Tom, while somewhat disfigured, was by no means disabled, and now and then feeling of his nose, continued the pursuit.
Peppered from every quarter, the South Beauforters began to waver, and showed a tendency to hop, skip and jump along, and to turn corners on the double quick. Presently, as by common consent, all broke into a run, and the retreat became a flight.
The “soakers” were waxing altogether too deadly.
Up the middle of the street, elbows raised to protect heads, bolted the South Beaufort gang, and after them, into the open, scuttled their attackers, whooping like Indians. Even Bob mustered courage to wave his tail, and bark.
From the outset the three boys, and Ned in particular, had selected Big Mike as their especial target. Had “soakers” been bullets they would have landed him long before; but the most they had done was to make him curse them heartily when some telling ball reached the mark. And still he had the clipper in tow.
“Drop that sled, you thief!” Ned kept calling, fiercely.
“Thief! Robber!” chimed in Ned’s companions.
Closer the attackers drew their lines. Matters looked promising for a general fight. The boys’ blood was up, and Ned was bound to get that sled. “Soakers” seemed not to do it, and there was nothing left but fists.
At this crisis, just as the pursuers were closing in on the pursued, and “soakers” at short range were on the point of giving way, unless something unexpected occurred, to fisticuffs—then the unexpected did occur!