“Of course, he didn’t trip you,” Ben asserted firmly. “So run along and peddle your papers.”
An ugly look came over the fellow’s face.
“Threatenin’ me, be yuh?” he bawled. “I’m bad Pete Higgins! Guess yer didn’t know that.”
“I don’t care whether your name is Higgins, Wiggins or Spriggins,” replied Tom, snapping his fingers in the chap’s face.
“Say, do yer want ter go back ter the village in chunks, ’stead of all in one piece?”
“If you don’t stand aside, you’ll land on your neck in that mud-puddle.”
“And quick!” rasped Ben.
The sottish fellow gave a snarl, for all the world like a mad dog, raised his fists, and started forward. But then he stopped abruptly, froze in his tracks, and stared long and hard into Tom Gordon’s face.
“Tarnation,” he said finally, evil intent in his very tone, “I know yer now! Yer the young squirt what Pat Fagan’s lookin fer!”
“Out of the way, fellow!” ordered Ben, who was now becoming thoroughly alarmed. “Come on, Tom! Let’s get going.”