"Nobody's the friend of a policeman," Bert chortled, dabbing his
handkerchief to his injured ear, which still bled.

The bushes crackled behind him, and he sprang aside to let the
locked forms of two men go by, rolling over and over down the
hill, each striking when uppermost, and followed by a screaming
woman who rained blows on the one who was patently not of her
clan.

The judges, in the second story of the stand, valiantly withstood
a fierce assault until the frail structure toppled to the ground
in splinters.

"What's that woman doing?" Saxon asked, calling attention to an
elderly woman beneath them on the track, who had sat down and was
pulling from her foot an elastic-sided shoe of generous
dimensions.

"Goin' swimming," Bert chuckled, as the stocking followed.

They watched, fascinated. The shoe was pulled on again over the
bare foot. Then the woman slipped a rock the size of her fist
into the stocking, and, brandishing this ancient and horrible
weapon, lumbered into the nearest fray.

"Oh!--Oh!--Oh!" Bert screamed, with every blow she struck "Hey,
old flannel-mouth! Watch out! You'll get yours in a second. Oh!
Oh! A peach! Did you see it? Hurray for the old lady! Look at her
tearin' into 'em! Watch out, old girl! . . . Ah-h-h."