“Now, then, hold him, Gerhart, while I clip him two or three good ones!” they heard some one say, and immediately after that came in pleading tones:
“Oh, please don’t hit me again, Mr. Langridge. I did the best I could for you.”
“The best, you little rat! You didn’t get the stuff I sent you for!” exclaimed Langridge angrily.
“Because they wouldn’t sell me the whisky,” was the answer. “Oh, Mr. Langridge, please don’t hit me!”
“It’s Wallops!” exclaimed Phil. “Wallops, the little messenger. What’s that brute Langridge up to now?”
“Seems as if he sent Wallops after liquor, and he didn’t get it,” said Tom. “I hear he’s been up to that trick.”
“The dirty cad!” whispered Phil.
A moment later there was the sound of a blow, and it was followed by a cry of pain.
“Come on!” cried Phil to Tom, and the two strode around the corner of the building. They saw Gerhart holding Wallops, who was a lad small for his age, while Langridge was punching him in the face, accompanying each blow with the remark:
“That will teach you to play the sneak trick on me. You drank that stuff yourself!”