Brightly’s eyes began to flash, but his arms still remained folded.
“That’s a lie,” he said deliberately.
Already a crowd had gathered around the two boys. Some had heard Belcher’s loud words, others had scented the trouble from afar. They swarmed to the scene of conflict, as boys always do, like honey-bees to a field of clover.
They were pressing in wildly toward the two disputants. They had expected a quarrel between them, and now it was on. They were bound to see and hear the whole of it.
Belcher had worked himself into a white heat.
“Officer!” he exclaimed sarcastically; “officer! You’re nothing but a cowardly bully!”
Brightly’s arms were loosed and dropped to his side. His face grew pale. His fingers twitched convulsively, the veins on his forehead stood out dark and prominent. “One more word,” he said slowly, “and I’ll strike you.”
“A hundred words if you like,” replied Belcher, passionately, “and strike if you dare! I repeat it that you’re a cowardly bully and a disgrace to—”