“Better come along and see,” retorted Art.
“Is this little Artie an’ his playmates?”
“It is, Flatfoot Hank!” exclaimed Art—for the boy was Hank Milleson, one of the Goosetown leaders. “Like to meet some of ’em?”
“I been waitin’ here fur you—all of you. Say,” he went on, and now the banter had gone out of his voice, “youse guys is goin’ over there to the paster to start somethin’, lookin’ fur trouble, ain’t you?”
“Supposin’ we are?” sneered Art.
“Well, what’s the use o’ that?” went on Hank. “That place kind o’ belongs to us. What’d you pick out our campin’ grounds fur?”
“Because they suited us,” responded Art, red in the face. “What you goin’ to do about it?”
“Nothin’. Only I thought I’d hang ’round here an’ ast you not to go.”
“I reckon you think we’re scared,” piped a voice. It was Sammy Addington, doing his best to get to the front.
“I guess you ain’t scared enough,” answered Hank.