"Well! can’t _we_?" demanded Fred Martin, panting and doubling his fists. "What are we—babies?"
"We won’t fight—yet," put in Bobby, calmly. "Perhaps they don’t realize that that is our fire and our potatoes."
"What’ll we do?" asked Pee Wee, by no means anxious to advance.
"Come on," said Bobby; feeling dreadfully shaken inside, but too proud to show it. "Let’s talk to them."
"Better get some clubs and _go_ for them," growled Fred.
"No. They haven’t clubs," declared Bobby. "Let’s not start any fight."
He and Shiner and Mouser proceeded along the beach. They saw the Belden fellows scrambling for the hot potatoes, and shouting and skylarking.
"That’s Larry Cronk—that fellow with the curly hair. Don’t you remember, Bobby? He pitched for their club when we went over to beat them that day."
"I remember. And that’s their first baseman—Ben Allen." Then Bobby raised his voice so the Belden crowd could hear him: "I say! that’s our fire and those are our potatoes. We were just coming down to get them."
"Is that so?" sneered Larry Cronk, standing up and laughing at the Rockledge boys. "Well, you came too late—do you see?"
"I’ll throw a rock at him!" growled the belligerent Fred.
"Keep still!" commanded Bobby. Then to the Beldenites he said: "That’s not fair—or honest. Those are our potatoes—"
Larry swung back his arm, and poised one of the potatoes. The next moment he flung it with all his force at Bobby. The latter just escaped it by dodging.
"Mean thing!" yelled Fred, and he picked up a stone on the instant (there were plenty of pebbles on the beach) and flung it at the Belden’s captain.
"That’s right! let’s drive them off!" cried Pee Wee, from the rear.
Fred’s stone was flung true and Larry Cronk received it in the shoulder. He yelled and dodged, and at once the Belden boys let go a flight of _hot potatoes_!
The potatoes burst wherever they struck—and not a few of them landed upon the boys who had hoped to feast upon the tubers. This was adding insult to injury, and the Rockledge boys were greatly enraged.
"They’re spoiling all our ’taters!" cried Pee Wee—almost wailing, in fact. "There! there’s another busted."
He had turned just in time to get the potato in the back instead of in the chest. Mouser and Howell were jumping about and rubbing their cheeks. The hot potatoes burned as well as stung, and although they were mealy enough to fly all about when they burst—like miniature bombs—when flung by a vigorous arm, they hurt more than a little.