THE BATTLE OF THE CLIFF.
Some of my readers are no doubt familiar with the memorable combat
between the Horatii and the Curiatii, told in all the Roman histories.
There were three brothers on each side, and the contest between them was
to decide the fortunes of the armies to which they respectively belonged.
After a time two of the Horatii lay dead upon the field. The third,
unhurt, found himself opposed to three adversaries, all of whom, however,
were wounded. These he managed to engage singly, and was thus enabled to
overcome them in turn.
I am not sure whether Harry Raymond had heard of this historical combat;
but when he found himself opposed to two enemies, it struck him at once
that this was his proper course, if he wanted to come off victorious.
As Tom and James advanced upon him, he feigned to retreat.
“He’s afraid!” said Tom, in exultation. “Let’s give him a licking.”
James had no possible objection. Indeed, he felt that there was nothing
he would enjoy so much as to see our hero humiliated. He would not have
ventured to attack him alone, but now with Tom’s assistance there seemed
an excellent opportunity, such as might not again present itself.
“Go ahead!” he called out. “I’ll help you.”
Tom did go ahead. Being a faster runner than James, he found himself
separated from him by a considerable distance in the impetuosity of his
pursuit.
Harry turned his head, and, seeing that his opportunity had come,
suddenly faced round upon his astonished adversary.
Tom, unable to check himself, almost rushed into the arms of our hero.
“Now defend yourself!” shouted Harry.
So saying, he clinched Tom, who was too astonished to defend himself
properly, and with a quick movement of the leg brought him down heavily
upon the ground, with Harry on top.
Lying on the ground, in such a position as to fit into the small of Tom’s
back, was a stone about as large as the one he had thrown into the basket
of eggs. The sensation which resulted from falling upon it was by no
means pleasant.
“Oh!” he whined, “I’ve broken my backbone. Get off from me, Harry
Raymond.”
“I guess you’ll get over it,” said Harry, who knew that the hurt could
not be very serious.
“Jim Turner!” shouted the fallen hero.
James, who had witnessed his friend’s discomfiture, paused at a little
distance. He began to doubt whether it would be prudent to take an active
part in the hostilities. His confederate was disabled, and he strongly
suspected that Harry was more than a match for him. Still he was rather
ashamed to hold aloof.
“Let him alone!” he called out, from the place where he stood, making no
motion to advance.
“Come and help me, Jim! You said you would,” said Tom.
“I’ll have you arrested,” said James, preparing to war with his tongue.
“Take him off!” entreated Tom.
Thus adjured, James advanced with hesitating steps to the rescue. He
would rather have been excused, and had there been any decent pretext
for giving up the undertaking he would have done so. But, though his
sentiment of honor was not very keen, it did occur to him that it would
be rather mean to leave Tom in the lurch, after he had urged him on to
the assault with the promise of assistance.
“Let him alone!” he exclaimed, reinforcing his failing courage with a
little bluster, “or you’ll get the worst licking you ever had.”
“Who’ll give it to me?” asked Harry, composedly.
He had merely retained his position, pinning Tom to the ground, but not
striking him; for he was too honorable to strike a prostrate foe.
“I will,” said James, with a boldness of manner which did not by any
means correspond to his inward feelings.
So saying, he made a step or two in advance, in a threatening manner.
Harry sprang up suddenly, and advanced upon his new foe.
“I’m ready for you, James Turner,” he said, “now or at any other time.
Come on, if you dare.”
James paused in his advance. He did not like the position of affairs at
all. He had never bargained to meet Harry in single combat, and now it
appeared likely that he would have to do so.
“Get up, Tom,” he called out. “The two of us can whip him soundly.”
“I can’t do anything,” whined Tom. “My back’s most broke.”
He rose slowly from the ground, and began with a rueful face to rub the
injured portion of his frame.
Thus left to himself James saw that there was no backing out. He had
provoked the contest, and must take the consequences. What these were
likely to be he was cheerfully reminded by Tom’s doleful face. He
resolved to secure his co-operation if possible.
“Come along, Tom,” he urged. “Just help me a little, and I’ll manage
him.”
