Whilomville Stories ............................................................................................................................................1

Stephen Crane..........................................................................................................................................1

"Making an Orator" ................................................................................................................................31

The City Urchin and the Chaste Villagers ............................................................................................34

The Fight ................................................................................................................................................38

The Knife...............................................................................................................................................45

"The Lover and the Telltale ..................................................................................................................51

The Stove...............................................................................................................................................54

The Trial, Execution, and Burial of Homer Phelps...............................................................................61

JIMMIE TRESCOTT'S new velocipede had the largest front wheel of any velocipede in Whilomville. When

it first arrived from New York he wished to sacrifice school, food, and sleep to it. Evidently he wished to

become a sort of a perpetual velocipederider. But the powers of the family laid a number of judicious

embargoes upon him, and he was prevented from becoming a fanatic. Of course this caused him to retain a

fondness for the threewheeled thing much longer than if he had been allowed to debauch himself for a span

of days. But in the end it was an immaterial machine to him. For long periods he left it idle in the stable.

One day he loitered from school toward home by a very circuitous route. He was accompanied by only one of

his retainers. The object of this detour was the wooing of a little girl in a red hood. He had been in love with

her for some three weeks. His desk was near her desk at school, but he had never spoken to her. He had been

afraid to take such a radical step. It was not customary to speak to girls. Even boys who had schoolgoing

sisters seldom addressed them during that part of a day which was devoted to education.

The reasons for this conduct were very plain. First, the more robust boys considered talking with girls an

unmanly occupation; second, the greater part of the boys were afraid; third, they had no idea of what to say,

because they esteemed the proper sentences should be supernaturally incisive and eloquent. In consequence, a

small contingent of blueeyed weaklings were the sole intimates of the frail sex, and for it they were

But this situation did not prevent serious and ardent wooing. For instance, Jimmie and the little girl who wore

the red hood must have exchanged glances at least two hundred times in every schoolhour, and this

exchange of glances accomplished everything. In them the two children renewed their curious inarticulate

Jimmie had developed a devotion to school which was the admiration of his father and mother. In the

mornings he was so impatient to have it made known to him that no misfortune had befallen his romance

during the night that he was actually detected at times feverishly listening for the "first bell." Dr. Trescott was

exceedingly complacent of the change, and as for Mrs. Trescott, she had ecstatic visions of a whitehaired

Jimmie leading the nations in knowledge, comprehending all from bugs to comets. It was merely the doing of

When Jimmie made up his mind to follow his sweetheart home from school, the project seemed such an

arbitrary and shameless innovation that he hastily lied to himself about it. No, he was not following Abbie.

He was merely making his way homeward through the new and rather longer route of Bryant Street and

Oakland Park. It had nothing at all to do with a girl. It was a mere eccentric notion.

The retainer was bored and loath, but that mattered very little. He did not know how to disobey his chief.

Together they followed the trail of redhooded Abbie and another small girl. These latter at once understood

the object of the chase, and looking back giggling, they pretended to quicken their pace. But they were

always looking back. Jimmie now began his courtship in earnest. The first thing to do was to prove his

strength in battle. This was transacted by means of the retainer. He took that devoted boy and flung him

The retainer accepted this behavior with a sort of bland resignation. After his overthrow he raised himself,

coolly brushed some dust and dead leaves from his clothes, and then seemed to forget the incident.

The retainer selected a footing on the curb, balanced and calculated a moment, and jumped without

"There!" he cried, blowing out his lips. "I beat you, didn't I? Easy. I beat you." He made a great hubbub, as if

Later, Jimmie forced his retainer to run a race with him, held more jumpingmatches, flung him twice to

earth, and generally behaved as if a retainer was indestructible. If the retainer had been in the plot, it is

conceivable that he would have endured this treatment with mere whispered, halflaughing protests. But he

was not in the plot at all, and so he became enigmatic. One cannot often sound the profound well in which lie

Following the two little girls, Jimmie eventually passed into that suburb of Whilomville which is called

Oakland Park. At his heels came a badly battered retainer. Oakland Park was a somewhat strange country to

the boys. They were dubious of the manners and customs, and of course they would have to meet the local

Jimmie's girl departed into her home with a last backward glance that almost blinded the thrilling boy. On

this pretext and that pretext, he kept his retainer in play before the house. He had hopes that she would

A boy came along the walk. Jimmie knew him at school. He was Tommie Semple, one of the weaklings who

made friends with the fair sex. "Hello, Tom," said Jimmie. "You live round here?"

"Yeh," said Tom, with composed pride. At school he was afraid of Jimmie, but he did not evince any of this

Jimmie and his retainer had not expected this boy to display the manners of a minor chief, and they

"I can put you down." He moved forward briskly. "Can't I?" he demanded. The challenged boy backed away.

The little girl in the red hood had come out with a hoop. She looked at Jimmie with an air of insolent surprise

in the fact that he still existed, and began to trundle her hoop off toward some other little girls who were

Jimmie adroitly shifted his position until he too was playing near the perambulator, pretentiously making

Of course little Abbie had defined the meaning of Jimmie's appearance in Oakland Park. Despite this

nonchalance and grand air of accident, nothing could have been more plain. Whereupon she of course

became insufferably vain in manner, and whenever Jimmie came near her she tossed her head and turned

away her face, and daintily swished her skirts as if he were contagion itself. But Jimmie was happy. His soul

was satisfied with the mere presence of the beloved object so long as he could feel that she furtively gazed

upon him from time to time and noted his extraordinary prowess, which he was proving upon the persons of

his retainer and Tommie Semple. And he was making an impression. There could be no doubt of it. He had

many times caught her eye fixed admiringly upon him as he mauled the retainer. Indeed, all the little girls

Presently a boy on a velocipede was seen to be tooling down toward them. "Who's this comin'?" said Jimmie,

"That's Horace Glenn," said Tommie, "an' he's got a new velocipede, an' he can ride it like anything."

"I don't I never fought with 'im," answered the other. He bravely tried to appear as a man of respectable

achievement, but with Horace coming toward them the risk was too great. However, he added, "Maybe I

The advent of Horace on his new velocipede created a sensation which he haughtily accepted as a familiar

thing. Only Jimmie and his retainer remained silent and impassive. Horace eyed the two invaders.

"Have you?" asked Horace, anxiously. He did not wish anybody in the world but himself to possess a

"Yes," sang Jimmie. "An' it's a bigger one than that, too! A good deal bigger! An' it's a better one, too!"

This corroboration rather disconcerted Horace, but he continued to scoff at any statement that Jimmie also

owned a velocipede. As for the contention that this supposed velocipede could be larger than his own, he

simply wouldn't hear of it. Jimmie had been a very gallant figure before the coming of Horace, but the new

velocipede had relegated him to a squalid secondary position. So he affected to look with contempt upon it.

Voluminously he bragged of the velocipede in the stable at home. He painted its virtues and beauty in loud

and extravagant words, flaming words. And the retainer stood by, glibly endorsing everything.

The little company heeded him, and he passed on vociferously from extravagance to utter impossibility.

Horace was very sick of it. His defense was reduced to a mere mechanical grumbling: "Don't believe you got

one 'tall. Don't believe you got one 'tall." Jimmie turned upon him suddenly. "How fast can you go? How fast

Horace lifted his spirits and answered with proper defiance. "Can't I?" he mocked. "Can't I?"

Horace cried: "Well, you see me now! I'll show you! I'll show you if I can't go fast!" Taking a firm seat on his

vermilion machine, he pedalled furiously up the walk, turned, and pedalled back again. "There, now!" he

shouted, triumphantly. "Ain't that fast? There, now!" There was a low murmur of appreciation from the little

girls. Jimmie saw with pain that even his divinity was smiling upon his rival. "There! Ain't that fast? Ain't

that fast?" He strove to pin Jimmie down to an admission. He was exuberant with victory.

Notwithstanding a feeling of discomfiture, Jimmie did not lose a moment of time. "Why," he yelled, "that

ain't goin' fast 'tall!" That ain't goin' fast 'tall! Why, I can go almost twice as fast as that! Almost twice as fast!

"Why," spouted Jimmie, "you just ought to see me ride once! You just ought to see me! Why, I can go like

the wind! Can't I, Clarence? And I can ride far, too oh, awful far! Can't I, Clarence? Why, I wouldn't have

The overwhelmed Horace attempted to reconstruct his battered glories. "I can ride right over the curbstone

Jimmie's derision was a splendid sight. "'Right over the curbstone!' Why, that wouldn't be nothin' for me to

do! I've rode mine down Bridge Street hill. Yessir! 'Ain't I, Clarence? Why, it ain't nothin' to ride over a

At last Horace, having fallen as low as was possible, began to display a spirit for climbing up again. "Oh, you

can do wonders!" he said, laughing. "You can do wonders! I s'pose you could ride down that bank there?" he

asked, with art. He had indicated a grassy terrace some six feet in height which bounded one side of the walk.

At the bottom was a small ravine in which the reckless had flung ashes and tins. "I s'pose you could ride

All eyes now turned upon Jimmie to detect a sign of his weakening, but he instantly and sublimely arose to

the occasion. "That bank?" he asked, scornfully. "Why, I've ridden down banks like that many a time. 'Ain't I,

This was too much for the company. A sound like the wind in the leaves arose; it was the song of incredulity

and ridicule. "O o o o o!" And on the outskirts a little girl suddenly shrieked out, "Storyteller!"

Horace had certainly won a skirmish. He was gleeful. "Oh, you can do wonders!" he gurgled. "You can do

wonders!" The neighborhood's superficial hostility to foreigners arose like magic under the influence of his

sudden success, and Horace had the delight of seeing Jimmie persecuted in that manner known only to

Jimmie called angrily to the boy on the velocipede, "If you'll lend me yours, I'll show you whether I can or

Horace turned his superior nose in the air. "Oh, no! I don't ever lend it." Then he thought of a blow which

would make Jimmie's humiliation complete. "Besides," he said, airily, "'tain't really anything hard to do. I

could do it easy if I wanted to." But his supposed adherents, instead of receiving this boast with cheers,

looked upon him in a sudden blank silence. Jimmie and his retainer pounced like cats upon their advantage.

"Oh," they yelled, "you could, eh? Well, let's see you do it, then! Let's see you do it! Let's see you do it!

Now!" In a moment the crew of little spectators were gibing at Horace. The blow that would make Jimmie's

humiliation complete! Instead, it had boomeranged Horace into the mud. He kept up a sullen muttering:

"Dare you to!" screeched Jimmie and his partisans. "Dare you to! Dare you to! Dare you to!"

There were two things to be done to make gallant effort or to retreat. Somewhat to their amazement, the

children at last found Horace moving through their clamor to the edge of the bank. Sitting on the velocipede,

children. A hush came upon them, for it was seen that he was intending to make some kind of an

"I " he began. Then he vanished from the edge of the walk. The start had been unintentional an

The stupefied Jimmie saw the calamity through a haze. His first clear vision was when Horace, with a face as

red as a red flag, arose bawling from his tangled velocipede. He and his retainer exchanged a glance of horror

and fled the neighborhood. They did not look back until they had reached the top of the hill near the lake.

They could see Horace walking slowly under the maples toward his home, pushing his shattered velocipede

before him. His chin was thrown high, and the breeze bore them the sound of his howls.

ONE November it became clear to childish minds in certain parts of Whilomville that the Sundayschool of

the Presbyterian church would not have for the children the usual tree on Christmas eve. The funds free for

that ancient festival would be used for the relief of suffering among the victims of the Charleston earthquake.

The plan had been born in the generous head of the superintendent of the Sundayschool, and during one

session he had made a strong plea that the children should forego the vain pleasures of a tree, and, in a

glorious application of the Golden Rule, refuse a local use of the fund, and will that it be sent where dire

distress might be alleviated. At the end of a tearfully eloquent speech the question was put fairly to a vote,

and the children in a burst of virtuous abandon carried the question for Charleston. Many of the teachers had

been careful to preserve a finely neutral attitude, but even if they had cautioned the children against being too

Very early, boys held important speech together. "Huh! you ain't goin' to have no Christmas tree at the

"Huh!" scoffed the other denominations, "we are goin' to have the allfiredest biggest tree that ever you saw

It happened that Jimmie Trescott had regularly attended the Presbyterian Sundayschool. The Trescotts were

consistently undenominational, but they had sent their lad on Sundays to one of the places where they thought

he would receive benefits. However, on one day in December Jimmie appeared before his father and made a

strong spiritual appeal to be forthwith attached to the Sundayschool of the Big Progressive church. Doctor

Trescott mused this question considerably. "Well, Jim," he said, "why do you conclude that the Big

"Why now some of the boys what go to the Presperterian place, they ain't very nice," explained the

Trescott mused the question considerably once more. In the end he said: "Well, you may change if you wish,

this one time, but you must not be changing to and fro. You decide now, and then you must abide by your

On the following Sunday morning Jimmie presented himself at the door of the basement of the Big

church. He was conspicuously washed, notably raimented, prominently polished. And, incidentally, he was

A number of acquaintances greeted him contemptuously. "Hello, Jimmie! What you doin' here? Thought you

Jimmie cast down his eyes and made no reply. He was too cowed by the change. However, Homer Phelps,

who was a regular patron of the Big Progressive Sundayschool, suddenly appeared and said, "Hello, Jim!"

Jimmie seized upon him. Homer Phelps was amenable to Trescott laws, tribal if you like, but ironbound,

"Hello, Homer!" said Jimmie, and his manner was so good that Homer felt a great thrill in being able to show

"You 'ain't never come here afore, have you?" he demanded, with a new arrogance.

"No, I don't know her," admitted Jimmie, but in a way which contended, modestly, that he knew countless

"Better join our class," said Homer, sagely. "She wears spectacles; don't see very well. Sometimes we do

"All right," said Jimmie, glad to place himself in the hands of his friend. In due time they entered the

Sundayschool room, where a man with benevolent whiskers stood on a platform and said, "We will now

sing No. 33 'Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore.'" And as the obedient throng burst into melody,

the man on the platform indicated the time with a white and graceful hand. He was an ideal Sundayschool

superintendent one who had never felt hunger or thirst or the wound of the challenge of dishonor.

Jimmie, walking carefully on his toes, followed Homer Phelps. He felt that the kingly superintendent might

cry out and blast him to ashes before he could reach a chair. It was a desperate journey. But at last he heard

Homer muttering to a young lady, who looked at him through glasses which greatly magnified her eyes. "A

"We will proceed to the lesson," said the young lady. Then she cried sternly, like a sergeant, "The seventh

There was a swift fluttering of leaflets. Then the name of Jeremiah, a wise man, towered over the feelings of

these boys. Homer Phelps was doomed to read the fourth verse. He took a deep breath, he puffed out his lips,

he gathered his strength for a great effort. His beginning was childishly explosive. He hurriedly said,

Trust ye not in lying words, saying, The temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord,

"Now," said the teacher, "Johnnie Scanlan, tell us what these words mean." The Scanlan boy shamefacedly

muttered that he did not know. The teacher's countenance saddened. Her heart was in her work; she wanted to

make a success of this Sundayschool class. "Perhaps Homer Phelps can tell us," she remarked.

