“I said quit it!” came in resolute tones from Andy. “Don’t you hit him any more! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Using a whip! Why don’t you take some one your size, and use your hands if you have to. You’re a coward!”
“That’s right!” chimed in Chet Anderson.
“It’s a blooming shame—that’s what it is!” protested Tom Hatfield. “Let’s make a rough-house of him, fellows!”
“What’s that?” cried the farmer. “You threaten me, do you? Get out of my barnyard before I treat you as I did him! Get out, do you hear!”
“No!” exclaimed Andy. “We don’t go until you promise to leave him alone,” and he nodded at the shrinking youth.
“Say, I’ll show you!” blustered the big farmer. “I’ll thrash you young upstarts——”
“Oh no, you won’t!” exclaimed Tom, easily. And when big Tom Hatfield, left guard on the Milton eleven, spoke in this tone trouble might always be looked for. “Oh, no you won’t, my friend! And, just to show you that you won’t—there goes your whip!”
With a quick motion Tom pulled the lash from the man’s hand, and sent it whirling over the fence into the road.
“You—you!” blustered the farmer. He was too angry to be able to speak coherently. His hands were clenched and his little pig-like eyes roved from one to the other of the lads as though he were trying to decide upon which one to rush first.
“Take it easy, now,” advised Tom, his voice still low. “We’re five to one, and we’ll certainly tackle you, and tackle you hard, if you don’t be nice. We’re not afraid of you!”