ar the fence, gazing at the batting
and catching with so deep an interest that his mouth would stay open,
when he suddenly found himself "surrounded."

"Hullo, Dick, what you got in your basket?"

"Groceries! Groceries! Fresh from Afriky."

"Let's see 'em."

"Jes' you keep off, now."

"Give us that basket."

"Don't you tech a thing!"

"What you got, Midnight?"

"None ob youah business. I's 'tendin' to mine. Put dat back, now, will
you?"

Dick had promptly retreated against the fence, in his surprise and
vexation, and was defending himself and his cargo vigorously, but he was
sadly outnumbered.

They were a cowardly lot: for their all but helpless victim had even
received several sharp blows, in return for his grasps and pushes; and
the matter threatened to end unpleasantly for him, when suddenly Joe
Hart felt his feet jerked from under him. Down he went, and over went
Fuz on top of him; and then there were four or five boys all in a heap,
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!

"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 getti