Philip Touchtone dashed into the arbor. He faced the enemy. He pushed Gerald aside and stood between them. Once more, as a while ago, at that encounter with the tramp down in Wooden’s Ravine, he was on hand in time to help Gerald fight a physical battle against untoward odds.
“How dare you! Don’t you touch him again! Where did you come from? What are you doing?” he asked Jennison, pale with anger and astonishment.
“I’m doing what I tried before—to take that boy to his father!” answered the other, angrily. “Again you interfere!” with an oath.
“Again you track him for mischief—track him to steal him! Stand over there, Gerald! Touch him, if you dare!”
Philip was of good size and weight for his age, as has been said, and all the old and new resolution and protection revealed itself in his manly, defiant attitude and upraised walking-stick.
“I will touch him! You spoil my plans again, do you? You shall rue it, Mr. Philip Touchtone.”
He made a step forward; but fine villainy means often physical cowardice, and Philip looked no trifling adversary.
“He says he comes from papa—and Mr. Marcy,” said Gerald. “He says—”
“Never mind what he says! It isn’t true! He is trying to hurt us both. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself to lie to that little fellow, Mr. Winthrop Jennison?” he demanded.