Homer gulped; he looked at Jimmie. Through the great room hummed a steady hum. A little circle, very near,

was being told about Daniel in the lion's den. They were deeply moved at the story. At the moment they liked

"Why now it means," said Homer, with a grand pomposity born of a sense of hopeless ignorance

"No," said the teacher, profoundly; "it means that we should be good, very good indeed. That is what it

means. It means that we should love the Lord and be good. Love the Lord and be good. That is what it

The little boys suddenly had a sense of black wickedness as their teacher looked austerely upon them. They

gazed at her with the wideopen eyes of simplicity. They were stirred again. This thing of being good this

apparently it was always successful. They know from the fairytales. But it was difficult, wasn't it? It was

said to be the most heartbreaking task to be generous, wasn't it? One had to pay the price of one's eyes in

order to be pacific, didn't one? As for patience, it was tortured martyrdom to be patient, wasn't it? Sin was

simple, wasn't it? But virtue was so difficult that it could only be practised by heavenly beings, wasn't it?

And the angels, the Sundayschool superintendent, and the teacher swam in the high visions of the little boys

as beings so good that if a boy scratched his shin in the same room he was a profane and sentenced devil.

"And," said the teacher, "'the temple of the Lord' what does that mean? I'll ask the new boy. What does

But here the professional bright boy of the class suddenly awoke to his obligations. "Teacher," he cried, "it

"Exactly," said the teacher, deeply satisfied with this reply. "You know your lesson well, Clarence. I am

The other boys, instead of being envious, looked with admiration upon Clarence, while he adopted an air of

being habituated to perform such feats every day of his life. Still, he was not much of a boy. He had the virtue

of being able to walk on very high stilts, but when the season of stilts had passed he possessed no rank save

this Sundayschool rank, this cleverlittleClarence business of knowing the Bible and the lesson better than

the other boys. The other boys, sometimes looking at him meditatively, did not actually decide to thrash him

as soon as he cleared the portals of the church, but they certainly decided to molest him in such ways as

would reestablish their selfrespect. Back of the superintendent's chair hung a lithograph of the martyrdom

Jimmie, feeling stiff and encased in his best clothes, waited for the ordeal to end. A bell pealed: the

superintendent had tapped a bell. Slowly the rustling and murmuring dwindled to silence. The benevolent

man faced the school. "I have to announce," he began, waving his body from side to side in the conventional

bows of his kind, "that " Bang went the bell. "Give me your attention, please, children. I have to announce

that the Board has decided that this year there will be no Christmas tree, but the "

Instantly the room buzzed with the subdued clamor of the children. Jimmie was speechless. He stood

morosely during the singing of the closing hymn. He passed out into the street with the others, pushing no

Speedily the whole idea left him. If he remembered Sundayschool at all, it was to remember that he did not

JIMMIE lounged about the diningroom and watched his mother with large, serious eyes. Suddenly he said,

She was overcome with the feminine horror which is able to mistake preliminary words for the full

accomplishment of the dread thing. "Why, Jimmie!" she cried. "Of all wonders! Your father's gun! No

He was fairly well crushed, but he managed to mutter, sullenly, "Well, Willie Dalzel, he's got a gun." In

reality his heart had previously been beating with such tumult he had himself been so impressed with the

daring and sin of his request that he was glad that all was over now, and his mother could do very little

further harm to his sensibilities. He had been influenced into the venture by the larger boys.

"Huh!" the Dalzel urchin had said; "your father's got a gun, hasn't he? Well, why don't you bring that?"

Puffing himself, Jimmie had replied, "Well, I can, if I want to." It was a black lie, but really the Dalzel boy

was too outrageous with his eternal billposting about the gun which a beaming uncle had intrusted to him.

Its possession made him superior in manfulness to most boys in the neighborhood or at least they

enviously conceded him such position but he was so overbearing, and stuffed the fact of his treasure so

relentlessly down their throats, that on this occasion the miserable Jimmie had lied as naturally as most

Willie Dalzel had not been checkmated, for he had instantly retorted, "Why don't you get it, then?"

Thereupon Jimmie had paced away with great airs of surety as far as the door of his home, where his manner

changed to one of tremulous misgiving as it came upon him to address his mother in the diningroom. There

had happened that which had happened. When Jimmie returned to his two distinguished companions he was

blown out with a singular pomposity. He spoke these noble words: "Oh, well, I guess I don't want to take the

They had been watching him with gleaming ferret eyes, and they detected his falsity at once. They challenged

him with shouted gibes, but it was not in the rules for the conduct of boys that one should admit anything

whatsoever, and so Jimmie, backed into an ethical corner, lied as stupidly, as desperately, as hopelessly as

Such accusations were never known to come to any point, for the reason that the number and kind of denials

always equalled or exceeded the number of accusations, and no boy was ever brought really to book for these

In the end they went off together, Willie Dalzel with his gun being a trifle in advance and discoursing upon

his various works. They passed along a maplelined avenue, a highway common to boys bound for that free

land of hills and woods in which they lived in some part their romance of the moment, whether it was of

Indians, miners, smugglers, soldiers, or outlaws. The paths were their paths, and much was known to them of

the secrets of the dark green hemlock thickets, the wastes of sweetfern and huckleberry, the cliffs of gaunt

bluestone with the sumach burning red at their feet. Each boy had, I am sure, a conviction that some day the

wilderness was to give forth to him a marvellous secret. They felt that the hills and the forest knew much, and

they heard a voice of it in the silence. It was vague, thrilling, fearful, and altogether fabulous. The grown folk

seemed to regard these wastes merely as so much distance between one place and another place, or as a

rabbitcover, or as a district to be judged according to the value of the timber; but to the boys it spoke some

great inspiring word, which they knew even as those who pace the shore know the enigmatic speech of the

surf. In the mean time they lived there, in season, lives of ringing adventure by dint of imagination.

The boys left the avenue, skirted hastily through some private grounds, climbed a fence, and entered the

thickets. It happened that at school the previous day Willie Dalzel had been forced to read and acquire in

some part a solemn description of a lynx. The meagre information thrust upon him had caused him grimaces

The other boys admired this statement, but they were silent for a time. Finally Jimmie said, meekly, "What's a

The Dalzel boy mocked him. "Why, don't you know what a lynx is? A lynx? Why, a lynx is a animal

somethin' like a cat, an' it's got great big green eyes, and it sits on the limb of a tree an' jus' glares at you. It's a

They penetrated deeper into the wood. They climbed a rocky zigzag path which led them at times where with

their hands they could almost touch the tops of giant pines. The gray cliffs sprang sheer toward the sky.

Willie Dalzel babbled about his impossible lynx, and they stalked the mountainside like chamoishunters,

although no noise of bird or beast broke the stillness of the hills. Below them Whilomville was spread out

somewhat like the cheap green and black lithograph of the time "A Bird'seye View of Whilomville, N.

In the end the boys reached the top of the mountain and scouted off among wild and desolate ridges. They

were burning with the desire to slay large animals. They thought continually of elephants, lions, tigers,

crocodiles. They discoursed upon their immaculate conduct in case such monsters confronted them, and they

The breeze was heavy with the smell of sweetfern. The pines and hemlocks sighed as they waved their

branches. In the hollows the leaves of the laurels were lacquered where the sunlight found them. No matter

the weather, it would be impossible to long continue an expedition of this kind without a fire, and presently

they built one, snapping down for fuel the brittle underbranches of the pines. About this fire they were

willed to conduct a sort of play, the Dalzel boy taking the part of a bandit chief, and the other boys being his

trusty lieutenants. They stalked to and fro, longstrided, stern yet devilmaycare, three terrible little figures.

Jimmie had an uncle who made game of him whenever he caught him in this kind of play, and often this

uncle quoted derisively the following classic: "Once aboard the lugger, Bill, and the girl is mine. Now to burn

the chateau and destroy all evidence of our crime. But, hark'e, Bill, no violence." Wheeling abruptly, he

addressed these dramatic words to his comrades. They were impressed; they decided at once to be smugglers,

At last they continued their march through the woods. The smuggling motif was now grafted fantastically

upon the original lynx idea, which Willie Dalzel refused to abandon at any price.

Once they came upon an innocent bird who happened to be looking another way at the time. After a great

deal of manoeuvring and big words, Willie Dalzel reared his fowlingpiece and blew this poor thing into a

Afterward the other big boy had a turn at another bird. Then it was plainly Jimmie's chance. The two others

had, of course, some thought of cheating him out of this chance, but of a truth he was timid to explode such a

thunderous weapon, and as soon as they detected this fear they simply overbore him, and made it clearly

understood that if he refused to shoot he would lose his caste, his scalp lock, his girdle, his honor.

They had reached the old deathcolored snake fence which marked the limits of the upper pasture of the

Fleming farm. Under some hickorytrees the path ran parallel to the fence. Behold! a small priestly

chipmonk came to a rail, and folding his hands on his abdomen, addressed them in his own tongue. It was

Jimmie's shot. Adjured by the others, he took the gun. His face was stiff with apprehension. The Dalzel boy

was giving forth fine words. "Go ahead. Aw, don't be afraid. It's nothin' to do. Why, I've done it a million

times. Don't shut both your eyes, now. Jus' keep one open and shut the other one. He'll get away if you don't

Jimmie, with his legs braced apart, was in the centre of the path. His back was greatly bent, owing to the

mechanics of supporting the heavy gun. His companions were screeching in the rear. There was a wait.

Then he pulled trigger. To him there was a frightful roar, his cheek and his shoulder took a stunning blow, his

face felt a hot flush of fire, and opening his two eyes, he found that he was still alive. He was not too dazed to

But directly after the wellmannered celebration of this victory a certain cow, which had been grazing in the

line of fire, was seen to break wildly across the pasture, bellowing and bucking. The three smugglers and

lynxhunters looked at each other out of blanched faces. Jimmie had hit the cow. The first evidence of his

comprehension of this fact was in the celerity with which he returned the discharged gun to Willie Dalzel.

They turned to flee. The land was black, as if it had been overshadowed suddenly with thick stormclouds,

and even as they fled in their horror a gigantic Swedish farmhand came from the heavens and fell upon

them, shrieking in eerie triumph. In a twinkle they were clouted prostrate. The Swede was elate and ferocious

From the ground they raised their dismal appeal. "Oh, please, mister, we didn't do it! He did it! I didn't do it!

In these moments of childish terror little lads go halfblind, and it is possible that few moments of their

afterlife made them suffer as they did when the Swede flung them over the fence and marched them toward

the farmhouse. They begged like cowards on the scaffold, and each one was for himself. "Oh, please let me

The boyish view belongs to boys alone, and if this tall and knotted laborer was needlessly without charity,

none of the three lads questioned it. Usually when they were punished they decided that they deserved it, and

the more they were punished the more they were convinced that they were criminals of a most subterranean

type. As to the hitting of the cow being a pure accident, and therefore not of necessity a criminal matter, such

reading never entered their heads. When things happened and they were caught, they commonly paid dire

consequences, and they were accustomed to measure the probabilities of woe utterly by the damage done, and

not in any way by the culpability. The shooting of the cow was plainly heinous, and undoubtedly their

"He did it, mister!" This was a general outcry. Jimmie used it as often as did the others. As for them, it is

certain that they had no direct thought of betraying their comrade for their own salvation. They thought

themselves guilty because they were caught; when boys were not caught they might possibly be innocent. But

captured boys were guilty. When they cried out that Jimmie was the culprit, it was principally a simple

Old Henry Fleming, the owner of the farm, strode across the pasture toward them. He had in his hand a most

cruel whip. This whip he flourished. At his approach the boys suffered the agonies of the fire regions. And

yet anybody with half an eye could see that the whip in his hand was a mere accident, and that he was a kind

When he had come near he spoke crisply. "What you boys ben doin' to my cow?" The tone had deep threat in

it. They all answered by saying that none of them had shot the cow. Their denials were tearful and clamorous,

and they crawled knee by knee. The vision of it was like three martyrs being dragged toward the stake. Old

Fleming stood there, grim, tightlipped. After a time he said, "Which boy done it?"

Jimmie thought, hesitated, decided, faltered, and then formulated this: "I thought she was a lynx."

Old Fleming and his Swede at once lay down in the grass and laughed themselves helpless.

ALTHOUGH Whilomville was in no sense a summer resort, the advent of the warm season meant much to it,

for then came visitors from the city people of considerable confidence alighting upon their country

cousins. Moreover, many citizens who could afford to do so escaped at this time to the seaside. The town,

with the commercial life quite taken out of it, drawled and drowsed through long months, during which

nothing was worse than the white dust which arose behind every vehicle at blinding noon, and nothing was

finer than the cool sheen of the hose sprays over the cropped lawns under the many maples in the twilight.

One summer the Trescotts had a visitation. Mrs. Trescott owned a cousin who was a painter of high degree. I

had almost said that he was of national reputation, but, come to think of it, it is better to say that almost

everybody in the United States who knew about art and its travail knew about him. He had picked out a wife,

and naturally, looking at him, one wondered how he had done it. She was quick, beautiful, imperious, while

he was quiet, slow, and misty. She was a veritable queen of health, while he, apparently, was of a most brittle

constitution. When he played tennis, particularly, he looked every minute as if he were going to break.

They lived in New York, in awesome apartments wherein Japan and Persia, and indeed all the world,

confounded the observer. At the end was a cathedrallike studio. They had one child. Perhaps it would be

better to say that they had one CHILD. It was a girl. When she came to Whilomville with her parents, it was

patent that she had an inexhaustible store of white frocks, and that her voice was high and commanding.

These things the town knew quickly. Other things it was doomed to discover by a process.

Her effect upon the children of the Trescott neighborhood was singular. They at first feared, then admired,

then embraced. In two days she was a Begum. All day long her voice could be heard directing, drilling, and

compelling those freeborn children; and to say that they felt oppression would be wrong, for they really

On the morning of this day she walked out into the Trescott garden and said to her father, confidently, "Papa,

He looked dreamily up from his easel. "Your birthday?" he murmured. Her envisioned father was never

energetic enough to be irritable unless some one broke through into that place where he lived with the desires

of his life. But neither wife nor child ever heeded or even understood the temperamental values, and so some

part of him had grown hardened to their inroads. "Money?" he said. "Here." He handed her a fivedollar bill.

It was that he did not at all understand the nature of a fivedollar bill. He was deaf to it. He had it; he gave it;

She sallied forth to a waiting people Jimmie Trescott, Dan Earl, Ella Earl, the Margate twins, the three

she cried, waving the bill, "and I am going to buy some candy." They were deeply stirred by this

announcement. Most children are penniless three hundred days in the year, and to another possessing five

pennies they pay deference. To little Cora waving a bright green note these children paid heathenish homage.

In some disorder they thronged after her to a small shop on Bridge Street hill. First of all came icecream.

Seated in the comic little back parlor, they clamored shrilly over plates of various flavors, and the shopkeeper

marvelled that cream could vanish so quickly down throats that seemed wide open, always, for the making of

excited screams. These children represented the families of most excellent people. They were all born in

whatever purple there was to be had in the vicinity of Whilomville. The Margate twins, for example, were

outandout prizewinners. With their long golden curls and their countenances of similar vacuity, they

shone upon the front bench of all Sundayschool functions, hand in hand, while their uplifted mother felt

about her the envy of a hundred other parents, and less heavenly children scoffed from near the door.

