As the three closed about him, a determined look in their ugly faces, the girl who had lingered irresolutely at a few paces distance, gave a low cry for help, and rushed up to the group as if to protect her protector.
“Take that!” shouted Mort, throwing out his hand and striking her, perhaps harder than he really meant to, full in the face.
Before he had time to see the effect of his blow, there was a crash between his eyes, and the earth seemed suddenly flying up into the sky. As he lay on the ground half-stunned, Winthrop, who felt that it was at last time to act, turned fiercely on his other opponents. Surprised by the suddenness of his attack, they forgot the superiority of their numbers, and started backwards. Another nervous blow from the slender young athlete, and Phil was on his back beside his leader, while Dick Stanwood, tripping over a stone—purposely or not the boys never knew—went down ingloriously with the rest. Above them stood young Ayre, like Saint Michael over his enemies, panting and glowing.
“Oh! are you hurt?” asked the girl, hurrying up to “Saint Michael,” and laying her hand on his arm.
Winthrop laughed. “Well, I’m able to walk,” he said reassuringly. Then: “Let’s leave these rascals to come to their senses. May I see you home?”
The girl flushed prettily in her eagerness. “You are so kind,” she said. “I live just the other side of that hill, and if you’ll come in a few minutes and see grandpa, I’ll be very much obliged.”
“But your forehead,” added Winthrop, as they walked along the dusty road side by side, leaving their three late assailants to sneak off in the opposite direction; “I’m afraid that fellow hurt you, though I don’t believe he meant to strike you so hard.”
“Oh! it isn’t much. I haven’t told you who I am,” she added shyly. “I know about you and your sister Marie, over at the Elms. Your Uncle Ayre and my grandfather are dear friends.”
“Then you must be ‘Puss’ Rowan!”