“Don’t!” exclaimed Micky, in alarm.
“It seems you don’t like agreeable s’prises,” said Dick, “any more’n the man did what got hooked by a cow one mornin’, before breakfast. It didn’t improve his appetite much.”
“I’ve most broke my arm,” said Micky, ruefully, rubbing the affected limb.
“If it’s broke you can’t fire no more stones, which is a very cheerin’ reflection,” said Dick. “Ef you haven’t money enough to buy a wooden one I’ll lend you a quarter. There’s one good thing about wooden ones, they aint liable to get cold in winter, which is another cheerin’ reflection.”
“I don’t want none of yer cheerin’ reflections,” said Micky, sullenly. “Yer company aint wanted here.”
“Thank you for your polite invitation to leave,” said Dick, bowing ceremoniously. “I’m willin’ to go, but ef you throw any more stones at me, Micky Maguire, I’ll hurt you worse than the stones did.”
The only answer made to this warning was a scowl from his fallen opponent. It was quite evident that Dick had the best of it, and he thought it prudent to say nothing.
“As I’ve got a friend waitin’ outside, I shall have to tear myself away,” said Dick. “You’d better not throw any more stones, Micky Maguire, for it don’t seem to agree with your constitution.”
Micky muttered something which Dick did not stay to hear. He backed out of the alley, keeping a watchful eye on his fallen foe, and rejoined Henry Fosdick, who was awaiting his return.
“Who was it, Dick?” he asked.