THE BATTLE AT THE OLD SYCAMORE
As the defiant Trevor rallied his supporters and renewed the march
across the bridge, there was no sign of retaliation on Hank’s face. The
truth is that Hank, so far as his training permitted, had gone out of
his way to do a good turn. It had been a failure. By the time Captain
Trevor reached the end of the bridge, Hank had newly charged his pipe.
“Leastways,” he said to himself as he took the trail of the
aeroplane-laden boys, “I done what I could. I’ll foller along now an’
see what kind o’ front the ginks can put up. An’ there’s a chanst ’at
Carrots may need a little help ’fore he puts over that jumpin’ act he
promised.”
Alex Conyers made a last appeal to Art to stick to the railroad until
it crossed the pike. He tried to argue that this was the natural road
to reach the place where they meant to start their program. If there
was any one in the crowd that approved this change of plans he did not
speak.
“Kids,” exclaimed Art pompously as he gave Connie a look of
impatience――almost of defiance――and pointed straight up the river
toward the old sycamore, “there lies our path.”
“Come on, them ’ats comin’,” shouted another voice and Sammy Addington
sprang forward, scrambling down the steep embankment toward the almost
certain field of battle.
His fellow club members, even to Alex Conyers, fell into his wake. When
a wire fence was reached there was a pause. In the short interval Hank
Milleson joined the party.
“Say, kiddos,” he began anew, apparently in good humor, “how about
comps to the show? If they’s any free passes I’d like to give the gang
an invite.”
“You saw the bill,” exclaimed Conyers, glad of any chance to placate
the enemy. “It says admission free.”
“Free to decent kids, not to bums and loafers,” broke in Art angrily.
“You can’t put that over on us, Flatfoot,” he shouted.
“Say, Artie,” replied Hank slowly. “I guess I’m a loafer, but I ain’t
a bum. Ain’t you gettin’ purty fresh?”
“What you goin’ to do about it?”
“Me? Oh, nothin’――now. But don’t call me no bum. Tain’t nothin’ to call
a kid a ‘sis’ or a ‘milksop.’ But it kind o’ means sumpin’ bad to call
him a bum. A bum’s a feller ’at hangs ’round saloons――or a hobo. I
ain’t that――yet.”
This speech created a sensation among the still panting boys. Even
their impulsive leader flushed. At any other time Art’s sense of
fairness would have made him sorry for his words. Now, afraid of
showing weakness, he made matters worse.
“That kind of stuff ain’t a goin’ to get our goat, Flatfoot,” he
retorted. “Come on, boys!”
In another instant the crowd had worked itself through the fence and
was advancing toward the big tree. For a moment Alex Conyers lingered
behind where Hank Milleson, still smoking his pipe, leaned against a
post.
“You belong to that gang, don’t you?” remarked Hank.
“Yes,” answered Connie.
“You licked Matt Branson once, didn’t you? When Matt was going to
school?”
“He said he had enough,” confessed Connie.
“Well,” added Hank clearing the fence with a bound, “fur the good o’
everybody I think you and me better move along.”
Before Hank and Connie caught the advancing party it had come to a
sudden halt. Seven shiftless, carelessly dressed young idlers who had
been lying under the hollow sycamore had half risen and were sitting
with their knees on their hands. All seemed highly amused. Art Trevor
was standing ahead of his companions. Nick Apthorp, one of the seven,
had been the first to speak.
“Hello kids. What’s doin’?”
“None of your business,” answered Sammy Addington.
“Does your mamas know you’re over here where the bad boys is?” shouted
Job Wilkes with a laugh.
There was no answer except closer set lips. But not one of the
Goosetowners rose to his feet. Hank and Connie coming up, the latter
hurried to Art and whispered: “Come on.” There was a general movement
forward. For a moment it looked as if hostilities would be averted.
But the last remark had sunk deep into young Trevor’s heart. Thrusting
Connie aside he almost ran to the big tree. There, yet besmeared with
Carrots Compton’s tobacco quid, hung the stolen poster. Connie rushed
after the white-faced leader but Art was not to be stopped. Tearing the
poster loose he whirled on the surprised Goosetowners.
“The fellow that did that’s a coward!” shouted Art, his lips trembling.
“I done it,” shouted Carrots Compton. “What――”
Before he could add more Art had slapped the poster, quid and all,
against Carrots’ face. The next instant Carrots was in Hank Milleson’s
arms and Alex Conyers had a close grip on Art.
“Let ’em go, let ’em loose!” shouted a dozen voices.