Then there was little Dan Earl, probably the nicest boy in the world, gentle, fine grained, obedient to the point

where he obeyed anybody. Jimmie Trescott himself was, indeed, the only child who was at all versed in

villany, but in these particular days he was on his very good behavior. As a matter of fact, he was in love. The

Yes, they were all most excellent children, but, loosened upon this candyshop with five dollars, they

resembled, in a tiny way, drunken revelling soldiers within the walls of a stormed city. Upon the heels of

icecream and cake came chocolate mice, butterscotch, "everlastings," chocolate cigars, taffyonastick,

taffyonaslatepencil, and many semitransparent devices resembling lions, tigers, elephants, horses, cats,

dogs, cows, sheep, tables, chairs, engines (both railway and for the fighting of fire), soldiers, fine ladies,

oddlooking men, clocks, watches, revolvers, rabbits, and bedsteads. A cent was the price of a single wonder.

Some of the children, going quite daft, soon had thought to make fight over the spoils, but their queen ruled

with an iron grip. Her first inspiration was to satisfy her own fancies, but as soon as that was done she

mingled prodigality with a fine justice, dividing, balancing, bestowing, and sometimes taking away from

It was an orgy. In thirtyfive minutes those respectable children looked as if they had been dragged at the tail

of a chariot. The sacred Margate twins, blinking and grunting, wished to take seat upon the floor, and even

the most durable Jimmie Trescott found occasion to lean against the counter, wearing at the time a solemn

Of course their belief had been in an unlimited capacity, but they found there was an end. The shopkeeper

"Two seventythree from five leaves two twentyseven, Miss Cora," he said, looking upon her with

She turned swiftly to her clan. "Ooh!" she cried, in amazement. "Look how much I have left!" They gazed at

the coins in her palm. They knew then that it was not their capacities which were endless; it was the five

The queen led the way to the street. "We must think up some way of spending more money," she said,

Suddenly she clapped her hands and screamed with delight. "Come on!" she cried. "I know what let's do."

Now behold, she had discovered the red and white pole in front of the shop of one William Neeltje, a barber

It becomes necessary to say a few words concerning Neeltje. He was new to the town. He had come and

opened a dusty little shop on dusty Bridge Street hill, and although the neighborhood knew from the courier

winds that his diet was mainly cabbage, they were satisfied with that meagre data. Of course Riefsnyder came

to investigate him for the local Barbers' Union, but he found in him only sweetness and light, with a

willingness to charge any price at all for a shave or a haircut. In fact, the advent of Neeltje would have made

barely a ripple upon the placid bosom of Whilomville if it were not that his name was Neeltje.

At first the people looked at his signboard out of the eye corner, and wondered lazily why any one should

bear the name of Neeltje; but as time went on, men spoke to other men, saying, "How do you pronounce the

name of that barber up there on Bridge Street hill?" And then, before any could prevent it, the best minds of

the town were splintering their lances against William Neeltje's signboard. If a man had a mental superior,

he guided him seductively to this name, and watched with glee his wrecking. The clergy of the town even

entered the lists. There was one among them who had taken a collegiate prize in Syriac, as well as in several

less opaque languages, and the other clergymen at one of their weekly meetings sought to betray him

into this ambush. He pronounced the name correctly, but that mattered little, since none of them knew

whether he did or did not; and so they took triumph according to their ignorance. Under these arduous

circumstances it was certain that the town should look for a nickname, and at this time the nickname was in

process of formation. So William Neeltje lived on with his secret, smiling foolishly toward the world.

"Come on," cried little Cora. "Let's all get our hair cut. That's what let's do. Let's all get our hair cut! Come

on! Come on! Come on!" The others were carried off their feet by the fury of this assault. To get their hair

cut! What joy! Little did they know if this were fun; they only knew that their small leader said it was fun.

Chocolatestained but confident, the band marched into William Neeltje's barber shop.

"Hurry, now!" commanded the queen. A drayhorse toiled step by step, step by step, up Bridge Street hill; a

far woman's voice arose; there could be heard the ceaseless hammers of shingling carpenters; all was summer

peace. "Come on, now. Who's goin' first? Come on, Ella; you go first. Gettin' our hair cut! Oh, what fun!"

Little Ella Earl would not, however, be first in the chair. She was drawn toward it by a singular fascination,

but at the same time she was afraid of it, and so she hung back, saying: "No! You go first! No! You go first!"

The question was precipitated by the twins and one of the Phelps children. They made simultaneous rush for

the chair, and screamed and kicked, each pair preventing the third child. The queen entered this melee and

decided in favor of the Phelps boy. He ascended the chair. Thereat an awed silence fell upon the band. And

He tucked a cloth in the neck of the Phelps boy, and taking scissors, began to cut his hair. The group of

children came closer and closer. Even the queen was deeply moved. "Does it hurt any?" she asked, in a wee

When he appeared to them looking very soldierly with his cropped little head, there was a tumult over the

chair. The Margate twins howled; Jimmie Trescott was kicking them on the shins. It was a fight.

But the twins could not prevail, being the smallest of all the children. The queen herself took the chair, and

ordered Neeltje as if he were a lady'smaid. To the floor there fell proud ringlets, blazing even there in their

humiliation with a full fine bronze light. Then Jimmie Trescott, then Ella Earl (two long ashcolored plaits),

then a Phelps girl, then another Phelps girl; and so on from head to head. The ceremony received unexpected

check when the turn came to Dan Earl. This lad, usually docile to any rein, had suddenly grown mulishly

obstinate. No, he would not, he would not. He himself did not seem to know why he refused to have his hair

cut, but, despite the shrill derision of the company, he remained obdurate. Anyhow, the twins, long held in

And so to the floor at last came the golden Margate curls, the heart treasure and glory of a mother, three

All having been finished, the children, highly elate, thronged out into the street. They crowed and cackled

Ella Earl was an exception. She had been pensive for some time, and now the shorn little maiden began

vaguely to weep. In the door of his shop William Neeltje stood watching them, upon his face a grin of almost

II It now becomes the duty of the unfortunate writer to exhibit these children to their fond parents. "Come on,

Jimmie," cried little Cora, "let's go show mamma." And they hurried off, these happy children, to show

The Trescotts and their guests were assembled indolently awaiting the luncheonbell. Jimmie and the angel

child burst in upon them. "Oh, mamma," shrieked little Cora, "see how fine I am! I've had my hair cut! Isn't it

splendid? And Jimmie too!" The wretched mother took one sight, emitted one yell, and fell into a chair. Mrs.

Trescott dropped a large lady's journal and made a nerveless mechanical clutch at it. The painter gripped the

arms of his chair and leaned forward, staring until his eyes were like two little clock faces. Dr. Trescott did

not move or speak. To the children the next moments were chaotic. There was a loudly wailing mother, and a

palefaced, aghast mother; a stammering father, and a grim and terrible father. The angel child did not

understand anything of it save the voice of calamity, and in a moment all her little imperialism went to the

The desolate Jimmie heard out of this inexplicable situation a voice which he knew well, a sort of colonel's

Now Jimmie could have explained how had happened anything which had happened, but he did not know

The words turned the mind of the mother of the angel child. She looked up, her eyes blazing. "Frock!" she

repeated. "Frock! What do I care for her frock? Frock!" she choked out again from the depths of her

bitterness. Then she arose suddenly, and whirled tragically upon her husband. "Look!" she declaimed. "All

her lovely hair all her lovely hair gone gone!" The painter was apparently in a fit; his jaw

was set, his eyes were glazed, his body was stiff and straight. "All gone all her lovely hair all gone

my poor little darlin' my poor little darlin'!" And the angel child added her heartbroken

In the mean time Trescott was patiently unravelling some skeins of Jimmie's tangled intellect. "And then you

went to this barber's on the hill. Yes. And where did you get the money? Yes. I see. And who besides you and

Over at the Margate place old Eldridge Margate, the grandfather of the twins, was in the back garden picking

pease and smoking ruminatively to himself. Suddenly he heard from the house great noises. Doors slammed,

women rushed up stairs and down stairs calling to each other in voices of agony. And then full and mellow

Old Eldridge stepped out of the peapatch and moved toward the house, puzzled, staring, not yet having

decided that it was his duty to rush forward. Then around the corner of the house shot his daughter Mollie,

Then around the corner of the house came the twins, howling at the top of their power, their faces flowing

with tears. They were still hand in hand, the ruling passion being strong even in this suffering. At sight of

And now what befell one William Neeltje, a barber by trade? And what was said by angry parents of the

mother of such an angel child? And what was the fate of the angel child herself?

There was surely a tempest. With the exception of the Margate twins, the boys could well be eliminated from

the affair. Of course it didn't matter if their hair was cut. Also the two little Phelps girls had had very short

hair, anyhow, and their parents were not too greatly incensed. In the case of Ella Earl, it was mainly the

pathos of the little girl's own grieving; but her mother played a most generous part, and called upon Mrs.

Trescott, and condoled with the mother of the angel child over their equivalent losses. But the Margate

Trescott, composed and coolblooded, was in the middle of a giddy whirl. He was not going to allow the

mobbing of his wife's cousins, nor was he going to pretend that the spoliation of the Margate twins was a

virtuous and beautiful act. He was elected, gratuitously, to the position of a buffer.

But, curiously enough, the one who achieved the bulk of the misery was old Eldridge Margate, who had been

picking pease at the time. The feminine Margates stormed his position as individuals, in pairs, in teams, and

en masse. In two days they may have aged him seven years. He must destroy the utter Neeltje. He must

midnightly massacre the angel child and her mother. He must dip his arms in blood to the elbows.

Trescott took the first opportunity to express to him his concern over the affair, but when the subject of the

disaster was mentioned, old Eldridge, to the doctor's great surprise, actually chuckled long and deeply. "Oh,

well, lookahere," he said. "I never was so much in love with them there damn curls. The curls was purty

yes but then I'd a darn sight rather see boys look more like boys than like two little wax figgers. An',

ye know, the little cusses like it themselves. They never took no stock in all this washin' an' combin' an' fixin'

an' goin' to church an' paradin' an' showin' off. They stood it because they was told to. That's all. Of course

this here Neeltegee, er whatever his name is, is a plumb dumb ijit, but I don't see what's to be done, now

that the kids is full well cropped. I might go and burn his shop over his head, but that wouldn't bring no hair

back onto the kids. They're even kicking on sashes now, an' that's all right, 'cause what fer does a boy want a

Whereupon Trescott perceived that the old man wore his brains above his shoulders, and Trescott departed

from him rejoicing greatly that it was only women who could not know that there was finality to most

disasters, and that when a thing was fully done, no amount of door slammings, rushing up stairs and down

stairs, calls, lamentations, tears, could bring back a single hair to the heads of twins.

But the rains came and the winds blew in the most biblical way when a certain fact came to light in the

Trescott household. Little Cora, corroborated by Jimmie, innocently remarked that five dollars had been

given her by her father on her birthday, and with this money the evil had been wrought. Trescott had known

it, but he thoughtful man had said nothing. For her part, the mother of the angel child had up to that

moment never reflected that the consummation of the wickedness must have cost a small sum of money. But

The scene which ensued was inspiriting. A few days later, loungers at the railway station saw a lady leading a

shorn and still undaunted lamb. Attached to them was a husband and father, who was plainly bewildered, but

still more plainly vexed, as if he would be saying: "Damn 'em! Why can't they leave me alone?"

IT was the fault of a small nickelplated revolver, a most incompetent weapon, which, wherever one aimed,

would fling the bullet as the devil willed, and no man, when about to use it, could tell exactly what was in

store for the surrounding country. This treasure had been acquired by Jimmie Trescott after arduous

bargaining with another small boy. Jimmie wended homeward, patting his hip pocket at every three paces.

Peter Washington, working in the carriagehouse, looked out upon him with a shrewd eye. "Oh, Jim," he

"Nothin'," said Jimmie, feeling carefully under his jacket to make sure that the revolver wouldn't fall out.

Peter chuckled. "S'more foolishness, I raikon. You gwine be hung one day, Jim, you keep up all dish yer

Jimmie made no reply, but went into the back garden, where he hid the revolver in a box under a lilacbush.

Then he returned to the vicinity of Peter, and began to cruise to and fro in the offing, showing all the signals

of one wishing to open treaty. "Pete," he said, "how much does a box of cartridges cost?"

Peter raised himself violently, holding in one hand a piece of harness, and in the other an old rag.

"Ca'tridgers! Ca'tridgers! Lan'sake! wut the kid want with ca'tridgers? Knew it! Knew it! Come home

erholdin' on to his hind pocket like he got money in it. An' now he want ca'tridgers."

Jimmie, after viewing with dismay the excitement caused by his question, began to move warily out of the

"Ca'tridgers!" continued Peter, in scorn and horror. "Kid like you! No bigger'n er minute! Look yah, Jim, you

done been swappin' round, an' you done got hol' of er pistol!" The charge was dramatic.

The wind was almost knocked out of Jimmie by this display of Peter's terrible miraculous power, and as he

In the distance Jimmie stood appalled. He knew not what to do. The dread adult wisdom of Peter Washington

There was a whirl of wheels, and a high, lean trottingmare spun Doctor Trescott's buggy toward Peter, who

ran forward busily. As the doctor climbed out, Peter, holding the mare's head, began his denunciation:

"Docteh, I gwine tell on Jim. He come home erholdin' on to his hind pocket, an' proud like he won a

tuhkeyraffle; an' I sure know what he been up to, an' I done challenge him, an' he nev' say he didn't."

The boy came forward, glaring wrathfully at Peter. In fact, he suddenly was so filled with rage at Peter that he

forgot all precautions. "It's about a pistol," he said, bluntly. "I've got a pistol. I swapped for it."

"I done tol' 'im his pop wouldn' stand no fiahawms, an' him a kid like he is. I done tol' 'im. Lan'sake! he strut

an' erholdin' on to his hind pocket. He think he was Jesse James, I raikon. But I done tol' 'im his pop stan' no

sech foolishness. First thing blam he shoot his haid off. No, seh, he too tinety t' come in yere

erstruttin' like he jest bought Main Street. I tol' 'im. I done tol' 'im shawp. I don' wanter be loafin' round

dis yer stable if Jim he gwine go shootin' round an' shootin' round blim blam blim blam! No,

seh. I retiahs. I retiahs. It's all right if er grown man got er gun, but ain't no kids come foolishin' round me

The boy went sulkily to the box under the lilacbush and returned with the revolver. "Here 'tis," he said, with

a glare over his shoulder at Peter. The doctor looked at the silly weapon in critical contempt.

"It's not much of a thing, Jimmie, but I don't think you are quite old enough for it yet. I'll keep it for you in

Peter Washington burst out proudly: "I done tol' 'im th' docteh wouldn' stan' no traffickin' round yere with

Jimmie and his father went together into the house, and as Peter unharnessed the mare he continued his

comments on the boy and the revolver. He was not cast down by the absence of hearers. In fact, he usually

talked better when there was no one to listen save the horses. But now his observations bore small

resemblance to his earlier and public statements. Admiration and the keen family pride of a Southern negro

"That boy! He's er devil! When he get to be er man wow! He'll jes take an' make things whirl round yere.

He had unharnessed the mare, and with his back bent was pushing the buggy into the carriagehouse.

