But Bert was irrepressible.
“Go it, old girl!” he encouraged. “You win! Me for you every time! Now's your chance! Swat! Oh! My! A peach! A peach!”
“It's the biggest rough-house I ever saw,” Billy confided to Saxon. “It sure takes the Micks to mix it. But what did that dude wanta do it for? That's what gets me. He wasn't a bricklayer—not even a workingman—just a regular sissy dude that didn't know a livin' soul in the grounds. But if he wanted to raise a rough-house he certainly done it. Look at 'em. They're fightin' everywhere.”
He broke into sudden laughter, so hearty that the tears came into his eyes.
“What is it?” Saxon asked, anxious not to miss anything.
“It's that dude,” Billy explained between gusts. “What did he wanta do it for? That's what gets my goat. What'd he wanta do it for?”
There was more crashing in the brush, and two women erupted upon the scene, one in flight, the other pursuing. Almost ere they could realize it, the little group found itself merged in the astounding conflict that covered, if not the face of creation, at least all the visible landscape of Weasel Park.
The fleeing woman stumbled in rounding the end of a picnic bench, and would have been caught had she not seized Mary's arm to recover balance, and then flung Mary full into the arms of the woman who pursued. This woman, largely built, middle-aged, and too irate to comprehend, clutched Mary's hair by one hand and lifted the other to smack her. Before the blow could fall, Billy had seized both the woman's wrists.
“Come on, old girl, cut it out,” he said appeasingly. “You're in wrong. She ain't done nothin'.”
Then the woman did a strange thing. Making no resistance, but maintaining her hold on the girl's hair, she stood still and calmly began to scream. The scream was hideously compounded of fright and fear. Yet in her face was neither fright nor fear. She regarded Billy coolly and appraisingly, as if to see how he took it—her scream merely the cry to the clan for help.