He let the basket swing down and just passed his right hand forward, seeming only to brush the assailant’s ankle—in fact it was the merest touch, but sufficient to upset the equilibrium of a kicker on one leg, and the next moment Lance Distin was lying on his back in a perfect tangle of brambles, out of which he scrambled, scratched and furious, amidst a roar of laughter from his companions.
“You beggar!” he cried, with his dark eyes flashing, and a red spot in each of his sallow cheeks.
“Keep off!” cried the mushroom bearer, backing away. “Lay hold of him, Gilmore—Aleck!”
The lads addressed had already caught at the irate boy’s arms.
“Let go, will you!” he yelled. “I’ll let him know.”
“Be quiet, or we’ll all sit on you and make you.”
“I’ll half kill him—I’ll nearly break his neck.”
“No, don’t,” said the boy with the basket, laughing. “Do you want your leave stopped? Nice you’d look with a pair of black eyes.”
“You can’t give them to me,” roared the lad, passionately, as he still struggled with those who held him, but giving them little trouble in keeping him back.
“Don’t want to. Served you right. Shouldn’t have tried to kick over my basket. There, don’t be in such a temper about that.”