You look a little white around
the gills. You had no right to fight a heavy-weight like him."
"I wish to thank you both," said Mary, "but I'm a stranger in this
town--I have lived here only a few months, and--I don't know your
names."
She blushed prettily and the lids modestly covered the blue eyes. The
three had moved along the road a short distance while she was
speaking.
"My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer, and this is my friend and classmate
at Andover, Thomas Chripp."
The lids were lifted but the blush deepened. "My name is Mary Dana. I
live with my father on Pettingill Street."
"Why," cried Quincy, "Ezekiel Pettingill is my uncle--I live with
him. I'm going home your way, and, with your permission, I will
escort you to your father's house."
"All right, Quincy--you go ahead," said Tom. "But you must excuse me.
I've kept Mr. Wood waiting."
They were around a bend in the road by this time. When Tom returned
to the scene of the encounter, Mr. Wood was not in sight. Mr. Chripp
laughed, and paraphrased an old couplet.
"He who fights, then runs away,
Will have to fight some other day."
Quincy walked beside Mary, but said little. He would not acknowledge
it, but the exertion had been too much for him. His knees felt weak,
his sight grew dim, and, before Mary was aware of his condition, he
sank upon the grass by the roadside.
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