”What's the matter?” he queried.

”Th-th bad boy hit me.”