In that moment she was transformed from a raging
fury into a very meek and trembling little girl, who looked
shyly and pleadingly out from a tangle of curls. The boys
were for rushing at her again.
"Cowardy-cats! Five of you fighting one girl," cried Fanny,
her lower lip trembling ever so little. "Come on! Hit me!
Afraid to fight anything but girls! Cowardy-cats!" A tear,
pearly, pathetic, coursed down her cheek.
The drive was broken. Five sullen little boys stood and
glared at her, impotently.
"You hit us first," declared one boy. "What business d' you
have scratching around like that, I'd like to know! You old
scratch cat!"
"He's sickly," said Fanny. "He can't fight. There's
something the matter with his lungs, or something, and
they're going to make him quit school. Besides, he's a
billion times better than any of you, anyway."
At once, "Fanny's stuck on Clar-ence! Fanny's stuck on
Clar-ence!"
Fanny picked up her somewhat battered Zola from where it had
flown at her first onslaught. "It's a lie!" she shouted.
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