"What are you meddling for?" just as he aimed a clumsy blow at his head. That blow did not hit Ford; but a shorter young ruffian had also picked him out, perhaps for the same reason, and the hit he aimed reached its mark, for Ford had no extra pair of arms behind to box with. Frank Harley seemed, just then, to be remarkably busy with the heap of boys on the ground.
"Spat!"—that was the way something sounded; and Dab Kinzer added,—
"Go for that fellow on the grass, Ford: I'll take care of the long one."
"You will,—will you?"
Spat—spat—spat!
"Oh! I see: you don't know how to box; weak in the arms too. Better go home."
The tall boy was stepping backwards quite rapidly, with one hand on his nose, and the other swinging wildly in the air above him; and Ford was keeping the "fellow on the grass" from getting up, when all the noise around them suddenly ceased.
"Dr. Brandegee!"
"Where? Where?"
"Coming across the green, at the upper end."