“Hi, here comes Whistle Breeches!” he shouted gleefully.
“Whistle—Bree-ches—Whistle—Bree-ches—Whistle—Bree-ches—”
Red Head turned and clenched his fists, his blue eyes blazing; “Shut up, Bob Palmer!” he cried fiercely. “Don't you call him that. That ain't no name to call a feller. You jist wisht you had breeches like 'em!”
Bob stopped suddenly. He looked at Red Head in astonishment. Then he turned and ran to the boys by the gate. They listened to what he said, and then began a loud singsong chant: “Whistle—Bree-ches —Whistle—Bree-ches—Whistle—Bree-ches!”
Red Head bounded forward, his eyes glowing with anger. He toppled two boys over, and rained his blows right and left.
“Don't youse call him that!” he cried.
It was a surprise. The boys drew back and stood ready to scatter at the next onslaught. Red Head waited, puffing, With clenched fists.