For one thing, however, Art was grateful. His father was not expected to reach Scottsville until eight o’clock Saturday evening. Therefore, Art’s one care was to keep all hint of the impending contest from his mother’s ears. Friday had been set aside for finishing touches on machines and for preliminary try-outs. But, somehow, the coming tournament did not make Friday a very busy work day. As the club members gathered in the workroom they were received with cautions of silence into a new council of war.
Alex Conyers had just heard that Sammy Addington’s father owned the Sycamore Tree Pasture. If that were true the Goosetown gang might be barred from the premises. The only thing necessary would be to lay the matter before Mr. Addington, who no doubt would be glad to serve notice on the loafers to get off his property. Connie called the members together and excitedly submitted his information.
“Tell father?” exclaimed Sammy Addington. “Not on your tin. He’s wise. He’d stop the whole thing. Anyway, you can bet I’d be left at home.”
“You ain’t very big, Sammy,” retorted Connie with a laugh, “to be so eager for gore.”
“I’m just this eager,” exclaimed Sammy as he drew a strange article from his pocket and, stretching his thumb and fingers through five holes in the brassy looking object, he struck it soundly on the workbench.
“What’s that?” asked Art.
“What’s that?” repeated Sammy drawing himself up. “It ain’t a that. Them’s knuckles—regular knuckles. I borrowed them from our chauffeur. An’ they’re mainly for Nick Apthorp’s cocoanut.”
Without hesitation Art reached forward and slipped the dreadful weapon of attack from Sammy’s chubby and clenched hand.
“How’d you like to have a revolver?” he asked sarcastically.