He bent over him, and catching him by the back of
the neck, jerked him to his knees. Wessner lifted the face of a whipped
cur, and fearing further punishment, burst into shivering sobs, while
the tears washed tiny rivulets through the blood and muck. Freckles
stepped back, glaring at Wessner, but suddenly the scowl of anger and
the ugly disfiguring red faded from the boy's face. He dabbed at a cut
on his temple from which issued a tiny crimson stream, and jauntily
shook back his hair. His face took on the innocent look of a cherub,
and his voice rivaled that of a brooding dove, but into his eyes crept a
look of diabolical mischief.
He glanced vaguely around him until he saw his club, seized and twirled
it as a drum major, stuck it upright in the muck, and marched on tiptoe
to Wessner, mechanically, as a puppet worked by a string. Bending over,
Freckles reached an arm around Wessner's waist and helped him to his
feet.
"Careful, now" he cautioned, "be careful, Freddy; there's danger of you
hurting me."
Drawing a handkerchief from a back pocket, Freckles tenderly wiped
Wessner's eyes and nose.
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