A small stone whizzed past Peter's head and clattered on the stable. He hastily dropped all occupation and

struck a curious attitude. His right knee was almost up to his chin, and his arms were wreathed protectingly

about his head. He had not looked in the direction from which the stone had come, but he had begun

"You Jim! Quit! Quit, I tell yer, Jim! Watch out! You gwine break somethin', Jim!"

"Yah!" taunted the boy, as with the speed and ease of a lightcavalryman he manoeuvred in the distance.

"Yah!" Told on me, did you! Told on me, hey! There! How do you like that?" The missiles resounded against

"Watch out, Jim! You gwine break something, Jim, I tell yer! Quit yer foolishness, Jim! Ow! Watch out, boy!

There was a crash. With diabolic ingenuity, one of Jimmie's pebbles had entered the carriagehouse and had

landed among a row of carriagelamps on a shelf, creating havoc which was apparently beyond all reason of

physical law. It seemed to Jimmie that the racket of falling glass could have been heard in an adjacent county.

Peter was a prophet who after persecution was suffered to recall everything to the mind of the persecutor.

"There! Knew it! Knew it! Now I raikon you'll quit. Hi! jes look ut dese yer lamps! Fer lan' sake! Oh, now

In the doorway of the kitchen the cook appeared with a startled face. Jimmie's father and mother came

Peter went forward to explain. "Jim he was erheavin' rocks at me, docteh, an' erlong come one rock an' go

Jimmie, half blinded with emotion, was nevertheless aware of a lightning glance from his father, a glance

which cowed and frightened him to the ends of his toes. He heard the steady but deadly tones of his father in

Bowed in anguish, the boy moved across the lawn and up the steps. His mother was standing on the veranda

still gazing toward the stable. He loitered in the faint hope that she might take some small pity on his state.

But she could have heeded him no less if he had been invisible. He entered the house.

When the doctor returned from his investigation of the harm done by Jimmie's hand, Mrs. Trescott looked at

him anxiously, for she knew that he was concealing some volcanic impulses. "Well?" she asked.

"It isn't the lamps," he said at first. He seated himself on the rail. "I don't know what we are going to do with

that boy. It isn't so much the lamps as it is the other thing. He was throwing stones at Peter because Peter told

"I'm sure I don't know," replied the mother. "We've tried almost everything. Of course much of it is pure

"Oh, I know," interrupted the doctor, impatiently. "Do you suppose when the stones were singing about

Peter's ears, he cared whether they were flung by a boy who was naturally vicious or a boy who was not? The

question might interest him afterward, but at the time he was mainly occupied in dodging these effects of

"Don't be too hard on the boy, Ned. There's lots of time yet. He's so young yet, and I believe he gets most

of his naughtiness from that wretched Dalzel boy. That Dalzel boy well, he's simply awful!" Then, with

true motherly instinct to shift blame from her own boy's shoulders, she proceeded to sketch the character of

the Dalzel boy in lines that would have made that talented young vagabond stare. It was not admittedly her

feeling that the doctor's attention should be diverted from the main issue and his indignation divided among

the camps, but presently the doctor felt himself burn with a wrath for the Dalzel boy.

"Why don't you keep Jimmie away from him?" he demanded. "Jimmie has no business consorting with

abandoned little predestined jailbirds like him. If I catch him on the place I'll box his ears."

"It is simply impossible, unless we kept Jimmie shut up all the time," said Mrs. Trescott. "I can't watch him

"I should think those Dalzel people would hire somebody to bring up their child for them," said the doctor.

Presently you would have thought from the talk that one Willie Dalzel had been throwing stones at Peter

Washington because Peter Washington had told Doctor Trescott that Willie Dalzel had come into possession

In the mean time Jimmie had gone into the house to await the coming of his father. He was in rebellious

mood. He had not intended to destroy the carriagelamps. He had been merely hurling stones at a creature

whose perfidy deserved such action, and the hitting of the lamps had been merely another move of the great

conspirator Fate to force one Jimmie Trescott into dark and troublous ways. The boy was beginning to find

the world a bitter place. He couldn't win appreciation for a single virtue; he could only achieve quick,

rigorous punishment for his misdemeanors. Everything was an enemy. Now there were those silly old lamps

what were they doing up on that shelf, anyhow? It would have been just as easy for them at the time to

have been in some other place. But no; there they had been, like the crowd that is passing under the wall

when the mason for the first time in twenty years lets fall a brick. Furthermore, the flight of that stone had

been perfectly unreasonable. It had been a sort of freak in physical law. Jimmie understood that he might

have thrown stones from the same fatal spot for an hour without hurting a single lamp. He was a victim

that was it. Fate had conspired with the detail of his environment to simply hound him into a grave or into a

But who would understand? Who would understand? And here the boy turned his mental glance in every

direction, and found nothing but what was to him the black of cruel ignorance. Very well; some day they

From somewhere out in the street he heard a peculiar whistle of two notes. It was the common signal of the

boys of the neighborhood, and judging from the direction of the sound, it was apparently intended to summon

him. He moved immediately to one of the windows of the sittingroom. It opened upon a part of the grounds

remote from the stables and cut off from the veranda by a wing. He perceived Willie Dalzel loitering in the

street. Jimmie whistled the signal after having pushed up the windowsash some inches. He saw the Dalzel

boy turn and regard him, and then call several other boys. They stood in a group and gestured. These gestures

plainly said: "Come out. We've got something on hand." Jimmie sadly shook his head.

But they did not go away. They held a long consultation. Presently Jimmie saw the intrepid Dalzel boy climb

the fence and begin to creep amongst the shrubbery, in elaborate imitation of an Indian scout. In time he

arrived under Jimmie's window, and raised his face to whisper: "Come on out! We're going on a bear hunt."

A bear hunt! Of course Jimmie knew that it would not be a real bear hunt, but would be a sort of carouse of

pretension and big talking and preposterous lying and valor, wherein each boy would strive to have himself

called Kit Carson by the others. He was profoundly affected. However, the parental word was upon him, and

The other had become much excited, but he did not lose his wariness. "Don't you want to be rescued?"

Willie Dalzel was indignant. "Why, of course you want to be rescued! We'll rescue you. I'll go and get my

men." And thinking this a good sentence, he repeated, pompously, "I'll go and get my men." He began to

crawl away, but when he was distant some ten paces he turned to say: "Keep up a stout heart. Remember that

you have friends who will be faithful unto death. The time is not now far off when you will again view the

The poetry of these remarks filled Jimmie with ecstasy, and he watched eagerly for the coming of the friends

who would be faithful unto death. They delayed some time, for the reason that Willie Dalzel was making a

"Now, men," he said, "our comrade is a prisoner in yon in yond in that there fortress. We must to the

Willie Dalzel pounced upon the speaker and took him by the throat. The two presented a sort of a burlesque

of the woodcut on the cover of a dime novel which Willie had just been reading The Red Captain: A

"I say you are," cried the great chieftain, indignantly. "Don't tell me I'm a liar." He relinquished his hold upon

the coward and resumed his speech. "You know me, men. Many of you have been my followers for long

years. You sawme slay Sixhanded Dick with my own hand. You know I never falter. Our comrade is a

prisoner in the cruel hands of our enemies. Aw, Pete Washington? He dassent. My pa says if Pete ever

troubles me he'll brain 'im. Come on! To the rescue! Who will go with me to the rescue? Aw, come on! What

It was another instance of the power of eloquence upon the human mind. There was only one boy who was

not thrilled by this oration, and he was a boy whose favorite reading had been of the roadagents and

gunfighters of the great West, and he thought the whole thing should be conducted in the Deadwood Dick

manner. This talk of a "comrade" was silly; "pard" was the proper word. He resolved that he would make a

show of being a pirate, and keep secret the fact that he really was Holdup Harry, the Terror of the Sierras.

But the others were knit close in piratical bonds. One by one they climbed the fence at a point hidden from

the house by tall shrubs. With many a lowbreathed caution they went upon their perilous adventure.

Jimmie was grown tired of waiting for his friends who would be faithful unto death. Finally he decided that

he would rescue himself. It would be a gross breach of rule, but he couldn't sit there all the rest of the day

waiting for his faithfuluntodeath friends. The window was only five feet from the ground. He softly raised

the sash and threw one leg over the sill. But at the same time he perceived his friends snaking among the

bushes. He withdrew his leg and waited, seeing that he was now to be rescued in an orthodox way. The brave

Jimmie heard a noise of a closing door, and turning, he saw his father in the room looking at him and the

open window in angry surprise. Boys never faint, but Jimmie probably came as near to it as may the average

"What's all this?" asked the doctor, staring. Involuntarily Jimmie glanced over his shoulder through the

window. His father saw the creeping figures. "What are those boys doing?" he said, sharply, and he knit his

Jimmie knew that he could conceal nothing. He said, "They're comin' to to to rescue me." He began to

The doctor's eyes began to twinkle. "Very well," he said presently. "I will sit here and observe this rescue.

Of course Jimmie understood. He had been mad to warn his friends, but his father's mere presence had

frightened him from doing it. He stood trembling at the window, while the doctor stretched in an easychair

near at hand. They waited. The doctor could tell by his son's increasing agitation that the great moment was

near. Suddenly he heard Willie Dalzel's voice hiss out a word: "Sssilence!" Then the same voice addressed

Jimmie at the window. "Good cheer, my comrade. The time is now at hand. I have come. Never did the Red

Captain turn his back on a friend. One minute more and you will be free. Once aboard my gallant craft and

you can bid defiance to your haughty enemies. Why don't you hurry up? What are you standin' there lookin'

Here Holdup Harry, the Terror of the Sierras, evidently concluded that Willie Dalzel had had enough of the

"Brace up, pard. Don't ye turn whitelivered now, fer ye know that Holdup Harry, the Terrar of the Sarahs,

"Oh, stop it!" said Willie Dalzel. "He won't understand that, you know. He's a pirate. Now, Jimmie, come on.

"I 'low arter all this here long time in jail ye thought ye had no friends mebbe, but I tell ye Holdup Harry,

"Look here, Henry, you're spoilin' the whole thing. We're all pirates, don't you see, and you're a pirate too."

"You ain't, I say," said Willie, in despair. "You're spoilin' everything, you are. All right, now. You wait. I'll

fix you for this, see if I don't! Oh, come on, Jimmie. A boat awaits us at the foot of the rocks. In one short

hour you'll be free forever from your ex exewable enemies, and their vile plots. Hasten, for the dawn

The suffering Jimmie looked at his father, and was surprised at what he saw. The doctor was doubled up like

a man with the colic. He was breathing heavily. The boy turned again to his friends.

"I now look here," he began, stumbling among the words. "You I I don't think I'll be rescued

The pirates were scandalized. "What?" they whispered, angrily. "Ain't you goin' to be rescued? Well, all right

for you, Jimmie Trescott. That's a nice way to act, that is!" Their upturned eyes glowered at Jimmie.

Suddenly Doctor Trescott appeared at the window with Jimmie. "Oh, go home, boys!" he gasped, but they

did not hear him. Upon the instant they had whirled and scampered away like deer. The first lad to reach the

fence was the Red Captain, but Holdup Harry, the Terror of the Sierras was so close that there was little to

Doctor Trescott lowered the window, and then spoke to his son in his usual quiet way. "Jimmie, I wish you

"Yes, sir," said Jimmie, and he swaggered out to the stables. "Pete, father wants the buggy ready at seven

Peter paid no heed to this order, but with the tender sympathy of a true friend he inquired, "Hu't?"

"No?" said Peter. He gave Jimmie a quick shrewd glance, and saw that he was telling the truth. He began to

mutter and mumble over his work. "Ump! Ump! Dese yer white folks act like they think er boy's made er

glass. No trouncin'! Ump!" He was consumed with curiosity to learn why Jimmie had not felt a heavy

parental hand, but he did not care to lower his dignity by asking questions about it. At last, however, he

reached the limits of his endurance, and in a voice pretentiously careless he asked, "Didn' yer pop take on like

"No, he didn't say anything about carriage lamps not that I remember. Maybe he did, though. Lemme see .

"Don't come in here botherin' me," said the cook, intolerantly. "What with your mother bein' away on a visit,

an' your fathercomin' home soon to lunch, I have enough on my mind and thatwithout bein' bothered with

you. The kitchen is no placefor little boys, anyhow. Run away, and don't be interferin' withmy work." She

frowned and made a grand pretence of being deep inherculean labors; but Jimmie did not run away.

"Who's goin' to have a picnic?" demanded the cook, loudly. Her accent could have led one to suppose that if

the projectors didnot turn out to be the proper parties, she immediately would forbidthis picnic.

Jimmie looked at her with more hopefulness. After twentyminutes of futile skirmishing, he had at least

According to custom, Jimmie began to singsong through his nosein a quite indescribable fashion an

enumeration of the prospectivepicnickers: "Willie Dalzel an' Dan Earl an' Ella Earl an' WolcottMargate an'

Reeves Margate an' Minnie Phelps an' oh lots moregirls an' everybody. An' their mothers an' big

sisters too." Then he announced a new bit of information: "They're goin' to havea picnic."

Jimmie fidgeted for a time in silence. At last he murmured,"I now I thought maybe you'd let me go."

The cook turned from her work with an air of irritation andamazement that Jimmie should still be in the

"But," said Jimmie, "I you now each feller has got to takesomethin' to eat with 'm."

"Oh ho!" cried the cook, triumphantly. "So that's it, is it? So that's what you've been shyin' round here fer, eh?

Well, youmay as well take yourself off without more words. What with yourmother bein' away on a visit, an'

your father comin' home soon tohis lunch, I have enough on my mind an' that without beingbothered with

Jimmie made no reply, but moved in grief toward the door. Thecook continued: "Some people in this house

seem to think there's'bout a thousand cooks in this kitchen. Where I used to workb'fore, there was some

"Seems as if I had enough to do, without havin' youcome round talkin' about picnics. Nobody ever seems to

think ofthe work I have to do. Nobody ever seems to think of it. Thenthey come and talk to me about picnics!

"Where I used to work b'fore, there was some reason in 'em. I never heard tell of no picnics right on top of

your mother bein'away on a visit an' your father comin' home soon to his lunch. It's all foolishness."

Little Jimmie leaned his head flat against the wall and beganto weep. She stared at him scornfully. "Cryin',

There was a silence, save for Jimmie's convulsive breathing. At length the cook said: "Stop that blubberin',

now. Stop it! This kitchen ain't no place fer it. Stop it! . . . Very well! Ifyou don't stop, I won't give you

For the moment he could not end his tears. "You never said,"he sputtered "you never said you'd give me

"An' why would I?" she cried, angrily. "Why would I with youin here acryin' an' ablubberin' an'

ableatin' round? Enough todrive a woman crazy! I don't see how you could expect me to! Theidea!"

Suddenly Jimmie announced: "I've stopped cryin'. I ain'tgoin' to cry no more 'tall."

"Well, then," grumbled the cook "well, then, stop it. I'vegot enough on my mind." It chanced that she was

making forluncheon some salmon croquettes. A tin still half full of pinkyprepared fish was beside her on the

table. Still grumbling, sheseized a loaf of bread and, wielding a knife, she cut from thisloaf four slices, each

of which was as big as a sixshilling novel. She profligately spread them with butter, and jabbing the point

ofher knife into the salmontin, she brought up bits of salmon, whichshe flung and flattened upon the bread.

