"That's worse than using a sandbag," added Dick.
"I—I didn't do it," muttered Koswell. He looked around as if he wanted to slink out of sight.
"You did!" cried Tom. "And take that for it!" And before the brute of a youth could ward off the blow he received Tom's fist in his right eye. Then he got one in the other eye and another in the nose that made the blood spurt freely. He tried to defend himself, but Tom was "fighting mad," and his blows came so rapidly that Koswell was knocked around like a tenpin and sent bumping, first into Flockley, then into Larkspur, and then into some bushes, where he lay, panting for breath.
"Now have you had enough?" demanded Tom, while the crowd marveled at his quickness and staying powers.
"I—I" stammered Koswell.
"If you've had enough, say so," went on Tim. "If not, I'll give you some more."
"I—I'm sick," murmured Koswell. "I was sick this morning when I got up. I'll—I'll finish this with you some other day."
"All right, Koswell," answered Tom coolly. "But when you go at it again, do it fairly, or you'll get the worst of it. Remember that!"