The struggling four were at once lost in a jam of all the others, each
eager to get close to the would-be combatants. In the first clash,
while the Goosetowners and Elm Streeters resembled a mass of football
players after a tackle, a cry sounded that each boy recognized. There
was a sudden loosening of the tangle and Nick Apthorp, with another
cry, threw his hands to his head. As he drew them back a new howl went
up. His fingers were covered with blood, which was trickling from a cut
on his forehead.
“I’m stabbed,” wailed Nick. “I’m stabbed!”
Hostilities ceased. Even Carrots and Art were released, while Hank and
Connie turned toward the wounded boy. It wasn’t a stab but a bad break
of the skin. Connie even volunteered the use of his handkerchief as a
bandage――there was probably not one in the enemy’s ranks. But, before
it could be applied, and one of Nick’s pals had already rushed down the
river bank to fill the beer can with water, there was a new commotion.
“There he goes! That’s the guy.”
Seventeen pairs of eyes made out Sammy Addington scurrying like a colt
toward the railroad. Sammy had been avenged. He had “got his man.” Nick
Apthorp sprang forward but a new trickle of warm blood stopped him and
there arose new wails about being stabbed.
“I’ll kill him,” moaned Nick sinking to his knees while Hank bound up
his wound.
“Shut up, you boob,” exclaimed Hank. “It’s only a scratch.”
“He stabbed me,” wailed Nick.
“Stabbed nothin’,” sneered Hank. “He got you with a dornick.”
The clashing bodies had moved apart but no truce had been declared.
No one made an attempt to pursue Sammy, who was now on the railroad
bridge and still in motion. Connie yet had hopes of preventing another
clash and was giving his attention to his captain. Trevor was hurling
defiance at Carrots who was pouring forth a volley of profanity.
“That shows ’em up,” broke in Job Wilkes rushing to Carrots’ side.
“Look out! They all got knives.”
“It’s a lie!” shouted Alex Conyers whirling toward Wilkes. “We don’t
want trouble, but if you got to have it you don’t need to holler.”
But Wilkes’ mind was on Art.
“Go get him, Carrots,” he yelled, pushing Compton forward.
“He’s a big bluff. Don’t stand for it.”
Spurred on, Compton made a new rush for Trevor. But something
intervened. It was knotty little Connie’s fist. Carrots always
insisted it wasn’t fair, that he wasn’t fighting Connie. Just the
same, as Carrots lunged past Connie, the latter caught him on the
jaw so cleverly that Carrots dropped. Like a cat Job Wilkes was on
Connie’s back. In a flash the fight was on again with Nick Apthorp on
the side-lines, whimpering and nursing the knob on his head, and Hank
Milleson pawing his way into the center of the fray and yelling for
fair play.
For perhaps five minutes the vicinity resounded with the noises that
accompany boyish fights; grunts, exploding breaths, whimpering, howls,
cries, half in defiance and half in protest, and, with it all the
unmistakable commotion of jarring bodies. Now and then there was the
crack of a blow struck, but not often. Even the bitterest boy battle
rarely reaches the point of serious bodily injury.
Then, when the confusion of cries reached its height and nearly all
were yelling “leggo my hair!” or “he’s bitin’ me!” (even in the
juvenile world an inexcusable barbarism) or “he’s chokin’ me!” the
furious tempest suddenly began to calm. The first drops of blood are
wonderfully quieting.
One of the first to escape from the wriggling mass was Wart Ware. A
sleeve of his shirt was gone, his hat was missing and his nose was
bleeding freely. His fighting spirit was gone but he continued to
struggle in Matt Branson’s neck-hold. At last, his mouth filled with
blood, he yelled “Enough!”
Phil Abercrombie and Lew Ashwood were in no better condition. Buck
Bluett and Mart Clare, both outclassing their opponents, had forced
these “middle-weight” aviators into each other’s arms and were
vigorously pounding their heads together. Phil was yet feebly defiant,
but Lew had reached the point where he only groaned with each new knock.
With the first let-up in hair-pulling and punching noses a quartette
of Elm Streeters made a feeble dash toward the river bank, where not
less than twenty miniature aeroplanes had been deposited on the first
sign of trouble. Colly Craighead, Paul Corbett, Duke Easton and Sandy
Sheldon thought of these treasures apparently at the same time. Boys
who won’t run away from a scrap have a way of suddenly remembering
duties that are instantly imperative.
But Joe Andrews, Tom Bates and Nick Apthorp (who had now rejoined the
combatants) were in close pursuit.
“Head ’em off!” yelled Nick.