Then she crashed thepieces of bread together in pairs, much as one would clash cymbals. There was no doubt

"There," she cried. "That'll do you all right. Lemme see. What'll I put 'em in? There I've got it." She thrust

thesandwiches into a small pail and jammed on the lid. Jimmie wasready for the picnic. "Oh, thank you,

The picnickers had started nearly half an hour earlier, owingto his inability to quickly attack and subdue the

cook, but he knewthat the rendezvous was in the grove of tall, pillarlike hemlocksand pines that grew on a

rocky knoll at the lake shore. His heartwas very light as he sped, swinging his pail. But a few

minutespreviously his soul had been gloomed in despair; now he was happy. He was going to the picnic,

where privilege of participation was tobe bought by the contents of the little tin pail.

When he arrived in the outskirts of the grove he heard a merryclamor, and when he reached the top of the

knoll he looked down theslope upon a scene which almost made his little breast burst withjoy. They actually

had two camp fires! Two camp fires! At one ofthem Mrs. Earl was making something chocolate, no doubt

and atthe other a young lady in white duck and a sailor hat was droppingeggs into boiling water. Other

grownup people had spread a whitecloth and were laying upon it things from baskets. In the deepcool

shadow of the trees the children scurried, laughing. Jimmiehastened forward to join his friends.

Homer Phelps caught first sight of him. "Ho!" he shouted;"here comes Jimmie Trescott! Come on, Jimmie;

you be on our side!" The children had divided themselves into two bands for some purposeof play. The others

of Homer Phelps's party loudly endorsed hisplan. "Yes, Jimmie, you be on our side." Then arose theusual

Homer Phelps suddenly started, and looking hard, said, "Whatyou got in the pail, Jim?"

Instantly that brat of a Minnie Phelps simply tore down thesky with her shrieks of derision. "Got his lunch in

it! Ina pail!" She ran screaming to her mother. "Oh, mamma! Oh,mamma! Jimmie Trescott's got his picnic in

Now there was nothing in the nature of this fact toparticularly move the others notably the boys, who were

notcompetent to care if he had brought his luncheon in a coalbin; butsuch is the instinct of childish society

that they all immediatelymoved away from him. In a moment he had been made a social leper. All old

intimacies were flung into the lake, so to speak. Theydared not compromise themselves. At safe distances the

boysshouted, scornfully: "Huh! Got his picnic in a pail!" Never againduring that picnic did the little girls

His mind was dark with pain as he stood, the hangdog, kickingthe gravel, and muttering as defiantly as he

was able, "Well, I canhave it in a pail if I want to." This statement of freedom was ofno importance, and he

He had been baited at school for being detected in writing aletter to little Cora, the angel child, and he had

known how todefend himself, but this situation was in no way similar. This wasa social affair, with grown

people on all sides. It would be sweetto catch the Margate twins, for instance, and hammer them into astate of

bleating respect for his pail; but that was a matter forthe jungles of childhood, where grown folk seldom

The amiable voice of Mrs. Earl suddenly called: "Come,children! Everything's ready!" They scampered

He did not know what to do. He knew that the grown folkexpected him at the spread, but if he approached he

would begreeted by a shameful chorus from the children more especiallyfrom some of those damnable

little girls. Still, luxuries beyondall dreaming were heaped on that cloth. One could not forget them. Perhaps

if he crept up modestly, and was very gentle and very niceto the little girls, they would allow him peace. Of

course it hadbeen dreadful to come with a pail to such a grand picnic, but theymight forgive him.

Oh no, they would not! He knew them better. And thensuddenly he remembered with what delightful

expectations he hadraced to this grove, and selfpity overwhelmed him, and he thoughthe wanted to die and

The young lady in white duck and a sailor hat looked at him,and then spoke to her sister, Mrs. Earl. "Who's

Mrs. Earl peered. "Why, it's Jimmie Trescott! Jimmie, cometo the picnic! Why don't you come to the picnic,

But at Mrs. Earl's call there was another outburst from manyof the children. "He's got his picnic in a pail! In

Minnie Phelps was a shrill fiend. "Oh, mamma, he's got it inthat pail! See! Isn't it funny? Isn't it dreadful

"What ghastly prigs children are, Emily!" said the young lady. "They are spoiling that boy's whole day,

"Maybe you had better not," answered Mrs. Earl, dubiously. "Somehow these things arrange themselves. If

At the second outburst against him Jimmie had crouched down bya tree, half hiding behind it, half pretending

that he was nothiding behind it. He turned his sad gaze toward the lake. The bitof water seen through the

shadows seemed perpendicular, a slatecolored wall. He heard a noise near him, and turning, he perceivedthe

young lady looking down at him. In her hands she held plates. "May I sit near you?" she asked, coolly.

Jimmie could hardly believe his ears. After disposing herselfand the plates upon the pine needles, she made

brief explanation. "They're rather crowded, you see, over there. I don't like to becrowded at a picnic, so I

Jimmie made haste to find his tongue. "Oh, I don't mind! Ilike to have you here." The ingenuous emphasis

made itappear that the fact of his liking to have her there was in thenature of a lawdispelling phenomenon,

Jimmie, falling into the snare, at once began to talk in themanner of a proprietor of the lake. "Oh, it's almost

twenty mileslong, an' in one place it's almost four miles wide! an' it'sdeep, too awful deep an' it's got

"Oh, lots of times! My father's got a boat," he said, eyingher to note the effect of his words.

She was correctly pleased and struck with wonder. "Oh, hashe?" she cried, as if she never before had heard of

Jimmie continued: "Yes, an' it's a grea' big boat, too, withsails, real sails; an' sometimes he takes me out in

her, too; an'once he took me fishin', an' we had sandwiches, plenty of 'em, an'my father he drank beer right

The young lady was properly overwhelmed by this amazingintelligence. Jimmie saw the impression he had

created, and heenthusiastically resumed his narrative: "An' after, he let me throwthe bottles in the water, and I

throwed 'em 'way, 'way, 'way out. An' they sank, an' never comed up," he concluded, dramatically.

His face was glorified; he had forgotten all about the pail;he was absorbed in this communion with a beautiful

She indicated one of the plates, and said, indifferently:"Perhaps you would like some of those sandwiches. I

"Did you really?" said Jimmie, politely. His face gloomed fora moment because the pail was recalled to his

"Hope you are not going to scorn my deviled egg," said hisgoddess. "I am very proud of it." He did not; he

Their gentle intimacy was ineffable to the boy. He thought hehad a friend, a beautiful lady, who liked him

more than she didanybody at the picnic, to say the least. This was proved by thefact that she had flung aside

the luxuries of the spread cloth tosit with him, the exile. Thus early did he fall a victim towoman's wiles.

Jimmie was silent for a time, during which he glanced shylyand furtively up at her face. It was evident that he

"Well, I will remember it," she answered; "but don't talk ofit now, because it's such a long time, and I

He began to brag. "When I grow up to be a man, I'm goin' tohave lots an' lots of money, an' I'm goin' to have

a grea' bighouse an' a horse an' a shotgun, an' lots an' lots of books 'boutelephants an' tigers, an' lots an' lots of

icecream an' pie an' caramels." As before, she was impressed; he could see it. "An'I'm goin' to have lots

an' lots of children 'bout three hundred,I guess an' there won't none of 'em be girls. They'll all beboys

His garment of shame was gone from him. The pail was dead andwell buried. It seemed to him that months

elapsed as he dwelt inhappiness near the beautiful lady and trumpeted his vanity.

At last there was a shout. "Come on! we're going home." Thepicnickers trooped out of the grove. The

children wished to resumetheir jeering, for Jimmie still gripped his pail, but they wererestrained by the

During this journey he abandoned many of his habits. Forinstance, he never travelled without skipping

gracefully from crackto crack between the stones, or without pretending that he was atrain of cars, or without

some mumming device of childhood. Butnow he behaved with dignity. He made no more noise than a

littlemouse. He escorted the beautiful lady to the gate of the Earlhome, where he awkwardly, solemnly, and

wistfully shook hands ingoodby. He watched her go up the walk; the door clanged.

On his way home he dreamed. One of these dreams wasfascinating. Supposing the beautiful lady was his

teacher inschool! Oh, my! wouldn't he be a good boy, sitting like astatuette all day long, and knowing every

lesson to perfection,and everything. And then supposing that a boy should sass her. Jimmie painted

himself waylaying that boy on the homeward road, andthe fate of the boy was a thing to make strong men

cover their eyeswith their hands. And she would like him more and more more andmore. And he he

But as he was entering his father's grounds an appallingrecollection came to him. He was returning with the

breadandbutter and the salmon untouched in the pail! He could imagine thecook, nine feet tall, waving her

fist. "An' so that's what I tooktrouble for, is it? So's you could bring it back? So's you couldbring it back?" He

skulked toward the house like a marauding bushranger. When he neared the kitchen door he made a

desperate rushpast it, aiming to gain the stables and there secrete his guilt. He was nearing them, when a

It was the cook. He made no reply, but plunged into theshelter of the stables. He whirled the lid from the pail

anddashed its contents beneath a heap of blankets. Then he stoodpanting, his eyes on the door. The cook did

In the morning Jimmie was playing near the stable, when heheard a shout from Peter Washington, who

"I don't know. I didn't have nothin' to do with it," answeredJimmie, indignantly.

"Don' tell me!" cried Peter Washington as he flung itall away "don' tell me! When I fin' fish an' brade

unnerdese yer blankups, I don' go an' think dese yer ho'ses er yer pop'sput 'em. I know. An' if I caitch enny

IN the school at Whilomville it was the habit, when children had progressed to a certain class, to have them

devote Friday afternoon to what was called elocution. This was in the piteously ignorant belief that orators

were thus made. By process of school law, unfortunate boys and girls were dragged up to address their

fellowscholars in the literature of the midcentury. Probably the children who were most capable of

expressing themselves, the children who were most sensitive to the power of speech, suffered the most

wrong. Little blockheads who could learn eight lines of conventional poetry, and could get up and spin it

rapidly at their classmates, did not undergo a single pang. The plan operated mainly to agonize many children

Jimmie Trescott had an idea that by exhibition of undue ignorance he could escape from being promoted into

the first class room which exacted such penalty from its inmates. He preferred to dwell in a less classic shade

rather than venture into a domain where he was obliged to perform a certain duty which struck him as being

worse than death. However, willynilly, he was somehow sent ahead into the place of torture.

Every Friday at least ten of the little children had to mount the stage beside the teacher's desk and babble

something which none of them understood. This was to make them orators. If it had been ordered that they

should croak like frogs, it would have advanced most of them just as far towards oratory.

Alphabetically Jimmie Trescott was near the end of the list of victims, but his time was none the less

inevitable. "Tanner, Timmens, Trass, Trescott " He saw his downfall approaching.

He was passive to the teacher while she drove into his mind the incomprehensible lines of "The Charge of the

He had no conception of a league. If in the ordinary course of life somebody had told him that he was half a

league from home, he might have been frightened that half a league was fifty miles; but he struggled

manfully with the valley of death and a mystic six hundred, who were performing something there which was

But as his own Friday afternoon approached he was moved to make known to his family that a dreadful

disease was upon him, and was likely at any time to prevent him from going to his beloved school.

On the great Friday when the children of his initials were to speak their pieces Dr. Trescott was away from

home, and the mother of the boy was alarmed beyond measure at Jimmie's curious illness, which caused him

She bathed his feet in hot mustard water until they were lobsterred. She also placed a mustard plaster on his

He announced that these remedies did him no good at all no good at all. With an air of martyrdom he

endured a perfect downpour of motherly attention all that day. Thus the first Friday was passed in safety.

With singular patience he sat before the fire in the diningroom and looked at picture books, only

complaining of pain when he suspected his mother of thinking that he was getting better. The next day being

Saturday and a holiday, he was miraculously delivered from the arms of disease, and went forth to play, a

He had no further attack until Thursday night of the next week, when he announced that he felt very, very

poorly. The mother was already chronically alarmed over the condition of her son, but Dr. Trescott asked him

questions which denoted some incredulity. On the third Friday Jimmie was dropped at the door of the school

from the doctor's buggy. The other children, notably those who had already passed over the mountain of

distress, looked at him with glee, seeing in him another lamb brought to butchery. Seated at his desk in the

schoolroom, Jimmie sometimes remembered with dreadful distinctness every line of "The Charge of the

Light Brigade," and at other times his mind was utterly empty of it. Geography, arithmetic, and spelling

usually great tasks quite rolled off him. His mind was dwelling with terror upon the time when his name

should be called and he was obliged to go up to the platform, turn, bow, and recite his message to his

Desperate expedients for delay came to him. If he could have engaged the services of a real pain, he would

have been glad. But steadily, inexorably, the minutes marched on towards his great crisis, and all his plans for

The maples outside were defeating the weakening rays of the afternoon sun, and in the shadowed

schoolroom had come a stillness, in which, nevertheless, one could feel the complacence of the little pupils

who had already passed through the flames. They were calmly prepared to recognize as a spectacle the torture

Little Johnnie Tanner opened the ceremony. He stamped heavily up to the platform, and bowed in such a

manner that he almost fell down. He blurted out that it would ill befit him to sit silent while the name of his

fair Ireland was being reproached, and he appealed to the gallant soldier before him if every British

battlefield was not sown with the bones of sons of the Emerald Isle. He was also heard to say that he had

listened with deepening surprise and scorn to the insinuation of the honorable member from North

Glenmorganshire that the loyalty of the Irish regiments in her Majesty's service could be questioned. To what

purpose, then, he asked, had the blood of Irishmen flowed on a hundred fields? To what purpose had

Irishmen gone to their death with bravery and devotion in every part of the world where the victorious flag of

England had been carried? If the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire insisted upon construing a

mere pothouse row between soldiers in Dublin into a grand treachery to the colors and to her Majesty's

uniform, then it was time for Ireland to think bitterly of her dead sons, whose graves now marked every step

of England's progress, and yet who could have their honors stripped from them so easily by the honorable

member for North Glenmorganshire. Furthermore, the honorable member for North Glenmorganshire

It is needless to say that little Johnnie Tanner's language made it exceedingly hot for the honorable member

for North Glenmorganshire. But Johnnie was not angry. He was only in haste. He finished the honorable

Susie Timmens then went to the platform, and with a face as pale as death whisperingly reiterated that she

would be Queen of the May. The child represented there a perfect picture of unnecessary suffering. Her small

lips were quite blue, and her eyes, opened wide, stared with a look of horror at nothing. The phlegmatic Trass

boy, with his moon face only expressing peasant parentage, calmly spoke some undeniably true words

In his seat Jimmie Trescott was going half blind with fear of his approaching doom. He wished that the Trass

boy would talk forever about destiny. If the schoolhouse had taken fire he thought that he would have felt

simply relief. Anything was better. Death amid the flames was preferable to a recital of "The Charge of the

Light Brigade." But the Trass boy finished his remarks about destiny in a very short time. Jimmie heard the

teacher call his name, and he felt the whole world look at him. He did not know how he made his way to the

stage. Parts of him seemed to be of lead, and at the same time parts of him seemed to be light as air, detached.

