“Highway robbers, eh?” cried the young farmer, and setting down his basket he leaped forward, and threw one of the masked youths headlong.
“Don’t!” screamed the other. “We ain’t no robbers. We’re only havin’ a bit of fun.”
“Pretty rough fun,” came from Samuel Windham, and he made after the lad, who took to his heels, and disappeared behind the trees. Seeing this the others also ran off at top speed, leaving the field to Frank and his friend.
“Thank you; you came in the nick of time,” said our hero, as he brushed off his clothing.
“Hurt much?”
“Not very much. I got a nasty crack in the shoulder and one on the left hand, but I’ll soon get over them.”
“What made ’em attack you, I wonder.”
“It was on account of the smallest boy,” said Frank, and then told of the lad’s stage tendencies. Samuel Windham laughed uproariously at the story.
“Just like him,” he said. “That boy always was a queer stick. His folks had better take him in hand. Will you make a complaint?”
“I guess not. I don’t expect to visit this neighborhood again in a hurry. They got about as good as they gave.”