“You get out of the way, Tim Roon!” cried Bobby. “Go ahead, Meg, I’ll punch him if he touches you.” 62
Tim was older and larger than Bobby, but the latter had no intention of allowing him to annoy his sister.
Meg tried to push her way past the short, sturdy body of Tim, who blocked her path. A quick twist of a vicious, sharp, little elbow jostled her into the mud, and she stepped in over one of her low shoes.
“You will, will you,” snarled Bobby, angrier than he had ever been in his life. “You just wait––knocking a girl like that!”
Tim squared off, as he had seen fighters in pictures do, and Bobby lowered his head for a rush. But Philip, who had been an interested spectator, decided that the time had come for him to be of use. With a sharp bark, he lunged straight for Tim’s legs, his sharp, even teeth showing on either side of his red tongue. Tim saw him coming, jumped to avoid him, lost his footing, and slipped. He fell into the thickest part of the mud, his foot doubled under him.
“Run, Meg!” shouted Bobby, who wisely decided that it was the better part of valor to take 63 advantage of Tim’s plight. “Come, Philip, run! run!”
Pell-mell, the stones clattering in the bag Bobby still clutched, Philip racing ahead and barking like a mad dog, the two children ran down the road and did not stop till they reached the broad band of cement walk where the east boundaries of Oak Hill were drawn.
Then they stopped and looked back, Philip panting and growling a little as if he only wanted a word to go back and repeat his good work.