His face had gone as pale as had been the face of Susie Timmens. He was simply a child in torment; that is all

there is to be said specifically about it; and to intelligent people the exhibition would have been not more

He bowed precariously, choked, made an inarticulate sound, and then he suddenly said, "Half a leg "

"League," repeated Jimmie, wildly. "Half a league, half a league, half a league onward."

He seemed likely to keep continuing this phrase indefinitely, so after a time the teacher said, "Well, go on."

The teacher had the opened book before her, and she read from it: "'All in the valley of Death Rode the '

He cast a glance of supreme appeal upon the teacher, and breathlessly whispered, "Rode the what?"

The young woman flushed with indignation to the roots of her hair. "Rode the six hundred,"

The class was arustle with delight at this cruel display. They were no better than a Roman populace in Nero's

Jimmie started off again: "Half a leg league, half a league, half a league onward, All in the valley of death

"The Light Brigade," said Jimmie. He was about to die of the ignoble pain of his position.

As for Tennyson's lines, they had all gone grandly out of his mind, leaving it a whited wall.

The teacher's indignation was still rampant. She looked at the miserable wretch before her with an angry

"You stay in after school and learn that all over again," she commanded. "And be prepared to speak it next

If she had suddenly and magically made a spirit of him and left him free to soar high above all the travail of

our earthly lives she could not have overjoyed him more. He fled back to his seat without hearing the

lowtoned gibes of his schoolmates. He gave no thought to the terrors of the next Friday. The evils of the day

With the delightful inconsistency of his age he sat in blissful calm, and watched the sufferings of an

unfortunate boy named Zimmerman, who was the next victim of education. Jimmie, of course, did not know

that on this day there had been laid for him the foundation of a finished incapacity for public speaking which

AFTER the brief encounters between the Hedge boy and Jimmie Trescott and the Hedge boy and Willie

Dalzel, the neighborhood which contained the homes of the boys was, as far as child life is concerned, in a

state resembling anarchy. This was owing to the signal overthrow and shameful retreat of the boy who had

for several years led a certain little clan by the nose. The adherence of the little community did not go

necessarily to the boy who could whip all the others, but it certainly could not go to a boy who had run away

in a manner that made his shame patent to the whole world. Willie Dalzel found himself in a painful position.

This tiny tribe which had followed him with such unwavering faith was now largely engaged in whistling and

catcalling and hooting. He chased a number of them into the sanctity of their own yards, but from these

But it must not be supposed that the fickle tribe went over in a body to the new light. They did nothing of the

sort. They occupied themselves with avenging all which they had endured gladly enough, too for many

months. As for the Hedge boy, he maintained a curious timid reserve, minding his own business with extreme

care, and going to school with that deadly punctuality of which his mother was the genius. Jimmie Trescott

suffered no adverse criticism from his fellows. He was entitled to be beaten by a boy who had made Willie

Dalzel bellow like a bullcalf and run away. Indeed, he received some honors. He had confronted a very

superior boy and received a bang in the eye which for a time was the wonder of the children, and he had not

bellowed like a bullcalf. As a matter of fact, he was often invited to tell how it had felt, and this he did with

some pride, claiming arrogantly that he had been superior to any particular pain.

Early in the episode he and the Hedge boy had patched up a treaty. Living next door to each other, they could

not fail to have each other often in sight. One afternoon they wandered together in the strange indefinite

"Yes," said Jimmie, and the new boy bestowed upon him an apple. It was one of those greencoated

winterapples which lie for many months in safe and dry places, and can at any time be brought forth for the

persecution of the unwary and inexperienced. An older age would have fled from this apple, but to the

unguided youth of Jimmie Trescott it was a thing to be possessed and cherished. Wherefore this apple was the

emblem of something more than a truce, despite the fact that it tasted like wet Indian meal; and Jimmie

looked at the Hedge boy out of one good eye and one bunged eye. The longdrawn animosities of men have

no place in the life of a boy. The boy's mind is flexible; he readjusts his position with an ease which is

But there were other and more important matters. Johnnie Hedge's exploits had brought him into such

prominence among the schoolboys that it was necessary to settle a number of points once and for all. There

was the usual number of boys in the school who were popularly known to be champions in their various

classes. Among these Johnnie Hedge now had to thread his way, every boy taking it upon himself to feel

anxious that Johnnie's exact position should be soon established. His fame as a fighter had gone forth to the

world, but there were other boys who had fame as fighters, and the world was extremely anxious to know

where to place the newcomer. Various heroes were urged to attempt this classification. Usually it is not

accounted a matter of supreme importance, but in this boy life it was essential.

In all cases the heroes were backward enough. It was their followings who agitated the question. And so

He maintained his bashfulness. He backed away from altercation. It was plain that to bring matters to a point

he must be forced into a quarrel. It was also plain that the proper person for the business was some boy who

could whip Willie Dalzel, and these formidable warriors were distinctly averse to undertaking the new

contract. It is a kind of a law in boy life that a quiet, decent, peaceloving lad is able to thrash a

widemouthed talker. And so it had transpired that by a peculiar system of elimination most of the real chiefs

were quiet, decent, peaceloving boys, and they had no desire to engage in a fight with a boy on the sole

grounds that it was not known who could whip. Johnnie Hedge attended his affairs, they attended their

affairs, and around them waged this discussion of relative merit. Jimmie Trescott took a prominent part in

these arguments. He contended that Johnnie Hedge could thrash any boy in the world. He was certain of it,

and to any one who opposed him he said, "You just get one of those smashes in the eye, and then you'll see."

In the mean time there was a grand and impressive silence in the direction of Willie Dalzel. He had gathered

remnants of his clan, but the main parts of his sovereignty were scattered to the winds. He was an enemy.

Owing to the circumspect behavior of the new boy, the commotions on the school grounds came to nothing.

He was often asked, "Kin you lick him?" And he invariably replied, "I dun'no'." This idea of waging battle

A war for complete supremacy of the tribe which had been headed by Willie Dalzel was fought out in the

country of the tribe. It came to pass that a certain halfdime bloodandthunder pamphlet had a great vogue

in the tribe at this particular time. This story relates the experience of a lad who began his career as cabin boy

on a pirate ship. Throughout the first fifteen chapters he was rope'sended from one end of the ship to the

other end, and very often he was felled to the deck by a heavy fist. He lived through enough hardships to have

killed a battalion of Turkish soldiers, but in the end he rose upon them. Yes, he rose upon them. Hordes of

pirates fell before his intrepid arm, and in the last chapters of the book he is seen jauntily careering on his

Naturally, when this tale was thoroughly understood by the tribe, they had to dramatize it, although it was a

dramatization that would gain no royalties for the author. Now it was plain that the urchin who was cast for

the cabinboy's part would lead a life throughout the first fifteen chapters which would attract few actors.

Willie Dalzel developed a scheme by which some small lad would play cabin boy during this period of

misfortune and abuse, and then, when the cabin boy came to the part where he slew all his enemies and

This fugitive and disconnected rendering of a great play opened in Jimmie Trescott's back garden. The path

between the two lines of gooseberry bushes was elected unanimously to be the ship. Then Willie Dalzel

insisted that Homer Phelps should be the cabinboy. Homer tried the position for a time, and then elected that

he would resign in favor of some other victim. There was no other applicant to succeed him, whereupon it

became necessary to press some boy. Jimmie Trescott was a great actor, as is well known, but he steadfastly

refused to engage for the part. Ultimately they seized upon little Dan Earl, whose disposition was so milky

and docile that he would do whatever anybody asked of him. But Dan Earl made the one firm revolt of his

life after trying existence as cabinboy for some ten minutes. Willie Dalzel was in despair. Then he suddenly

sighted the little brother of Johnnie Hedge, who had come into the garden, and in a poor little stranger sort of

fashion was looking wistfully at the play. When he was invited to become the cabin boy he accepted joyfully,

thinking that it was his initiation into the tribe. Then they proceeded to give him the rope's end and to punch

him with a realism which was not altogether painless. Directly he began to cry out. They exhorted him not to

There was a commotion among the gooseberry bushes, two branches were swept aside, and Johnnie Hedge

walked down upon them. Every boy stopped in his tracks. Johnnie was boiling with rage.

Willie Dalzel began to mumble: "We was on'y playin'. Wasn't nothin' fer him to cry fer."

The new boy had at his command some big phrases, and he used them. "I am goin' to whip you within an

inch of your life. I am goin' to tan the hide off'n you." And immediately there was a mixture an infusion of

two boys which looked as if it had been done by a chemist. The other children stood back, stricken with

horror. But out of this whirl they presently perceived the figure of Willie Dalzel seated upon the chest of the

"No," choked out the Hedge boy. Then there was another flapping and floundering, and finally another calm.

"No," said the Hedge boy. A sort of warcloud again puzzled the sight of the observers. Both combatants

"No," said the Hedge boy. The carnage was again renewed. All the spectators were silent but Johnnie Hedge's

little brother, who shrilly exhorted him to continue the struggle. But it was not plain that the Hedge boy

needed any encouragement, for he was crying bitterly, and it has been explained that when a boy cried it was

a bad time to hope for peace. He had managed to wriggle over upon his hands and knees. But Willie Dalzel

was tenaciously gripping him from the back, and it seemed that his strength would spend itself in futility. The

bear cub seemed to have the advantage of the working model of the windmill. They heaved, uttered strange

Peter Washington came out of the stable and observed this tragedy of the back garden. He stood transfixed

for a moment, and then ran towards it, shouting: "Hi! What's all dish yere? Hi! Stopper dat, stopper dat, you

two! For lan' sake, what's all dish yere?" He grabbed the struggling boys and pulled them apart. He was

stormy and fine in his indignation. "For lan' sake! You two kids act like you gwine mad dogs. Stopper dat!"

The whitened, tearful, soiled combatants, their clothing all awry, glared fiercely at each other as Peter stood

between them, lecturing. They made several futile attempts to circumvent him and again come to battle. As

he fended them off with his open hands he delivered his reproaches at Jimmie. "I's s'prised at you! I suhtainly

"I raikon you 'ain't," retorted Peter, with heavy sarcasm. "I raikon you been erprayin', 'ain't you?" Turning to

Willie Dalzel, he said, "You jest take an' run erlong outer dish yere or I'll jest nachually take an' damnearkill

you." Willie Dalzel went. To the new boy Peter said: "You look like you had some saince, but I raikon you

don't know no more'n er rabbit. You jest take an' trot erlong off home, an' don' lemme caitch you round yere

erfightin' or I'll break yer back." The Hedge boy moved away with dignity, followed by his little brother.

The latter, when he had placed a sufficient distance between himself and Peter, played his fingers at his nose

"'Pears like you never would understan' you ain't reg'lar common trash. You take an' 'sociate with an'body

The remaining boys retired to the street, whereupon they perceived Willie Dalzel in the distance. He ran to

From the Whilomville point of view he was entitled to a favorable answer. They made it. "Yes," they said,

"I run in," cried Willie, "an' I grabbed 'im, an' afore he knew what it was I throwed 'im. An' then it was easy."

He puffed out his chest and smiled like an English recruitingsergeant. "An' now," said he, suddenly facing

The question was direct and startling. Jimmie gave back two paces. "He licked you once," he explained,

"He never saw the day when he could lick one side of me. I could lick him with my left hand tied behind me.

"Don't you dare tell me I'm a liar, or I'll smack your mouth for you," said the Hedge boy.

He approached to attack warily, and the other boys held their breaths. Willie Dalzel winced back a pace.

But the comic windmill was again in motion, and between gasps from his exertions Johnnie Hedge remarked,

The first blows did not reach home on Willie, for he backed away with expedition, keeping up his futile cry,

"Hol' on a minute." Soon enough a swinging fist landed on his cheek. It did not knock him down, but it hurt

him a little and frightened him a great deal. He suddenly opened his mouth to an amazing and startling extent,

tilted back his head, and howled, while his eyes, glittering with tears, were fixed upon this scowling butcher

of a Johnnie Hedge. The latter was making slow and vicious circles, evidently intending to renew the

But the spectators really had been desolated and shocked by the terrible thing which had happened to Willie

Dalzel. They now cried out: "No, no; don't hit 'im any more! Don't hit 'im any more!"

Jimmie Trescott, in a panic of bravery, yelled, "We'll all jump on you if you do."

The Hedge boy paused, at bay. He breathed angrily, and flashed his glance from lad to lad. They still

"I'll hammer him until he can't stand up," said Johnnie, observing that they all feared him. "I'll fix him so he

Suddenly he ceased, he trembled, he collapsed. The hand of one approaching from behind had laid hold upon

The other lads heard a loud, ironfiling voice say, "Caught ye at it again, ye brat, ye." They saw a dreadful

woman with gray hair, with a sharp red nose, with bare arms, with spectacles of such magnifying quality that

her eyes shone through them like two fierce white moons. She was Johnnie Hedge's mother. Still holding

Johnnie by the ear, she swung out swiftly and dexterously, and succeeded in boxing the ears of two boys

before the crowd regained its presence of mind and stampeded. Yes, the war for supremacy was over, and the

THE child life of the neighborhood was sometimes moved in its deeps at the sight of wagonloads of

furniture arriving in front of some house which, with closed blinds and barred doors, had been for a time a

mystery, or even a fear. The boys often expressed this fear by stamping bravely and noisily on the porch of

the house, and then suddenly darting away with screams of nervous laughter, as if they expected to be

pursued by something uncanny. There was a group who held that the cellar of a vacant house was certainly

the abode of robbers, smugglers, assassins, mysterious masked men in council about the dim rays of a candle,

and possessing skulls, emblematic bloody daggers, and owls. Then, near the first of April, would come along

a wagonload of furniture, and children would assemble on the walk by the gate and make serious

examination of everything that passed into the house, and taking no thought whatever of masked men.

One day it was announced in the neighborhood that a family was actually moving into the Hannigan house,

next door to Dr. Trescott's. Jimmie was one of the first to be informed, and by the time some of his friends

"Yes," answered Jimmie, proudly. "One's a little feller, and one's most as big as me. I saw 'em, I did."

"Where are they?" asked Willie Dalzel, as if under the circumstances he could not take Jimmie's word, but

"Oh, they're in there," said Jimmie, carelessly. It was evident he owned these new boys.

"Ho!" he cried, scornfully. "Why don't they come out, then? Why don't they come out?"

"Well," retorted Willie Dalzel, "you seemed to know so thundering much about 'em."

At the moment a boy came strolling down the gravel walk which led from the front door to the gate. He was

about the height and age of Jimmie Trescott, but he was thick through the chest and had fat legs. His face was

round and rosy and plump, but his hair was curly black, and his brows were naturally darkling, so that he

He approached slowly the group of older inhabitants, and they had grown profoundly silent. They looked him

over; he looked them over. They might have been savages observing the first white man, or white men

As he neared the gate the strange boy wandered off to the left in a definite way, which proved his instinct to

make a circular voyage when in doubt. The motionless group stared at him. In time this unsmiling scrutiny

worked upon him somewhat, and he leaned against the fence and fastidiously examined one shoe.

In the end Willie Dalzel authoritatively broke the stillness. "What's your name?" said he, gruffly.

