“I do; yes,” pugnaciously rejoined Hunt, thrusting forward his chin in a manner he had seen depicted in pictures of pugilists.
“Well, then,” was the astonishing reply, “let it go at that. We want to get home.”
“Well, what do you think of that?” exclaimed Lem Lonsdale, who was one of the lads accompanying Hunt.
“He wants to get home to his mammy,” sneered Dale Harding, Hunt’s other companion.
“Yes, but he’s got to take his medicine first,” snarled Hunt, who had, unfortunately for himself, as it later appeared, mistaken Rob’s unwillingness to enter into a bruising match for timidity.
“So, you’re afraid to fight, eh?” he jeered. “Well, you’ve got to. Will you put up your fists, and take it like a man, or will I have to trounce you like a regular coward?”
“Yes, how will you take your licking?” sneered Dale Harding, as Hunt sprang at Rob, thinking to take him by surprise.
“This way!”
Like a pistol-shot, the words were snapped out.
The next instant Hunt was seen to halt in his spring forward, and go toppling backward. Rob, unwilling to hurt him, had “heeled” him. The recumbent lad was furious. He scrambled to his feet, using a torrent of strong language.