Half stunned, Hank made an effort to clasp Art’s body, but Trevor was too quick for him. Throwing himself on Milleson’s chest with crushing force, the Elm Street boy pinned his opponent to the ground and then “roughed” his head against Hank’s nose.
“That’s enough,” yelled a voice in Art’s ear. “Let him up. You win.”
It was Connie. His own battle had been soon over, although he had not resorted to the professional tricks his chum had used. Three or four sound blows on Job’s face and neck had forced an abject surrender. Carrots Compton and Connie had not joined issues, each pausing to watch the big fight.
“You done it, Artie,” gasped the almost breathless Hank.
Carrots Compton, carried away by the sight of the clever contest, stood by in open admiration. As Trevor rose to his feet, his shirt torn, rents in each knee of his trousers, his hair wet with perspiration, his muscles yet trembling and his lips quivering with unsatisfied anger, he caught sight of his avowed enemy.
“Now you red-headed bluff,” shouted Art, “I’m ready for you. There’s the river you’re goin’ to make me jump in! You big loafer and bum,” he added, his eyes feverish with anger. “I’ll give you a minute to start tryin’ or I’ll throw you in.”
There was no escape for Carrots. As Hank scrambled onto his feet a dozen begrimed, blood-spotted and clothing-torn boys quickly formed a circle.
“That’s the stuff,” shouted Nick Apthorp, forgetting his own bandaged head. “Give ’em room. Let ’em scrap it out. A bottle o’ beer on little Artie,” he added. But there were no takers of his wager. Carrots had shot forward with head down. But he landed in Hank Milleson’s arms.
“Cheese it, kids,” shouted Hank as he whirled Carrots to his feet. “The marshal’s comin’.”