“Yes,” admitted Hank, meekly.
“I’ll punish you for that!” quivered the soft-voiced one, stepping forward.
“Don’t strike me on the wrist,” pleaded Hank. “I have rheumatism there.”
But Dawley, too angry, or else too dull to understand that he was being made a mark for ridicule, continued to advance upon Butts, who retreated, a look of mock alarm in his face.
“Keep away from me—please do, while you’re angry,” begged Hank, still retreating.
“I won’t!” snapped Dawley. As Hank now retreated rapidly backward, Dawley went after him with corresponding speed.
“If you must have it, then, why—take it!” cried Hank, in a tone of desperation.
One of his hands had been held under his rain-coat all along. Now Hank thrust the other hand inside, as well, to reach for some object concealed there.
“Oh. O-o-oh! Don’t you drop that weight 249 on my foot!” yelled Dawley, blanching and falling up against the wooden wall.
But Hank, ruthlessly, as one whose blood is up, brought both his hands swiftly into view as he sprang at Dawley. There was a yell from the fair-haired one as Hank bent forward, then dropped squarely on the toes of Dawley’s right foot—his pocket-handkerchief!