at one pair, but not at the other, and plainly enjoying the excitement.
"Boys!" cried Anice. "What's the matter?"
"They're feighten," remarked a philosophical young by-stander, with placid interest,—"an' Jud Bates'll win."
It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should think of interfering, and there was something so decided in the girlish voice addressing them, that almost at the moment the combatants fell back, panting heavily, breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidently resenting the unexpected intrusion.
"What is it all about?" demanded the girl. "Tell me."
The crowd gathered close around her to stare, the terrier sat down breathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail beating the ground. One of the boys was his master, it was plain at a glance, and, as a natural consequence, the dog had felt it his duty to assist to the full extent of his powers. But the other boy was the first to speak.
"Why could na he let me a-be then?" he asked irately. "I was na doin' owt t' him."
"Yea, tha was," retorted his opponent, a sturdy, ragged, ten-year-old.
"Nay, I was na."
"Yea, tha was."
"Well," said Anice, "what was he doing?"
"Aye," cried the first youngster, "tha tell her if tha con. Who hit th' first punse?" excitedly doubling his fist again. "I didna."
"Nay, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib wi' thy clog, an' hit him aside o' th' yed, an' then I punsed thee, an' I'd do it agen fur—"
"Wait a minute," said Anice, holding up her little gloved hand. "Who is Nib?"
