Part 49 (1/2)
”Pick 'em up, d.i.c.k! we're just in time.”
A boy somewhat larger than the rest, a good half-head taller than Dabney, but with a somewhat pasty and unhealthy complexion, had selected Ford Foster, as the shortest of the new arrivals, and demanded,--
”What are you meddling for?” just as he aimed a clumsy blow at his head.
That blow did not hit Ford; but a shorter young ruffian had also picked him out, perhaps for the same reason, and the hit he aimed reached its mark, for Ford had no extra pair of arms behind to box with. Frank Harley seemed, just then, to be remarkably busy with the heap of boys on the ground.
”Spat!”--that was the way something sounded; and Dab Kinzer added,--
”Go for that fellow on the gra.s.s, Ford: I'll take care of the long one.”
”You will,--will you?”
Spat--spat--spat!
”Oh! I see: you don't know how to box; weak in the arms too. Better go home.”
The tall boy was stepping backwards quite rapidly, with one hand on his nose, and the other swinging wildly in the air above him; and Ford was keeping the ”fellow on the gra.s.s” from getting up, when all the noise around them suddenly ceased.
”Dr. Brandegee!”
”Where? Where?”
”Coming across the green, at the upper end.”
”He's coming this way.”
Several of the late a.s.sailants started on a run at once; but Dab Kinzer had caught a sharp whisper from Frank Harley, and he shouted,--
”No you won't, Joe Hart! Hold on, Fuz! That other chap must stay too.
Give d.i.c.k back his groceries.”
”Dey's hooked a pile ob 'em,” said d.i.c.k, his eyes dancing with triumph.
”Jes' make 'em hand ober.”
”Do you mean to say we've been stealing?” fiercely demanded Joe.
”What, me? me, steal?” almost gasped Fuz.
”They wouldn't do such a thing as that,” said Ford, not quite comprehending the situation.
”That's it,” said Dab: ”let 'em empty their pockets”--
Joe was indignantly turning inside out the side pockets of his neat ”cut-away,” and a small, brown-paper-covered parcel dropped upon the ground.
”Dem's de cloves,” shouted d.i.c.k, as he darted forward, and picked it up.
The fingers of Fuz almost unconsciously imitated those of his elder brother, and with a like result.
”Dat's de cinnamon. If de oder feller didn't git de tea an' de sal'ratus! Whar's de nutmegs?”