"Johnnie Hedge 'tis," answered the new boy. Then came another great silence while Whilomville pondered

These two sentences completed the first section of the formal code. The second section concerned itself with

The Hedge boy had stared at Willie Dalzel, but he stared at him again. After a pause he said, "I know you

"Well," demanded Willie, "kin he lick you?" And he indicated Jimmie Trescott with a sweep which

Whereupon the new boy looked at Jimmie respectfully but carefully, and at length said, "I dun'no'."

This was the signal for an outburst of shrill screaming, and everybody pushed Jimmie forward. He knew what

he had to say, and, as befitted the occasion, he said it fiercely: "Kin you lick me?"

The new boy also understood what he had to say, and, despite his unhappy and lonely state, he said it bravely:

"Well," retorted Jimmie, bluntly, "come out and do it, then! Jest come out and do it!" And these words were

greeted with cheers. These little rascals yelled that there should be a fight at once. They were in bliss over the

prospect. "Go on, Jim! Make 'im come out. He said he could lick you. Awawaw! He said he could lick

you!" There probably never was a fight among this class in Whilomville which was not the result of the

goading and guying of two proud lads by a populace of urchins who simply wished to see a show.

Willie Dalzel was very busy. He turned first to the one and then to the other. "You said you could lick him.

Well, why don't you come out and do it, then? You said you could lick him, didn't you?"

Willie tried to drag Jimmie by the arm. "Aw, go on, Jimmie! You ain't afraid, are you?"

The two victims opened wide eyes at each other. The fence separated them, and so it was impossible for them

to immediately engage; but they seemed to understand that they were ultimately to be sacrificed to the

ferocious aspirations of the other boys, and each scanned the other to learn something of his spirit. They were

not angry at all. They were merely two little gladiators who were being clamorously told to hurt each other.

Each displayed hesitation and doubt without displaying fear. They did not exactly understand what were their

feelings, and they moodily kicked the ground and made low and sullen answers to Willie Dalzel, who worked

"Aw, go on, Jim! What's the matter with you? You ain't afraid, are you? Well, then, say something." This

sentiment received more cheering from the abandoned little wretches who wished to be entertained, and in

this cheering there could be heard notes of derision of Jimmie Trescott. The latter had a position to sustain; he

was well known; he often bragged of his willingness and ability to thrash other boys; well, then, here was a

boy of his size who said that he could not thrash him. What was he going to do about it? The crowd made

Finally Jimmie, driven to aggression, walked close to the fence and said to the new boy, "The first time I

catch you out of your own yard I'll lam the head off'n you!" This was received with wild plaudits by the

But the new boy stepped back from the fence. He was awed by Jimmie's formidable mien. But he managed to

However, his short retreat was taken as a practical victory for Jimmie, and the boys hooted him bitterly. He

remained inside the fence, swinging one foot and scowling, while Jimmie was escorted off down the street

amid acclamations. The new boy turned and walked back toward the house, his face gloomy, lined deep with

discouragement, as if he felt that the new environment's antagonism and palpable cruelty were sure to prove

II The mother of Johnnie Hedge was a widow, and the chief theory of her life was that her boy should be in

school on the greatest possible number of days. He himself had no sympathy with this ambition, but she

detected the truth of his diseases with an unerring eye, and he was required to be really ill before he could

win the right to disregard the first bell, morning and noon. The chickenpox and the mumps had given him

vacations vacations of misery, wherein he nearly died between pain and nursing. But bad colds in the head

did nothing for him, and he was not able to invent a satisfactory hacking cough. His mother was not

consistently a tartar. In most things he swayed her to his will. He was allowed to have more jam, pickles, and

pie than most boys; she respected his profound loathing of Sundayschool; on summer evenings he could

remain out of doors until 8:30; but in this matter of school she was inexorable. This single point in her

The Hedges arrived in Whilomville on a Saturday, and on the following Monday Johnnie wended his way to

school with a note to the principal and his Jersey City school books. He knew perfectly well that he would be

told to buy new and different books, but in those days mothers always had an idea that old books would "do,"

and they invariably sent boys off to a new school with books which would not meet the selected and

unchangeable views of the new administration. The old books never would "do." Then the boys brought them

home to annoyed mothers and asked for ninety cents or sixty cents or eightyfive cents or some number of

cents for another outfit. In the garret of every house holding a large family there was a collection of effete

school books with mother rebellious because James could not inherit his books from Paul, who should

properly be Peter's heir, while Peter should be a beneficiary under Henry's will.

But the matter of the books was not the measure of Johnnie Hedge's unhappiness. This whole business of

changing schools was a complete torture. Alone he had to go among a new people, a new tribe, and he

apprehended his serious time. There were only two fates for him. One meant victory. One meant a kind of

serfdom in which he would subscribe to every word of some superior boy and support his every word. It was

not anything like an English system of fagging, because boys invariably drifted into the figurative service of

other boys whom they devotedly admired, and if they were obliged to subscribe to everything, it is true that

they would have done so freely in any case. One means to suggest that Johnnie Hedge had to find his place.

Willie Dalzel was a type of the little chieftain, and Willie was a master, but he was not a bully in a special

physical sense. He did not drag little boys by the ears until they cried, nor make them tearfully fetch and carry

for him. They fetched and carried, but it was because of their worship of his prowess and genius. And so all

through the strata of boy life were chieftains and subchieftains and assistant subchieftains. There was no

question of little Hedge being towed about by the nose; it was, as one has said, that he had to find his place in

a new school. And this in itself was a problem which awed his boyish heart. He was a stranger cast away

upon the moon. None knew him, understood him, felt for him. He would be surrounded for this initiative time

by a horde of jackal creatures who might turn out in the end to be little boys like himself, but this last point

He came to a white meetinghouse sort of a place, in the squat tower of which a great bell was clanging

impressively. He passed through an iron gate into a playground worn bare as the bed of a mountain brook

by the endless runnings and scufflings of little children. There was still a halfhour before the final clangor in

the squat tower, but the playground held a number of frolicsome imps. A loitering boy espied Johnnie

Hedge, and he howled: "Oh! oh! Here's a new feller! Here's a new feller!" He advanced upon the strange

arrival. "What's your name?" he demanded, belligerently, like a particularly offensive customhouse officer.

This name struck the other boy as being very comic. All new names strike boys as being comic. He laughed

The new boy felt that his name was the most disgraceful thing which had ever been attached to a human

"I dun'no'," said Johnnie. In the mean time a small flock of interested vultures had gathered about him. The

main thing was his absolute strangeness. He even would have welcomed the sight of his tormentors of

Saturday; he had seen them before at least. These creatures were only so many incomprehensible problems.

He diffidently began to make his way toward the main door of the school, and the other boys followed him.

"Are you through subtraction yet? We study jogerfre did you, ever? You live here now? You goin' to

To many questions he made answer as well as the clamor would permit, and at length he reached the main

door and went quaking unto his new kings. As befitted them, the rabble stopped at the door. A teacher

strolling along a corridor found a small boy holding in his hand a note. The boy palpably did not know what

to do with the note, but the teacher knew, and took it. Thereafter this little boy was in harness.

A splendid lady in gorgeous robes gave him a seat at a double desk, at the end of which sat a hoodlum with

grimy fingernails who eyed the inauguration with an extreme and personal curiosity. The other desks were

gradually occupied by children, who first were told of the new boy, and then turned upon him a speculative

and somewhat derisive eye. The school opened; little classes went forward to a position in front of the

teacher's platform and tried to explain that they knew something. The new boy was not requisitioned a great

deal; he was allowed to lie dormant until he became used to the scenes and until the teacher found,

approximately, his mental position. In the mean time he suffered a shower of stares and whispers and giggles,

as if he were a manape, whereas he was precisely like other children. From time to time he made funny and

pathetic little overtures to other boys, but these overtures could not yet be received; he was not known; he

was a foreigner. The village school was like a nation. It was tight. Its amiability or friendship must be won in

At recess he hovered in the schoolroom around the weak lights of society and around the teacher, in the

hope that somebody might be good to him, but none considered him save as some sort of a specimen. The

teacher of course had a secondary interest in the fact that he was an additional one to a class of sixtythree.

At twelve o'clock, when the ordered files of boys and girls marched towards the door, he exhibited to no

eye the tremblings of a coward in a charge. He exaggerated the lawlessness of the playground and the

Small and utterly obscure boys teased him. He had a hard time of it to get to the gate. There never was any

actual hurt, but everything was competent to smite the lad with shame. It was a curious, groundless shame,

but nevertheless was shame. He was a newcomer, and he definitely felt the disgrace of the fact. In the street

he was seen and recognized by some lads who had formed part of the group of Saturday. They shouted:

Jimmie Trescott was going virtuously toward his luncheon when he heard these cries behind him. He

pretended not to hear, and in this deception he was assisted by the fact that he was engaged at the time in a

furious argument with a friend over the relative merits of two Uncle Tom's Cabin companies. It appeared that

one company had only two bloodhounds, while the other had ten. On the other hand, the first company had

two Topsys and two Uncle Toms, while the second had only one Topsy and one Uncle Tom.

But the shouting little boys were hard after him. Finally they were even pulling at his arms.

"I don't care if he is," said Jimmie, with grand impatience. He tilted his chin. "I don't care if he is."

Then they reviled him. "Thought you was goin' to lick him first time you caught him! Yah! You're a

'fraidcat!" They began to sing: "'Fraidcat! 'Fraidcat! 'Fraidcat!" He expostulated hotly, turning from one

to the other, but they would not listen. In the mean time the Hedge boy slunk on his way, looking with deep

anxiety upon this attempt to send Jimmie against him. But Jimmie would have none of the plan.

III When the children met again on the playground, Jimmie was openly challenged with cowardice. He had

made a big threat in the hearing of comrades, and when invited by them to take advantage of an opportunity,

he had refused. They had been fairly sure of their amusement, and they were indignant. Jimmie was finally

driven to declare that as soon as school was out for the day, he would thrash the Hedge boy.

When finally the children came rushing out of the iron gate, filled with the delights of freedom, a hundred

boys surrounded Jimmie in high spirits, for he had said that he was determined. They waited for the lone lad

from Jersey City. When he appeared, Jimmie wasted no time. He walked straight to him and said, "Did you

Johnnie Hedge was cowed, shrinking, affrighted, and the roars of a hundred boys thundered in his ears, but

"Then," said Jimmie, resolutely, "you've got to fight." There was a joyous clamor by the mob. The

beleaguered lad looked this way and that way for succor, as Willie Dalzel and other officious youngsters

policed an irregular circle in the crowd. He saw Jimmie facing him; there was no help for it; he dropped his

Now it was the fashion among tiny Whilomville belligerents to fight much in the manner of little bear cubs.

Two boys would rush upon each other, immediately grapple, and the best boy having probably succeeded

in getting the coveted "under hold" there would presently be a crash to the earth of the inferior boy, and he

would probably be mopped around in the dust, or the mud, or the snow, or whatever the material happened to

be, until the engagement was over. Whatever havoc was dealt out to him was ordinarily the result of his wild

endeavors to throw off his opponent and arise. Both infants wept during the fight, as a common thing, and if

they wept very hard, the fight was a harder fight. The result was never very bloody, but the complete

dishevelment of both victor and vanquished was extraordinary. As for the spectacle, it more resembled a

collision of boys in a fog than it did the manly art of hammering another human being into speechless

The fight began when Jimmie made a mad, bearcub rush at the new boy, amid savage cries of

encouragement. Willie Dalzel, for instance, almost howled his head off. Very timid boys on the outskirts of

the throng felt their hearts leap to their throats. It was a time when certain natures were impressed that only

But it appeared that bearcub rushing was no part of the instruction received by boys in Jersey City. Boys in

Jersey City were apparently schooled curiously. Upon the onslaught of Jimmie, the stranger had gone wild

with rage boylike. Some spark had touched his fighting blood, and in a moment, he was a cornered,

desperate, fireeyed little man. He began to swing his arms, to revolve them so swiftly that one might have

considered him a small working model of an extrafine patented windmill which was caught in a gale. For a

moment this defence surprised Jimmie more than it damaged him, but two moments later a small knotty fist

caught him squarely in the eye, and with a shriek he went down in defeat. He lay on the ground so stunned

that he could not even cry; but if he had been able to cry, he would have cried over his prestige or

There was a dreadful tumult. The boys cast glances of amazement and terror upon the victor, and thronged

upon the beaten Jimmie Trescott. It was a moment of excitement so intense that one cannot say what

happened. Never before had Whilomville seen such a thing not the little tots. They were aghast,

dumfounded, and they glanced often over their shoulders at the new boy, who stood alone, his clinched fists

But there was another surprise for Whilomville. It might have been seen that the little victor was silently

But the impulse won, for the lone lad from Jersey City suddenly wheeled, sprang like a demon, and struck

A curtain should be drawn before this deed. A knowledge of it is really too much for the heart to bear. The

other boy was Willie Dalzel. The lone lad from Jersey City had smitten him full sore.

There is little to say of it. It must have been that a feeling worked gradually to the top of the little stranger's

wrath that Jimmie Trescott had been a mere tool, that the front and centre of his persecutors had been Willie

Dalzel, and being rendered temporarily lawless by his fighting blood, he raised his hand and smote for

Willie Dalzel had been in the middle of a vandal's cry, which screeched out over the voices of everybody.

The new boy's fist cut it in half, so to say. And then arose the howl of an amazed and terrorized walrus.

One wishes to draw a second curtain. Without discussion or inquiry or brief retort, Willie Dalzel ran away.

He ran like a hare straight for home, this redoubtable chieftain. Following him at a heavy and slow pace ran

Willie Dalzel was no coward; he had been panicstricken into running away from a new thing. He ran as a

man might run from the sudden appearance of a vampire or a ghoul or a gorilla. This was no time for

Jimmie slowly gathered himself and came to his feet. "Where's Willie?" said he, first of all. The crowd

"He did?" said Jimmie. He sat weakly down on the roadway. "He did?" After allowing a moment for the fact

to sink into him, he looked up at the crowd with his one good eye and his one bunged eye, and smiled

SI BRYANT'S place was on the shore of the lake, and his gardenpatch, shielded from the north by a bold

little promontory and a higher ridge inland, was accounted the most successful and surprising in all

Whilomville township. One afternoon Si was working in the gardenpatch, when Doctor Trescott's man,

Peter Washington, came trudging slowly along the road, observing nature. He scanned the white man's fine

agricultural results. "Take your eye off them there mellons, you rascal," said Si, placidly.

The negro's face widened in a grin of delight. "Well, Mist' Bryant, I raikon I ain't on'y make m'se'f covertous

"That's all right," responded Si, with affected bitterness of spirit. "That's all right. Just don't you admire 'em

Peter chuckled and chuckled. "Ma Lode! Mist' Bryant, yyyou don' think I'm gwine come prowlin' in dish

"No, I know you hain't," said Si, with solemnity. "B'cause, if you did, I'd shoot you so full of holes you

"Um no, seh! No, seh! I don' raikon you'll get chance at Pete, Mist' Bryant. No, seh. I'll take an' run 'long

Bryant, gnarled and strong as an old tree, leaned on his hoe, and laughed a Yankee laugh. His mouth

remained tightly closed, but the sinister lines which ran from the sides of his nose to the meetings of his lips

developed to form a comic oval, and he emitted a series of grunts, while his eyes gleamed merrily and his

shoulders shook. Peter, on the contrary, threw back his head and guffawed thunderously. The effete joke in

regard to an American negro's fondness for watermelons was still an admirable pleasantry to them, and this

was not the first time they had engaged in badinage over it. In fact, this venerable survival had formed

Afterward Peter went on up the road. He continued to chuckle until he was far away. He was going to pay a

visit to old Alek Williams, a negro who lived with a large family in a hut clinging to the side of a mountain.

