Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (good summer reads .txt) 📗

“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.

“Let him up, Frank,” said the old man. “I'll see that he does no further harm.”

John rose to his feet, and looked scowlingly from one to the other, as if undecided whether he had not better attack both.

“You've disgraced yourself, John Haynes,” said the old farmer scornfully. “So you would turn negro-whipper, would you? Your talents are misapplied here at the North. Brutality isn't respectable here, my lad. You'd better find your way within the rebel lines, and then perhaps you can gratify your propensity for whipping the helpless.”

“Some day I'll be revenged on you for this,” said John, turning wrathfully upon Frank. “Perhaps you think I don't mean it, but the day will come when you'll remember what I say.”

“I wish you no harm, John,” said Frank composedly, “but I sha'n't stand by and see you beat a boy like Pomp.”

“No,” said the farmer sternly; “and if ever I hear of your doing it, I'll horsewhip you till you beg for mercy. Now go home, and carry your disgrace with you.”

Mr. Maynard spoke contemptuously, but with decision, and pointed up the road.

With smothered wrath John obeyed his order, because he saw that it would not be safe to refuse.

“I'll come up with him yet,” he muttered to himself, as he walked quietly toward home. “If he doesn't rue this day, my name isn't John Haynes.”

John did not see fit to make known the circumstances of his quarrel with Frank, feeling, justly, that neither his design nor the result would reflect any credit upon himself. But his wrath was none the less deep because he brooded over it in secret. He would have renewed his attempt upon Pomp, but there was something in Mr. Maynard's eye which assured him that his threat would be carried out. Frank, solicitous for the little fellow's safety, kept vigilant watch over him for some days, but no violence was attempted. He hoped John had forgotten his threats.