Another cry of pain followed.
“It’s Anderson. He’s ill-treating that young Sim!” cried Ned, his face flushing angrily. The Dreadnought Boy hated to hear of anything weak and small being badly used.
“Come on, Herc, we’ll take a hand in this,” he said.
They advanced rapidly, yet almost noiselessly, and in a second a turn of the path brought them upon the two whose voices they had heard. Anderson had hold of Sim’s arm and was twisting it tightly while he pounded on the back of it with one burly fist to make the agony more excruciating.
“Here you, let go of that boy!” exclaimed Ned.
Anderson looked up furiously.
“Oh, it’s you interfering again, is it? Now you take my advice and keep out of this. I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to, but just keep on your way, or you’ll get hurt.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” rejoined Ned easily. “If you don’t stop ill-treating that boy, it’s you that will get hurt.”
“Is that so?” snarled Anderson. “Well, Mister Busy-body, I’ll just do as I please.”
So saying, he gave Sim’s arm, which he had not released, an additional twist, causing the frail lad to cry out again. But before the cry had completely left the boy’s lips, Ned’s hand had closed upon Anderson’s wrist, and that worthy, with a snort of pain, suddenly found himself staggering backward under the force of the quick twist the boy had given him.