By that time, however, Hop Loo had recovered his wind, grabbed up a stick of stove-wood, and was bearing down on the fat Teuton with blood in his eye.
The youth saw him coming, whirled, and ran into the clothes-line. His weight ripped the line from the tree and the house-corner, and when he went on he carried it with him, the dried clothes flapping like so many distress-signals.
Perhaps the boy traveled a dozen yards. At the end of that distance, he got tangled in the rope, went down and rolled over and over, completely wrapping himself up in a choice assortment of laundry.
It is hard to tell what Hop Loo would have done when he came up with that fluttering heap that was twisting and writhing on the ground. He had the stick of wood in his hand and much bitterness in his heart, but if he struck too hard he would make a bad matter worse by damaging some of the linen. Besides, when Hop Loo got ready to take revenge, Matt was standing between him and the helpless Dutchman.
"Easy there, Hop Loo!" cried Matt.
"You no stopee China boy!" howled Hop Loo, dancing all around Matt and trying to get at the bundle. "Dutchee boy spoilee heap washee, makee plenty tlouble. Me sendee topside, you bettee!"
Grabbing Hop Loo's waving arm, Matt deftly relieved the yellow fist of the billet of wood.
"Hold up, Hop Loo," said he soothingly; "let's get down to cases on this thing and find out what's wrong."
"By jim' Klismus," shrilled Hop Loo, "he tly beatee China boy! No makee pay fo' launly! Kickee up plenty lumpus. No likee!"
"Vell, der olt rat-eader! I vas drying to tell him some t'ings und he vouldn't lis'en. He made me more drouples as you can guess, und pegan drowing me at all der flad-irons in der blace."