“Get off!” howled the bully, in a terrible rage over being thus brought to earth. “Get off, or I’ll hammer the life out of you!”
“You’ve got to spell able first,” retorted Frank and struck him in the cheek. “There’s one for stepping on Mark’s ankle and there’s another to teach you manners.” He struck out heavily. Then Hockley pulled him over and they laid side by side panting and striking and each endeavoring to rise.
Suddenly Frank saw his chance and struck the bully directly in the mouth. The blow was delivered with all the force possible and it loosened one of Hockley’s teeth and made it bleed.
“Hurrah! Good for Frank!” cried Sam. “That’s the sort.”
“Hi! hi! what does this mean, boys?” The call came from the brushwood close at hand. “Stop that fighting instantly!”
The voice was that of Professor Strong, and both Frank and Hockley lost no time in leaping to their feet. They stepped apart and it must be confessed that Frank looked at the instructor rather shamefacedly. Hockley was defiant.
“What have you boys been fighting about?” demanded Professor Strong, as he came up and gazed at one and the other sternly.
“Newton started it,” answered Hockley. “He tackled me without any reason for it.”
“That isn’t true,” cried Frank. “He kicked Mark’s sore ankle and that made me mad, and I told him what a brute he was, and shoved him back out of the way. Then he struck me in the shoulder.”
“It isn’t so, he hit me first,” said Hockley, surlily.