“Good day to you, young sire,” said Hawkins pleasantly.
“Good day,” replied Don, and then colored as he observed a boy of perhaps his own age who happened to be passing with a fishing pole over his shoulder.
“Do you know him, Hawkins?” inquired Tom in astonishment and then as Sailor left Don’s side and started back toward the group he added angrily: “Git, you pup, git!”
But Sailor was all friendliness as he trotted toward the soldiers.
“Come here, Sailor!” ordered Don, stopping and snapping his fingers.
But at that instant Tom’s foot shot out and, striking the terrier in the chest, lifted him into the air. With a loud yelp the dog landed on his back and then, scrambling to his feet, ran to Don and stood beside him, trembling.
“I’ll learn a rebel dog a trick or two,” cried Tom. “And before long——”
But Tom never finished the sentence. Before Don could take more than two steps forward, and before any of the soldiers could interfere, the boy whom Don had just passed dropped his fishing pole, and, lowering his head, rushed at Tom. One of his fists struck the Tory squarely in the mouth and sent him reeling; the other struck him on the ear and sent him crashing to the ground.
Tom was a big boy and very active. In a moment he was on his feet and had closed with his opponent, who was easily twenty pounds the lighter.
“Fight!” cried a Redcoat. “Clear the way there!”