“No! Aw, quit, Paul! Honest, some one’s coming down the line. It won’t hurt you to wait a minute, will it?” Rogers was panting now from the double exertion of being a human barrier and a suppliant. But he won, for Eldredge, almost as angry with his friend for delaying revenge as with his enemy, but utterly unable to get past him, stopped his efforts in despair.
“What do you mean, wait a minute?” he demanded, alternately glaring at Rogers and Myron.
“Well, wait until tomorrow,” panted Rogers. “You know what’ll happen if you fight here. Do it regular, Paul.”
“Tomorrow! Where’ll he be by that time?” asked Eldredge scathingly.
“Shut up!” cautioned Rogers hoarsely. “You’ll have a crowd here in a minute!” Already a group of three fellows had paused a little way off and were peering curiously through the darkness. “Listen, will you? You fellows can settle this just as well tomorrow as you can now. Fix it up for the brickyard at—at what time do you say, Foster?”
“Any time he likes!” answered Myron obligingly. Then, remembering that there were such things as recitations, he added: “Before breakfast: say a quarter to seven.”
“You won’t want any breakfast when I get through with you,” growled Eldredge.
“That all right for you, Paul?” asked Rogers. By this time he was leading the others by force of example along the walk.
“Sure.”