“What’s the matter, you silly little duffer?” he exclaimed, fiercely. But, like a flash, the thought came to him that, after all, it might be only a joke. “Oh, it’s all right, Victor,” he added, with forced calmness. “You can’t string me.”
“Or rope me into believing any taffy. I’ll show you how much joke there’s in it!”
Something happened.
Victor’s small fists began to move with truly remarkable speed. It was Tom Clifton’s ribs that stopped several snappy punches.
“Ouch! Quit it!” yelled Tom, jumping aside with undignified haste. “Stop—stop, I say!”
But whichever way he turned Victor was always dancing before him.
“You would make me miss that motor yacht trip, eh? Thought maybe I looked soft, eh? Well, here’s one for that!”
Two pairs of restraining hands suddenly gripped Victor Collins’ shoulders.
“No more of this, Vic,” commanded Bob, sternly. “We don’t want to start a rival show on this side of the street.”
“You’re making more noise than that fat barker over there!” added Charlie.