Thus urged, and with his gang pressing closer and closer about them, Big Mike swung his clenched hands back and forth, menacingly, and growled:
“Tryin’ to pick a fight, ain’t ye? I’ve a notion to lam the tar out o’ you!”
“You can’t do it, alone,” challenged Ned. “You know your gang will pitch in and help, if you’re getting licked.”
“Naw, we won’t. Of course we won’t,” cried the South Beauforters, in a chorus. “It’ll be fair play; sure it will!”
Ned knew that this was a lie. The South Beauforters never fought fair. They were wolves, attacking from both front and rear, and five to one. Besides, they bit and kicked and gouged, and had no mercy. Fair? Not much!
Ned gazed hastily around the circle, seeking some one who might second him, and protect his back. But of Hal or Tom or others of his chums he saw not a sign. They must be at the top of the hill, or climbing, and ignorant of his fix.
His heart sank a little.
However, he was not afraid of Big Mike, in a fair fight. “Big Mike” had been thus nicknamed because he had been overgrown; but now, stunted as he was by tobacco and by evil habits, flat-footed and with hulking shoulders, no longer was he large for his age. Ned, on his own part, had been leaping ahead by inches, until now he equaled Mike in height, although considerably outweighed. But whatever advantage came to the one from weight was more than balanced by the other’s wiriness and strength of limb gained on river and in wood and field.
Ned was not given much time in which to look about or debate over his situation. Shoved by a member of the gang, after the fashion of the kind, Big Mike came jamming into him, and swinging at the same time cuffed him a blow on the ear. At this Ned poked stiffly upward with his right fist, and his knuckles met Big Mike’s teeth.
Big Mike backed away a step, and dabbled at his mouth with his fingers.