Brown was ever in ecstasy at the prospect of a fight. "Come on and do it," he retorted. "Didn't last football practice, did you?"
Silvey doubled his fists. His opponent held his ground. The rank and file of the two armies dropped their cucumbers and gathered in a little semi-circle to watch the fight. The youngest Mosher boy crept up and balanced himself unsteadily on one foot. In his right hand he held a cucumber, and on his face shone set determination.
"Wanta fight," he cried, as the combatants began the inevitable preliminary sparring. "Goin'ta fight!"
The next moment, a cucumber caught Silvey squarely in the eye. The latter turned, dug viciously in his pocket for ammunition, and fired a handful of cucumbers at his assailant without perceiving, in his blind rage, who it was. Yell after yell filled the air.
"Now look what you've done," exclaimed Mosher miserably. "Just watch me catch it when he gets home."
"Well," Silvey snapped, still angry as the others gathered around the infant, "I told him to keep out of the cucumber basket. What did he throw at me for?"
The wails continued. Skinny bent anxiously over his brother. "Come, buddy," he coaxed. "You're not hurt badly."
"W-a-a-a-h!" The boys began to feel alarmed.
"Where did he hit you?"
"W-a-a-a-h!"