He advanced a few paces toward the weathered heap of debris and broke into a time-honored taunt: Silvey, th' bilvey, Th' rik-stick-stilvey! To which the intrenched commander of the enemy replied, Fletcher, oh, Fletcher, Th' old fly catcher, and exposed just enough of his person to wriggle ten brazen fingers from the tip of his nose. John made a last, despairing attempt. "'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid-cat! 'Fraid of getting hi-i-t! Ya-a-h!" "Come on and hit me, then," came back the answer, which admitted of no retort save action. "We've got to chase 'em out someway." He turned desperately to Red. "You and Perry Alford sneak up behind that thick lot of weeds when we start yelling and dancing like everything. Then we'll charge and drive 'em around to your end. But don't let 'em hit you." In the meantime, the youngest member of the Mosher family had discovered that his position as "Red-Crosser" carried only a decoration on his sleeve, which admitted of no honor or excitement whatever. He crept up, unobserved by the excited Fletcherites, raided the cucumber basket of as many of the missiles as his little pockets would hold, and halted within easy distance to watch the attack on the fortress. Red and Perry sneaked stealthily to the weed-clump ambush while their comrades showered cucumbers on the sheltered foe recklessly. Occasionally the defenders replied with a shot whenever a good mark was presented, but for the most part, they seemed content to keep the box heap between them and their enemies and bide their time. Farther and farther away they edged in response to the flanking movement of the main division of John's army, until Red, deeming the moment opportune, fired. Perry Alford followed. Silvey, surprised by the sudden attack from the rear, turned and received a cucumber full upon his half-open lips. "Who did that?" he sputtered, as he dislodged the acrid fragments from his mouth. Red threw caution to the winds and danced exultantly out in the open. "You're a deader. You're a deader. I killed the general. I killed the general." Silvey advanced on him furiously. "I'll punch your face in, hitting me in the mouth that way." Brown was ever in ecstasy at the prospect of a fight. "Come on and do it," he retorted. "Didn't last football practice, did you?" Silvey doubled his fists. His opponent held his ground. The rank and file of the two armies dropped their cucumbers and gathered in a little semi-circle to watch the fight. The youngest Mosher boy crept up and balanced himself unsteadily on one foot. In his right hand he held a cucumber, and on his face shone set determination. "Wanta fight," he cried, as the combatants began the inevitable preliminary sparring. "_Goin'ta_ fight!"