“Well, you’re a mighty slow bunch to git started,” observed the lanky, bronzed McCarthy, who worked in the orchards, and looked it. He spat on his hands. “I allus did want to paste them lamps of yours, Squint.”
“You’ll get your wish, all right,” added Bud Bradley, shoving forward belligerently. “Let’s take Carson down and throw him in the river, fellows!”
This proposal was greeted with high delight on the part of the town group. The Clippers began to move forward, and Merriwell saw that a conflict was imminent.
“You’d better go slow,” he advised the Carson crowd. “We’re not forcing any battle, remember. Keep back there, Bradley. If they start it, let them take the consequences.”
“We’ve got ’em scared already,” jeered Squint Fletcher. “Leave that Merriwell kid to me. I’ll handle him!”
“Yes, you won’t!” piped up Chub Newton. “Yah! L-l-lambaste ’em, Bil-l-ly!”
Chub’s shrill cry was the last straw. Carson emitted a furious roar and raised his bat, while his team began crowding forward. The group around Merry closed in compactly, and it looked as if there would surely be a fight.
At that instant, however, a brawny man shoved in between the two parties. Squint Fletcher was just aiming a blow, and the man seized him by the shoulders and flung him back, sending him into Carson with a thump.
“That’s enough o’ this!” roared the town constable, for the man was no other. “I been keepin’ my eye on you, Fletcher. Clear out o’ here, the bunch of you.”
“What right have you got to interfere?” cried Carson angrily. “I’ll have my father——”