In the gasp of astonishment that followed Hen got upon his feet, gave a swift push with his left skate and was away.
"After him, fellows!" roared Toby Ross. "We'll hold him and let Ben do the face-washing."
Dick, Tom and Greg had shot past the scene. Now they circled and came back, their faces aglow with the fast sport and the keen air.
Hen tried to make for the shore, but got in where the surface of the ice was rough and choppy. Ned Allen and Toby reached out to grasp Hen as they neared him. Young Dutcher made a switching-away movement, and the next instant he had fallen flat on his face. He let out a howl.
"We've got him!" declared Toby, as he and Allen pounced on the prostrate one.
"Yes, but let him alone, fellows," urged Dick, reaching the scene and halting. "Hen may have his faults, but it's time we chose another fellow to pick on for a while."
"We're going to wash his face," insisted Ben Alvord, skating up and looking belligerent. "Don't you interfere, Dick Prescott!"
Hen, making no effort to do more than sit up, was blubbering softly.
"Lemme alone, fellows," he pleaded. "Can't you see I'm hurt?"
Hen had his right mitten off, and was gingerly applying that hand to the narrow stretch of upper lip. There was blood there. Hen, catching only an imperfect view as he gazed down past the end of his nose, was sure that he had been badly injured by his fall.