In another instant the crowd had worked itself through the fence and was advancing toward the big tree. For a moment Alex Conyers lingered behind where Hank Milleson, still smoking his pipe, leaned against a post.
“You belong to that gang, don’t you?” remarked Hank.
“Yes,” answered Connie.
“You licked Matt Branson once, didn’t you? When Matt was going to school?”
“He said he had enough,” confessed Connie.
“Well,” added Hank clearing the fence with a bound, “fur the good o’ everybody I think you and me better move along.”
Before Hank and Connie caught the advancing party it had come to a sudden halt. Seven shiftless, carelessly dressed young idlers who had been lying under the hollow sycamore had half risen and were sitting with their knees on their hands. All seemed highly amused. Art Trevor was standing ahead of his companions. Nick Apthorp, one of the seven, had been the first to speak.
“Hello kids. What’s doin’?”
“None of your business,” answered Sammy Addington.