with Dick's basket upset just beyond them, and Dick himself diving
hither and thither after its late contents, and exclaiming,--

"Cap'n Dab's come! I's all right now. Jes' let me pick up some ob dese
t'ings."

There was a resentful ring in the last remark, as if he were thinking of
something like war after the recovery of his groceries; but it was
indeed the voice of Dab Kinzer, shouting full and clear,--

"Pick 'em up, Dick! we're just in time."

A boy somewhat larger than the rest, a good half-head taller than
Dabney, but with a somewhat pasty and unhealthy complexion, had selected
Ford Foster, as the shortest of the new arrivals, and demanded,--

"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!