But the truth of the matter was, that he had once run up against Jack’s fist in a most surprising fashion. Blood had flowed freely, and from that time on the bully of Rudskill knew there were two boys in the town he dare not molest, Jack and his younger brother, Andy.
So, muttering something under his breath which Harry and his friends could not hear, Sully and his cohorts began to drag their toboggan up the long hillside. They were followed by the other boys, with the Buster. The walk was a tedious one, especially so to the two sides that wished to race each other.
“Whom shall we get to add weight?” asked Harry, as they at last gained the starting-place. “I don’t see any of our crowd here; do you?”
“I don’t,” returned Jack.
“What’s the matter with Pickles Johnsing?” put in Boxy. “He’s got enough weight for two.”
Pickles Johnsing was a stout, round-faced colored boy, with big red lips, and teeth which reminded one very forcibly of double-blank dominoes set in twin rows. He was a very willing and decent sort of a young darky, and had many friends in the little river town in which my story for the present is located.
“He’ll do first-rate,” said Harry. “Hello, Pickles!” he shouted.
“Hullo, dar, Harry!” returned the colored boy. “Got yo’ tobog out ag’in, I see.”
“Yes, Pickles, and we want you to ride down with us this trip. Put your bread-shovel out of the way.”
“T’anks, Harry, I’se like to ride down on de Buster fust-rate,” grinned Pickles. “Wot yo’ gwine ter do, race Pete Sully?”