“We’ll risk all that,” replied the leading ruffian impatiently. “Now, dry up, Wolf Penniman. We don’t wish any harm to you; but you shall not spoil this game. Come, fellows, bring up the tar-kettle.”
The wretch went up to Waddie, whose hands were tied behind him, and began to pull off his shirt. The unhappy victim uttered the most piercing screams, and struggled like a madman to break away from the tree.
“This thing has gone far enough,” I interposed indignantly, as a couple of the rascals took the tar-kettle from the fire, and began to carry it towards the tree.
“What are you going to do about it?” blustered the chief of the party.
“I am going to stop it,” I replied smartly.
“I guess not! If you don’t take yourself off, we’ll give you a coat of the same color.”
I rushed up to the two boys who were carrying the kettle, and began to demonstrate pretty freely with the boat-hook. They placed their burden on the ground, and stood by to defend it. I hooked into it with my weapon, and upset it.
CHAPTER VI.
THE BATTLE WITH BLOWS.
The gruff-voiced conspirator rushed furiously toward me, and I retreated a few paces. The two in charge of the tar-kettle picked it up, and saved a portion of its contents. My heavy assailant was roused to a high pitch of anger by the opposition I made to his plans, and seemed to be disposed to proceed to extremities. He had picked up a club, and continued to advance. Once or twice he made a pass at me with his weapon, but I dodged the blow.
I was not angry, and I was cool. I saw that my foe was clumsy, if he was stout. As he threw his heavy cow-hide boots about, he reminded me of an elephant dancing a hornpipe. I saw two or three chances to hit him, but I refrained from doing so, for I did not want a broken head upon my conscience.