As he spoke the words, he flapped his elbows up and down. Kenneth Hastings and Jack Harding exchanged glances. Mark Clifton had gone.
Pete Tompkins hereupon stepped to the door and called out:
"Three cheers fur the angel o' the Gila, my hearties. One, two, three! Now! That's it. Now! Death to the Bible school!"
"Death to the Bible school!" shouted they in unison.
The little Indian heard their words. He knew that insult and, possibly, injury threatened his teacher, and, stepping up to Pete Tompkins, he kicked his shins with all his childish strength, uttering oaths that drew forth hilarious laughter from the men.
"Y're a good un," said one.
"Give 'im a trounce in the air," added another.
In a moment, the child was tossed from one to another, his passionate cries and curses mingling with their ribald laughter. At last he was caught by John Harding, who held him in his arms.
"Never mind, Wathemah," he said soothingly.
Hoarse with rage, the child shrieked, "You blankety blanked devils! You blankety blanked devils!"