"You wait till you size him up," said Anson. "He's taller'n you are an' heavier, too. Oh, you'll have your hands full when he tackles you, Mister Scrapper-Bill."
Billy pinched off a fox-tail stock and chewed it thoughtfully. "Maybe," he said, cheerfully. "He certainly tapped you some, but then you're always huntin' trouble, an' it serves you right."
"Listen to me!" Anson cried. "He made all the trouble, I tell you. All I did was tell him not to throw clubs at Ringdo—"
"What! Was he throwin' clubs at my coon?" Billy shouted.
"You bet he was. Had Ringdo up a tree an' was doin' his best to knock him out."
Billy spit out the fox-tail. "Where's this feller Scroggie now?" he asked, in a business-like tone.
"I dunno. I s'pose he's prowlin' 'round the beech grove, up there. He said he intended lickin' every boy in this settlement on sight. You best not go lookin' fer him, Bill. I don't want'a see you get beat up on my account."
"Well you needn't worry; if I get beat up it won't be on your account, I kin tell you that. I don't aim to let anybody throw clubs at my pets, though. You drive the cattle on down; I'm goin' up to the grove."
A gleam of satisfaction lit Anson's shifty eyes. "All right," he said shortly, and went off after the herd.
Billy climbed the rail fence and crossed the basswood swale to the highland. He approached the beech grove cautiously and peered about him. Seated on a log at the lower end of a grassy glade was a boy about his own age, a boy with round, bullet head poised on a thick neck set between square shoulders.