Perhaps the angry man realized this. Certainly he must have known that he would stand little chance in attacking five healthy, hearty youngsters, each of whom had the glow of clean-living on his cheeks, while their poise showed that they were used to active work, and ready for any emergency.
“Get out of this yard!” roared the farmer. “What right have you got interfering between me and my hired man, anyhow? What right, I’d like to know?”
“The right of every lover of fair-play!” exclaimed Andy. “Do you think we’d stand quietly by and let you use a horse-whip on a young fellow that you ought to be able to handle with one hand? And he with his arm in a sling! To my way of thinking, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
The farmer growled out something unintelligible.
“We ought to do you up good and brown!” exclaimed Tom, his fists clenched.
“He’s only playing off on me—he ain’t hurt a mite!” growled the farmer. “He’s only fakin’ on me.”
“I certainly am not,” spoke the young fellow in firm but respectful terms. “I sprained my arm unloading your wagon, Mr. Snad, and I can’t drive the team any more to-day. I put my handkerchief around it because the sprain hurt me so. I certainly can’t work!” His voice faltered and he choked. His spirit seemed as much hurt as his body—perhaps more.
“Huh! Can’t work, eh? Then get out!” snarled Mr. Snad. “I want no loafer around here! Get out!”
“I’m perfectly willing to go when you pay me what you owe me,” said the helper, quietly.
“Owe you! I don’t owe you nothin’, you lazy lout!” snapped the farmer.