But the effort was too much. Bob’s face was pale now from something more than anger or excitement. At the sight of a scarlet tinge on his lips, Tom Allen and Hal Burton sprang forward and pulled the combatants apart. Bob swayed weakly on his feet for a moment, then braced himself and wiped away the traces of the little hemorrhage that his effort had cost him. His weakened lungs had failed him, and his mouth was full of blood.
“Come on,” sneered Mac, his face almost livid with rage, “finish what ye started. Ef ye think ye kin do that agin, try it.”
Again Bob’s handkerchief removed a mouthful of blood. He cleared his throat, shoved his handkerchief into his pocket and began to draw off his coat. But just then Tom Allen stepped before his leader.
“Mac,” he said in an alarmed voice, “he can’t fight. Bob’s sick.”
“Sick?” sneered Gregory. “He’s sick where I pasted him, I reckon. Come on,” he snarled, “an’ I’ll give it to ye where ye ain’t lookin’ fur it.”
Bob attempted to push Tom aside but by that time, Hal had also interfered.
“You got to wait till he’s right, Mac—’tain’t fair.”
“That’s all it takes fur some of ’em,” almost shouted Mac. “A little punch an’ a little blood an’ it’s all over. Ain’t that right, sissy?”
Even Tom and Hal could no longer restrain Bob. The angry lad pushed them hastily aside. His face livid and his lips tinged with blood, he dashed between his friends. As he did so, there was a sharp command behind the four boys, and Mrs. Allen, white faced and trembling, sprang between the two boys. Immediately behind her was Bob’s mother.
Abashed and mortified, all four boys hung their heads.