“He shall not whip you, Pomp,” said Frank quietly.  As he spoke he stepped to the tree and faced John intrepidly.

John, in a moment of less passion, would not have ventured to attack a boy so near his own size.  Like all bullies, he was essentially a coward, but now his rage got the better of his prudence.

“I’ll flog you both!” he exclaimed hoarsely, and sprang forward with upraised stick.

Frank was about half a head shorter than John, and was more than a year younger, but he was stout and compactly built; besides, he was cool and collected, and this is always an advantage.

Before John realized what had happened, his stick had flown from his hand, and he was forcibly pushed back, so that he narrowly escaped falling to the ground.

“Gib it to him, Mass’ Frank!” shouted little Pomp.  “Gib it to him!”

This increased John’s exasperation.  By this time he was almost foaming at the mouth.

“I’ll kill you, Frank Frost,” he exclaimed, this time rushing at him without a stick.

Frank had been in the habit of wrestling for sport with the boys of his own size.  In this way he had acquired a certain amount of dexterity in “tripping up.”  John, on the contrary, was unpractised.  His quick temper was so easily roused that other boys had declined engaging in friendly contests with him, knowing that in most cases they would degenerate into a fight.

John rushed forward, and attempted to throw Frank by the strength of his arms alone.  Frank eluded his grasp, and, getting one of his legs around John’s, with a quick movement tripped him up.  He fell heavily upon his back.

“This is all foolish, John,” said Frank, bending over his fallen foe.  “What are you fighting for?  The privilege of savagely whipping a poor little fellow less than half your age?”

“I care more about whipping you, a cursed sight!” said John, taking advantage of Frank’s withdrawing his pressure to spring to his feet.  “You first, and him afterward!”

Again he threw himself upon Frank; but again coolness and practice prevailed against blind fury and untaught strength, and again he lay prostrate.

By this time Pomp had freed himself from the string that fettered his wrists, and danced in glee round John Haynes, in whose discomfiture he felt great delight.

“You’d better pick up your pail and run home,” said Frank.  He was generously desirous of saving John from further humiliation.  “Will you go away quietly if I will let you up, John?” he asked.

“No, d——­you!” returned John, writhing, his face almost livid with passion.

“I am sorry,” said Frank, “for in that case I must continue to hold you down.”

“What is the trouble, boys?” came from an unexpected quarter.

It was Mr. Maynard, who, chancing to pass along the road, had been attracted by the noise of the struggle.

Frank explained in a few words.