"Ya-a-a-h," jeered Sid incautiously.
John drove out, full strength, with his right fist upon his adversary's nose. Sid stepped back in dismay. It wasn't fair, punching without the preliminary tilt of words and wary skirmishing. Again John set upon him and he turned, dodged behind a tree, and fled for home. Down the street they tore at top speed. Inch by inch, the space between the two diminished as they passed the Alfords, the Harrisons, and finally arrived at the DuPree iron gate.
"Ma-a-a-a!" yelled Sid, as he struggled with the handle. "Come quick, come quick."
The gate suddenly yielded. Sid sprang inside, up the front steps, and into the hallway. There he turned, locked the screen door, and stuck out his tongue at his adversary.
"Ya-a-a-a!" he taunted.
John contemplated an attack upon the flimsy screening, but a remnant of wisdom withheld him.
Fletcher,
The Fletcher,
The old fly-catcher!
came the cry from the porch.
"Think you're smart," John glared. "Just dare you to come down here! Just dare you to!"
"The old fly-catcher" continued. John opened his lips for a reply in kind.