"Come on."
Sorrel-top Simpson, a year younger than his brother, proved to be a
most unfair fighter, and the good-natured fireman was compelled to
interfere several times before the second of the Simpson clan lay on
the ground and acknowledged defeat.
This time Joe reached for his kites without the slightest doubt that
he was to get them. But still another lad stepped in between him and
his property. The telltale hair, vividly red, sprouted likewise on
this lad's head, and Joe knew him at once for what he was, another
member of the Simpson clan. He was a younger edition of his brothers,
somewhat less heavily built, with a face covered with a vast quantity
of freckles, which showed plainly under the electric light.
"You don't git them there kites till you git me," he challenged in
a piping little voice. "I 'm 'Reddy' Simpson, an' you ain't licked
the fambly till you 've licked me."
The gang cheered admiringly, and Reddy stripped a tattered jacket
preparatory for the fray.
"Git ready," he said to Joe.
Joe's knuckles were torn, his nose was bleeding, his lip was cut and
swollen, while his shirt had been ripped down from throat to waist.
Further, he was tired, and breathing hard.
"How many more are there of you Simpsons?" he asked. "I 've got to
get home, and if your family 's much larger this thing is liable
to keep on all night.
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