“I can’t,” said Tom, dismally. “That plaguy rock’s worn a hole in my
back.”
“I’ll stand you both,” said Harry, stoutly. “You’ve served me a mean
trick, and you ought to be punished.”
Just then James noticed a stone about the size of his fist lying on the
ground before him. It was a mean and cowardly impulse that led him to
pick it up, and fire it full at our hero’s head. Had it struck him, the
injury would have been serious, if not fatal; but Harry quickly divined
his intention, and dropped suddenly to the ground. The stone passed
harmlessly over his head.
“You shall pay for that, James Turner,” he said, angrily. “No one but a
coward would do such a thing.”
As he spoke he sprang forward, and grappled with his adversary. James,
having a premonition of defeat, defended himself poorly, flinging out
blows at random. In less than a minute he, too, was prostrate, with Harry
on top.
“Help!” he screamed, making desperate efforts to unseat his opponent.
But Harry held him down with a tight grip. Tom had had enough fighting,
and did not stir to his assistance.
“Get up, you ragamuffin!” he screamed. In fact he was more mortified that
his defeat should have come from Harry Raymond than if his opponent had
been of his own position. That a poor boy like Harry should treat with
such indignity his father’s son was a gross outrage which filled him with
vexation.
“Let me up, you beggar!” he cried, again.
“You’ll have to speak to me in a different style before I let you up,”
said Harry, coolly, for he felt that the advantage was in his hands, and
that it was for him to dictate terms of submission.
“I called you by your right name,” said James, provoked beyond the limits
of prudence. “You are a ragamuffin and a beggar.”
“It strikes me that you are a beggar just now,” said our hero.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are begging me to let you up.”
“If you don’t I’ll have you arrested,” said James, with another violent
but ineffectual struggle.
“You’re welcome to do it,” said Harry. “Perhaps there’ll be something to
say on my side as well as yours.”
“If you don’t come and help me, Tom Barton, I’ll never speak to you
again,” said James, whose anger was now directed against his confederate.
“I would if I could,” said Tom, “but my back’s too sore.”
The fact was, that Tom’s back was not quite so much hurt as he wished
to have it believed, but he had no inclination to attack Harry again.
The ease with which he had been thrown, caused him to realize that Harry
carried “too many guns for him,” as the phrase is; and, though he was
ready to fawn upon James, he was not willing to compromise his personal
safety for him. But a bright idea occurred to him.
“I’ll go and call your father,” he said.
James did not answer. He would rather have had Tom’s personal aid, but
that he was not likely to obtain. Tom Barton, glad to get away, limped
off towards the road.
“Are you going to let me up?” demanded James, fiercely.
“That depends upon whether you behave yourself. Promise to fire no more
stones at me.”
“I won’t.”
“You won’t fire any stones?”
“No, I won’t promise.”
“Very well. Then you may lie here a little longer.”
So the two remained in their old position. Five minutes passed, and James
renewed his demand.
“As soon as you will say that you won’t fire any more stones you shall
get up.”
“I don’t mean to,” said James, sullenly.
“All right! That’s all I want,” said Harry; and he relaxed his hold upon
his prostrate foe, and rose to his feet.
James picked himself up, and glared at Harry with a look by no means
friendly.
“You shall pay for this,” he said.
“Who is going to pay for the eggs you broke?” retorted our hero.
“I didn’t break them.”
“You approved it, at any rate.”
“Yes, I did,” said James.
“You probably didn’t know where I was carrying them.”
“Where?” James condescended to ask.
“To your house. I’ve lost time enough already, and must be getting back.”
Harry hurried to the road, where he found the wagon safe under the
charge of Will Pomeroy. Jumping in, he drove in haste to Squire Turner’s
residence, and taking the basket of eggs carried them round to the side
door, which was opened by Mrs. Murray, the house-keeper.
“Here are some eggs from the store,” said Harry, holding out the basket.
“Why, they’re all broke,” said the house-keeper, in dismay.
“I know it,” said Harry. “If you want to know how it happened ask James.”
“Well, I never!” ejaculated the house-keeper, mechanically taking the
basket. “The squire’ll have to do without his omelet to-night, that’s
sure.”