Bob stood sullenly, but made no move forward.
“Now, let's talk it over,” said Tom. “Do you think this young lady or my friend lied to you? Before you answer, just remember this is my fight now, and unless you take back the lie and apologize for what you said and did to this young lady, I'll thrash you so they'll have to send a wagon to carry you home.”
Bob did not speak.
“Quincy,” said Tom, “you go along with the young lady, and I'll settle my account after you're gone. You look a little white around the gills. You had no right to fight a heavy-weight like him.”
“I wish to thank you both,” said Mary, “but I'm a stranger in this town—I have lived here only a few months, and—I don't know your names.”
She blushed prettily and the lids modestly covered the blue eyes. The three had moved along the road a short distance while she was speaking.
“My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer, and this is my friend and classmate at Andover, Thomas Chripp.”
The lids were lifted but the blush deepened. “My name is Mary Dana. I live with my father on Pettingill Street.”
“Why,” cried Quincy, “Ezekiel Pettingill is my uncle—I live with him. I'm going home your way, and, with your permission, I will escort you to your father's house.”
“All right, Quincy—you go ahead,” said Tom. “But you must excuse me. I've kept Mr. Wood waiting.”