The uplifted cane whizzed through the air and came down with a whack like the report of a fire cracker. It landed where it was intended, and Buck Kennon, with a yell of pain, leaped to his feet, vigorously rubbing the wounded portion of his body, caught up his hat and still insisting in a loud voice that he had been killed, disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.
Now that he was out of the way, the Honorable Mr. Willard turned upon young Decker, who was climbing to his feet and brushing his clothes.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, young man? What do you mean by fighting that boy?”
“I was trying to prevent his licking me,” replied James so demurely that the gentleman smiled in spite of himself.
“You ought to know better than to attack a boy of that size.”
“I guess he’ll know better than to attack me next time; I’m not afraid of him.”
“Did he begin this fight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The coward! if I had known that I would have caned him harder than ever,” exclaimed the congressman, turning and looking at the yelling youngster, who was far down the highway, as if he meditated starting after him; “why did he attack you?”
“Please, Mr. Willard, I’ll tell you.”