Grabbing a tree limb about two feet long he hurled it toward the
fugitives. It struck Colly Craighead on the arm. Before the exhausted
boy could recover himself he had stumbled and fallen on the pile of
aeroplanes.
The three Goosetowners were on him in an instant, trampling on the
delicate models and striking right and left with broken silk-covered
frames. Colly’s friends, in a last hopeless effort, frenzied with the
sickening crack of their wrecked prides, made an attempt to rally. But
it was useless.
Craighead rolled out of the wreckage and, bewildered with pain,
tumbled over the river bank onto a bed of gravel. His three companions
sprang after him. There was a momentary attempt to renew the battle by
throwing gravel and such rocks as they could find. But each knew he was
licked. Their assailants withdrew in contempt and rejoined the struggle
yet in progress between the older boys.
Job Wilkes had apparently taken good advantage of his sneaking attack
on Alex Conyers. When Hank Milleson had managed to pull the others
off the prostrate pair, Wilkes was on Connie’s back with his hands
around the under boy’s throat. Carrots Compton was nursing his jaw and
temporarily out of the mix-up. Art Trevor had plunged to Connie’s aid.
“None o’ that!” roared Hank. “It’s one to one here. You wanted trouble
an’ you got it.”
Without a pause Art swerved his attack to Hank. In an instant the two
leaders were in each other’s arms and in another moment Art was on his
back looking up into Hank’s half-smiling face. But the overconfident
Hank held his opponent too lightly. Art had a smattering of wrestling
knowledge. His face distorted with anger, he shut his eyes for a moment
as if in surrender. As Hank gave him a laughing smack on the cheek
the under boy whirled himself over with a snake-like wriggle and then
shoved himself with a second lightning-like motion to his hands and
knees.
The astonished Hank instantly recognized his danger from a wrestling
standpoint, and threw himself heavily on Art’s back in an effort
to crush him flat again. But the movement was what the “milksop”
anticipated. Hank was quick enough with his body but he failed to duck
his head. Art’s strong arms and legs met the crushing attack and then
in a flash his right arm flew up and clamped Hank’s head in a vice.
There was a first sharp downward jerk of Trevor’s arm and Hank’s head
slipped forward over the under boy’s shoulder. Another yank and Hank’s
neck bones creaked. There was a groan from the boy on top as his heavy
body bowed itself upward to lessen the pain and then, Art’s muscles
quivering and his mouth open, his arm locked itself completely around
Hank’s neck. With the same motion Art’s body bounded upward and the
panting, struggling Hank shot into the air. As the flying body struck
the ground with a crash, Art was up and on his opponent like a cat.
Half stunned, Hank made an effort to clasp Art’s body, but Trevor was
too quick for him. Throwing himself on Milleson’s chest with crushing
force, the Elm Street boy pinned his opponent to the ground and then
“roughed” his head against Hank’s nose.
“That’s enough,” yelled a voice in Art’s ear. “Let him up. You win.”
It was Connie. His own battle had been soon over, although he had not
resorted to the professional tricks his chum had used. Three or four
sound blows on Job’s face and neck had forced an abject surrender.
Carrots Compton and Connie had not joined issues, each pausing to watch
the big fight.
“You done it, Artie,” gasped the almost breathless Hank.
Carrots Compton, carried away by the sight of the clever contest, stood
by in open admiration. As Trevor rose to his feet, his shirt torn,
rents in each knee of his trousers, his hair wet with perspiration, his
muscles yet trembling and his lips quivering with unsatisfied anger, he
caught sight of his avowed enemy.
“Now you red-headed bluff,” shouted Art, “I’m ready for you. There’s
the river you’re goin’ to make me jump in! You big loafer and bum,” he
added, his eyes feverish with anger. “I’ll give you a minute to start
tryin’ or I’ll throw _you_ in.”
There was no escape for Carrots. As Hank scrambled onto his feet a
dozen begrimed, blood-spotted and clothing-torn boys quickly formed a
circle.
“That’s the stuff,” shouted Nick Apthorp, forgetting his own bandaged
head. “Give ’em room. Let ’em scrap it out. A bottle o’ beer on little
Artie,” he added. But there were no takers of his wager. Carrots had
shot forward with head down. But he landed in Hank Milleson’s arms.
“Cheese it, kids,” shouted Hank as he whirled Carrots to his feet. “The
marshal’s comin’.”
One glance toward the railroad bridge revealed the well-known blue
uniform of Marshal Chris Walter. And it was advancing at the old man’s
best pace. Close behind waddled Sammy Addington. By the time Old Chris
reached the big sycamore the only Goosetowners or Elm Streeters to be
seen were those just disappearing above the river dam.