"I stump you to hit me."
The stones soon began to fly promiscuously, and the play grew more lively than safe. The boys became excited and ran in all directions, exclaiming "Hit me, hit me!" The missiles were dodged with exultant laughter, and the shots returned with interest.
As must be supposed, some of the players were really hit, and sore heads, and backs, and limbs made the sham skirmish before long a good deal like a real battle.
Belcher Whitmarsh was about the only really cool fellow on the ground.
"Come, fellows," he remonstrated, "this is getting dangerous. What's the good of throwing stones when you're mad? It's poor play, any way."
"Ho, you're afraid," shouted Roger Blake, and in this he was joined by several others.
Roger had received one rather hard thump, and feeling quite fiery about it determined to be "even with somebody." He kept on hurling right and left reckless of consequences.
Belcher paid no attention to the derision with which his words were treated. He was preparing, with one or two companions, to leave the playground when he saw Roger near him with a heavy stone in his hand drawing back for a furious throw.
Partly in sport and partly out of regard for the lad aimed at, he stepped behind the excited boy and caught his arm.
Roger whirled about instantly in a great heat. As Belcher stepped quickly backward, laughing, he let fly the stone at him with all his force, crying: