“Try to run away from me; will you?” he demanded. “I’ll show you that it won’t do to fool with me—you prep. kids are getting too fresh. Now you get down on your knees and beg my pardon, and then take my glove and bat, and Mersfeld’s bat too.”
“Oh, North—” began the pitcher, who was a fairly decent chap.
“Let me manage him,” exclaimed the bully. “These kids have to be taught their place. Get down on your bones, now!”
He seized the frail lad’s hands in his strong ones, and bent them over backward.
“Oh, Mr. North! Please don’t. I—I won’t do it again! I’ll carry the bat! Oh, you’re breaking my hands!”
He cried out in agony, and Mersfeld took a step forward half intending to interfere. But he did not get the chance.
Some one with blazing eyes leaped from behind the clump of bushes and confronted the bully. A clenched fist was drawn back, and then shot forward. Right on the point of North’s aristocratic chin it landed with a sound that could be heard for some distance.
Backward the bully was hurled, almost turning over, and then he slumped down on the grass. He stayed there for several seconds, and then got up slowly.
“Who—who did that?” he asked thickly, for he was a bit dazed.
“I did,” answered Cap Smith quietly, “and if you want any additional just try some more of your bullying tactics on boys smaller than yourself.”