"Them's the scallywags," roared her husband.
"What, this crowd? Why they are nothing but boys, the poor dears."
"Maybe—but sich boys."
"He nearly dislocated that boy's shoulder," spoke up Nat Wingate, pointing to John as he edged slowly away.
"The idea—Steven Burr a-laying of violent hands on a boy—the idea, I say."
"Eh—what?" stammered the big man.
John Hackett, who was still lying on the grass for the purpose of effect, seized the opportunity to slowly and painfully arise.
"I may be a boy," he shouted, almost beside himself with anger, "but anybody who dares to touch me has got to fight. Come on, you great big overgrown farmer!"
Perfectly regardless of consequences in his passion, "Hatchet" danced around and around, swinging his fists with extraordinary rapidity.
"If it wasn't for your wife, you big coward, I'd fix you, and that in short order."