"I'm just reading this kid here a lesson.

This orchard is my father's and mine and you'll keep out of it in future or suffer the consequences, understand ?" "Why, we aren't doing any harm," protested Rob Blake heatedly.
"I don't care what you are doing or not doing," retorted the other, "this is my father's orchard and you'll keep off it.

You and the rest of you tin soldiers.

I don't want you stealing our peaches." "I guess you are sore, Jack Curtiss, because you couldn't get a boy scout patrol of your own! I guess that's what the trouble is," remarked Tubby Hopkins softly, but with a meaning look at the big lad.
"You impudent little whipper-snapper," roared Jack Curtiss, "if you weren't such a shrimp I'd lick you for that remark, but you're all beneath my notice.

All I want to say to you is keep away from my orchard or I'll give you a trimming." "Suppose you start now," said Rob Blake quietly, "if you are so anxious to show what a scrapper you are." "Bah, I don't want anything to do with you, I tell you," rejoined Curtiss, turning away, with a rather troubled expression, however, for while he was a bully the big lad had no particular liking for a fight unless he was pretty sure that all the advantage lay on his side.
"It was too bad you didn't get that patrol of yours, Jack," called the irrepressible Tubby after him as the big youth strode off across the orchard toward the old-fashioned farmhouse in which he lived with his father, a well-to-do farmer.