Part 4 (2/2)

”I doan't mind trouble, not in de leastest,” answered Eradicate cheerfully. ”Me an' Boomerang has had lots of trouble. We's used to it.

No, Mistah Man, you'd better let go ob mah friend, Mistah Swift, if yo'

doan't want trouble yo' ownse'f.”

”Drive on, and mind your business!” cried Morse, now unreasoningly angry. ”This is my affair,” and he gave Tom a shake.

Our hero was not going to submit tamely, however. He had one hand free, and raised to strike Morse, but the latter, letting go his hold on the lad's shoulder, grasped with that hand, the fist which the young inventor had raised. Then, with his other hand, the scoundrel was about to hit Tom.

”Break away four him, Mistah Swift!” directed the colored man. ”Yo' can fight him, den!”

”I guess he'll have his own troubles doing that,” sneered Morse.

”Not ef I help him,” answered Eradicate promptly, as he climbed back off the seat, into the body of his ramshackle vehicle.

”Don't you interfere with me!” stormed the man.

An instant later Tom broke away from his tormentor, and laid his motor-cycle on the ground, in order to have both hands free for the attack he felt would follow.

”Ha! You think you're going to escape, do you?” cried Morse, as he started toward Tom, his eyes blazing. ”I'll show you who you're dealing with!”

”Yes, an' I reckon I'll show yo' suffin yo' ain't lookin' fer!”

suddenly cried Eradicate.

With a quick motion he picked up a pail of white-wash from his wagon, and, with sure aim, emptied the contents of the bucket over Morse, who was rus.h.i.+ng at Tom. The white fluid spread over the man from head to foot, enveloping him as in a white shroud, and his advance was instantly checked.

”Dar! I reckon dat's de quickest white-was.h.i.+n' job I done in some time!” chuckled Eradicate, as he grasped his long handled brush, and clambered down from the wagon, ready for a renewal of the hostilities on the part of Morse. ”De bestest white-was.h.i.+n' job I done in some time; yais, sah!”

Chapter 4

A Trial Trip

There was no fear that Anson Morse would return to the attack. Blinded by the whitewash which ran in his eyes, but which, being slaked, did not burn him, he grouped blindly about, pawing the air with his outstretched hands.

”You wait! You wait! You'll suffer for this!” he spluttered, as soon as he could free his mouth from the trickling fluid. Then, wiping it from his face, with his hands, as best he could, he shook his fist at Tom.

”I'll pay you and that black rascal back!” he cried. ”You wait!”

”I hopes yo' pays me soon,” answered Eradicate, ”'case as how dat whitewash was wuff twenty-five cents, an' I got t' go git mo' to finish doin' a chicken coop I'm wurkin' on. Whoa, oar Boomerang. Dere ain't goin' t' be no mo' trouble I reckon.”

Morse did not reply. He had been most unexpectedly repulsed, and, with the white-wash dripping from his garments, he turned and fairly ran toward a strip of woodland that bordered the highway at that place.

Tom approached the colored man, and held out a welcoming hand.

”I don't know what I'd done if you hadn't come along, Rad,” the lad said. ”That fellow was desperate, and this was a lonely spot to be attacked. Your whitewash came in mighty handy.”

”Yais, sah, Mistah Swift, dat's what it done. I knowed I could use it on him, ef he got too obstreperous, an' dat's what he done. But I were goin' to fight him wif mah bresh, ef he'd made any more trouble.”

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