“Now, Pee Wee,” he said, “let that fellow up.”
Pee Wee, much gratified at the prominent part his weight had permitted him to take in the contest, got off his prostrate victim and Lemming struggled to his feet, his face livid and his whole body shaking with rage at his humiliation and defeat. For a moment it seemed as if he would rush at Bobby like a mad bull, but a glance at the faces of the boys and at the baseball that Bobby held ready for action convinced him for the present that discretion was the better part of valor.
“You ain’t heard the last of this,” he snapped. “I’ll get even with you. And when I once get hold of you away from your gang I’ll make you wish you had never been born.”
“Your pals are waiting for you,” was all the response that Bobby vouchsafed, while he watched his enemy with the eye of a hawk.
With muttered imprecations, Lemming slouched sullenly away and climbed the fence. Before he got into the car he turned and shook his fist vengefully and shouted out a torrent of threats. But Bobby simply laughed, and with a honking of the horn that was in itself a promise of vengeance the car started up and rolled away.
They watched it until it had passed from sight and then turned and looked at each other. Other boys now came running up, having heard Fred’s whistle for help.
“Bobby, you’re a trump,” cried Fred, in admiration as he clapped his friend on the shoulder.
All crowded round their leader and showered him with praise until Bobby blushed to the ears.
“Lay off, you fellows,” he cried in some confusion. “The chance simply came my way and I took it. It simply shows that football and baseball tactics are good for something besides games.”
“I thought sure it was coming to a regular fist fight and I was bracing myself for it,” put in Skeets. “But, thanks to Bobby, none of us got a scratch.”