The tramp let out a yell and stopped short, for most of the mud-balls had landed squarely. Then, furious with rage, he made a headlong dash toward them.
But again the arms swung around with perfect precision.
Swish, splash—the mud was just the proper consistency for mud-balls. It splattered all over the unfortunate tramp number one, and stung him until he could no longer face the bombardment.
Unmindful of the yells and fierce commands of number two, he ignominiously turned his back and fled before the storm.
The “Count,” a sadly bedraggled and dripping object, witnessed the rout with unconcealed feelings of disgust. Slowly he walked to where his companion had halted. The boys were then treated to a volley of violent threats.
All the ugliness in the natures of the men was aroused, and, determining upon revenge, they picked up whatever missiles lay within reach and began a fierce onslaught.
Sticks, stones and lumps of hard earth whizzed and rattled around the boys.
Before such a dangerous hail, the lads were compelled to retreat. Joe uttered a yell, and began limping around on one foot; Fred Winter dropped his glasses.
The tramps, with shouts of triumph, continued to lumber forward, promising the boys that when they had finished with them their house-boat would be wrecked.
And just then, when things looked a bit discouraging, the sound of hurrying feet came to their ears. Three men dashed forward, and the boys instantly recognized two of them as the artists whom they had met on the top of the Palisades.