The scattered colony of negroes which hovered near Whilomville was of interesting origin, being the result of

some contrabands who had drifted as far north as Whilomville during the great civil war. The descendants of

these adventurers were mainly conspicuous for their bewildering number, and the facility which they

possessed for adding even to this number. Speaking, for example, of the Jacksons one couldn't hurl a

stone into the hills about Whilomville without having it land on the roof of a hut full of Jacksons. The town

reaped little in labor from these curious suburbs. There were a few men who came in regularly to work in

gardens, to drive teams, to care for horses, and there were a few women who came in to cook or to wash.

These latter had usually drunken husbands. In the main the colony loafed in high spirits, and the industrious

minority gained no direct honor from their fellows, unless they spent their earnings on raiment, in which case

they were naturally treated with distinction. On the whole, the hardships of these people were the wind, the

rain, the snow, and any other physical difficulties which they could cultivate. About twice a year the lady

philanthropists of Whilomville went up against them, and came away poorer in goods but rich in

complacence. After one of these attacks the colony would preserve a comic air of rectitude for two days, and

Peter Washington was one of the industrious class who occupied a position of distinction, for he surely spent

his money on personal decoration. On occasion he could dress better than the Mayor of Whilomville himself,

or at least in more colors, which was the main thing to the minds of his admirers. His ideal had been the late

gallant Henry Johnson, whose conquests in Watermelon Alley, as well as in the hill shanties, had proved him

the equal if not the superior of any Pullmancar porter in the country. Perhaps Peter had too much Virginia

laziness and humor in him to be a wholly adequate successor to the fastidious Henry Johnson, but, at any rate,

he admired his memory so attentively as to be openly termed a dude by envious people.

On this afternoon he was going to call on old Alek Williams because Alek's eldest girl was just turned

seventeen, and, to Peter's mind, was a triumph of beauty. He was not wearing his best clothes, because on his

last visit Alek's halfbreed hound Susie had taken occasion to forcefully extract a quite large and valuable

part of the visitor's trousers. When Peter arrived at the end of the rocky field which contained old Alek's

shanty he stooped and provided himself with several large stones, weighing them carefully in his hand, and

finally continuing his journey with three stones of about eight ounces each. When he was near the house,

three gaunt hounds, Rover and Carlo and Susie, came sweeping down upon him. His impression was that

they were going to climb him as if he were a tree, but at the critical moment they swerved and went growling

and snapping around him, their heads low, their eyes malignant. The afternoon caller waited until Susie

presented her side to him, then he heaved one of his eightounce rocks. When it landed, her hollow ribs gave

forth a drumlike sound, and she was knocked sprawling, her legs in the air. The other hounds at once fled in

horror, and she followed as soon as she was able, yelping at the top of her lungs. The afternoon caller

At the wild expressions of Susie's anguish old Alek had flung open the door and come hastily into the

sunshine. "Yah, you Suse, come erlong outa dat now. What fer you Oh, how do, how do, Mist' Wash'ton

"How do, Mist' Willums? I done foun' it necessa'y fer ter damnearkill dish yer dawg a yourn, Mist' Willums."

"Come in, come in, Mist' Wash'ton. Dawg no 'count, Mist' Wash'ton." Then he turned to address the

unfortunate animal. "Hu't, did it? Hu't? 'Pears like you gwine lun some saince by time somebody brek yer

back. 'Pears like I gwine club yer inter er frazzle 'fore you fin' out some saince. Gw'on 'way f'm yah!"

As the old man and his guest entered the shanty a body of black children spread out in crescentshape

formation and observed Peter with awe. Fat old Mrs. Williams greeted him turbulently, while the eldest girl,

Mollie, lurked in a corner and giggled with finished imbecility, gazing at the visitor with eyes that were shy

and bold by turns. She seemed at times absurdly overconfident, at times foolishly afraid; but her giggle

consistently endured. It was a giggle on which an irascible but rightminded judge would have ordered her

Amid a great deal of hospitable gabbling, Peter was conducted to the best chair out of the three that the house

contained. Enthroned therein, he made himself charming in talk to the old people, who beamed upon him

joyously. As for Mollie, he affected to be unaware of her existence. This may have been a method for

entrapping the sentimental interest of that young gazelle, or it may be that the giggle had worked upon him.

He was absolutely fascinating to the old people. They could talk like rotary snowploughs, and he gave them

every chance, while his face was illumined with appreciation. They pressed him to stay to supper, and he

consented, after a glance at the pot on the stove which was too furtive to be noted.

During the meal old Alek recounted the high state of Judge Oglethorpe's kitchengarden, which Alek said

was due to his unremitting industry and fine intelligence. Alek was a gardener, whenever impending

"Seems like I nev' did see sech mellums, big as er bar'l, layin' dere. I don't raikon an'body in dish yer county

They did not talk of watermelons until their heads held nothing else, as the phrase goes. But they talked of

watermelons until, when Peter started for home that night over a lonely road, they held a certain dominant

position in his mind. Alek had come with him as far as the fence, in order to protect him from a possible

The night was dark, and heavy with moisture. Peter found it uncomfortable to walk rapidly. He merely

loitered on the road. When opposite Si Bryant's place he paused and looked over the fence into the garden.

He imagined he could see the form of a huge melon lying in dim stateliness not ten yards away. He looked at

the Bryant house. Two windows, downstairs, were lighted. The Bryants kept no dog, old Si's favorite child

having once been bitten by a dog, and having since died, within that year, of pneumonia.

Peering over the fence, Peter fancied that if any lowminded nightprowler should happen to note the melon,

he would not find it difficult to possess himself of it. This person would merely wait until the lights were out

in the house, and the people presumably asleep. Then he would climb the fence, reach the melon in a few

strides, sever the stem with his ready knife, and in a trice be back in the road with his prize. There need be no

Selecting a smooth bit of turf, Peter took a seat by the roadside. From time to time he glanced at the lighted

II When Peter and Alek had said goodby, the old man turned back in the rocky field and shaped a slow

course toward that high dim light which marked the little window of his shanty. It would be incorrect to say

that Alek could think of nothing but watermelons. But it was true that Si Bryant's watermelonpatch

He sighed; he almost wished that he was again a conscienceless pickaninny, instead of being one of the most

ornate, solemn, and lookatmesinner deacons that ever graced the handle of a collectionbasket. At this

time it made him quite sad to reflect upon his granite integrity. A weaker man might perhaps bow his moral

head to the temptation, but for him such a fall was impossible. He was a prince of the church, and if he had

been nine princes of the church he could not have been more proud. In fact, religion was to the old man a sort

of personal dignity. And he was on Sundays so obtrusively good that you could see his sanctity through a

door. He forced it on you until you would have felt its influence even in a forecastle.

It was clear in his mind that he must put watermelon thoughts from him, and after a moment he told himself,

with much ostentation, that he had done so. But it was cooler under the sky than in the shanty, and as he was

not sleepy, he decided to take a stroll down to Si Bryant's place and look at the melons from a pinnacle of

spotless innocence. Reaching the road, he paused to listen. It would not do to let Peter hear him, because that

graceless rapscallion would probably misunderstand him. But, assuring himself that Peter was well on his

way, he set out, walking briskly until he was within four hundred yards of Bryant's place. Here he went to the

side of the road, and walked thereafter on the damp, yielding turf. He made no sound.

He did not go on to that point in the main road which was directly opposite the watermelonpatch. He did not

wish to have his ascetic contemplation disturbed by some chance wayfarer. He turned off along a short lane

which led to Si Bryant's barn. Here he reached a place where he could see, over the fence, the faint shapes of

Alek was affected. The house was some distance away, there was no dog, and doubtless the Bryants would

soon extinguish their lights and go to bed. Then some poor lost lamb of sin might come and scale the fence,

reach a melon in a moment, sever the stem with his ready knife, and in a trice be back in the road with his

prize. And this poor lost lamb of sin might even be a bishop, but no one would ever know it. Alek singled out

with his eye a very large melon, and thought that the lamb would prove his judgment if he took that one.

He found a soft place in the grass, and arranged himself comfortably. He watched the lights in the windows.

III It seemed to Peter Washington that the Bryants absolutely consulted their own wishes in regard to the time

for retiring; but at last he saw the lighted windows fade briskly from left to right, and after a moment a

window on the second floor blazed out against the darkness. Si was going to bed. In five minutes this window

Peter spent the ensuing quarterhour in no mental debate. His mind was fixed. He was here, and the melon

was there. He would have it. But an idea of being caught appalled him. He thought of his position. He was the

bean of his community, honored right and left. He pictured the consternation of his friends and the cheers of

his enemies if the hands of the redoubtable Si Bryant should grip him in his shame.

He arose, and going to the fence, listened. No sound broke the stillness, save the rhythmical incessant

clicking of myriad insects, and the guttural chanting of the frogs in the reeds at the lakeside. Moved by

sudden decision, he climbed the fence and crept silently and swiftly down upon the melon. His open knife

was in his hand. There was the melon, cool, fair to see, as pompous in its fatness as the cook in a monastery.

Peter put out a hand to steady it while he cut the stem. But at the instant he was aware that a black form had

dropped over the fence lining the lane in front of him and was coming stealthily toward him. In a palsy of

terror he dropped flat upon the ground, not having strength enough to run away. The next moment he was

There was a moment of loaded silence, and then Peter was overcome by a mad inspiration. He suddenly

dropped his knife and leaped upon Alek. "I got che!" he hissed. "I got che! I got che!" The old man sank

Alek, in a low voice, began to beg. "Oh, Mist' Peter Wash'ton, don' go fer ter be too ha'd on er ole man! I nev'

come yere fer ter steal 'em. 'Deed I didn't, Mist' Wash'ton! I come yere jes fer ter feel 'em. Oh, please, Mist'

"Come erlong outa yere, you ol' rip," said Peter, "an' don' trumple on dese yer baids. I gwine put you wah you

Without difficulty he tumbled the whining Alek over the fence to the roadway, and followed him with

sherifflike expedition. He took him by the scruff. "Come erlong, deacon. I raikon I gwine put you wah you

The emphasis and reiteration of his layman's title in the church produced a deadly effect upon Alek. He felt to

his marrow the heinous crime into which this treacherous night had betrayed him. As Peter marched his

prisoner up the road toward the mouth of the lane, he continued his remarks: "Come erlong, deacon. Nev' see

er man so anxiouslike erbout er mellum paitch, deacon. Seem like you jes must see 'em ergrowin' an' feel

'em, deacon. Mist' Bryant he'll be s'prised, deacon, findin' out you come fer ter feel his mellums. Come

They had almost reached the lane when Alek's cur Susie, who had followed her master, approached in the

silence which attends dangerous dogs; and seeing indications of what she took to be war, she appended

herself swiftly but firmly to the calf of Peter's left leg. The melee was short, but spirited. Alek had no wish to

have his dog complicate his already serious misfortunes, and went manfully to the defence of his captor. He

procured a large stone, and by beating this with both hands down upon the resounding skull of the animal, he

induced her to quit her grip. Breathing heavily, Peter dropped into the long grass at the roadside. He said

"Mist' Wash'ton," said Alek at last, in a quavering voice, "I raikon I gwine wait yere see what you gwine do

Whereupon Peter passed into a spasmodic state, in which he rolled to and fro and shook.

Peter sat up suddenly. "No, she ain't," he answered; "but she gin me er big skeer; an' fer yer 'sistance with er

cobblestone, Mist' Willums, I tell you what I gwine do I tell you what I gwine do." He waited an

The old man was filled with a desire to negotiate this statement at once, but he felt the necessity of carrying

off the event without an appearance of haste. "Yes, seh; thank 'e, seh; thank 'e, Mist' Wash'ton. I raikon I

ramble home pressenly." He waited an interval, and then dubiously said, "Goodevenin', Mist' Wash'ton."

"Goodevenin', deacon. Don' come foolin' roun' feelin' no mellums, and I say troof. Goodevenin', deacon."

Alek took off his hat and made three profound bows. "Thank 'e, seh. Thank 'e, seh. Thank 'e, seh."

Peter underwent another severe spasm, but the old man walked off toward his home with a humble and

IV The next morning Alek proceeded from his shanty under the complete but customary illusion that he was

going to work. He trudged manfully along until he reached the vicinity of Si Bryant's place. Then, by stages,

he relapsed into a slink. He was passing the gardenpatch under full steam, when, at some distance ahead of

"Goodmawnin', Mist' Bryant," answered Alek, with a new deference. He was marching on, when he was

"I found a knife this mornin' in th' road," drawled Si, "an' I thought maybe it was yourn."

Improved in mind by this divergence from the direct line of attack, Alek stepped up easily to look at the

knife. "No, seh," he said, scanning it as it lay in Si's palm, while the cold steelblue eyes of the white man

looked down into his stomach, "'tain't no knife er mine." But he knew the knife. He knew it as if it had been

his mother. And at the same moment a spark flashed through his head and made wise his understanding. He

knew everything. "'Tain't much of er knife, Mist' Bryant," he said, deprecatingly.

"'Tain't much of a knife, I know that," cried Si, in sudden heat, "but I found it this mornin' in my

"Yes, in my watermelonpatch," sneered Si, "an' I think you know something about it, too!"

"Yes you!" said Si, with icy ferocity. "Yes you!" He had become convinced that Alek was not in any

he was certain that the old man knew the owner of the knife, and so he pressed him at first on criminal lines.

Bryant changed his ways. "Look here, Alek," he said, confidentially. "I know you and you know me, and

there ain't no use in any more skirmishes. I know that you know whose knife that is. Now whose is it?"

This challenge was so formidable in character that Alek temporarily quailed and began to stammer. "Er

"I know I'm a friend of yours, but," said Bryant, inexorably, "who owns this knife?"

Alek gathered unto himself some remnants of dignity and spoke with reproach: "Mist' Bryant, dish yer knife

"No," said Bryant, "it ain't. But you know who it belongs to, an' I want you to tell me quick."

"Well, Mist' Bryant," answered Alek, scratching his wool, "I won't say 's I do know who b'longs ter dish yer

Bryant again laughed his Yankee laugh, but this time there was little humor in it. It was dangerous.

Alek, seeing that he had gotten himself into hot water by the fine diplomacy of his last sentence, immediately

began to flounder and totally submerge himself. "No, Mist' Bryant," he repeated, "I won't say 's I do know

who b'longs ter dish yer knife, an' I won't say 's I don't." And he began to parrot this fatal sentence again and

again. It seemed wound about his tongue. He could not rid himself of it. Its very power to make trouble for

"Ffrien'?" stuttered Alek. He appeared to weigh this question with much care. "Well, seems like he was er

"Yes, seh, jest so, jest so," cried Alek. "Sometimes it seems like he wasn't. Then agin " He stopped for

The patience of the white man seemed inexhaustible. At length his low and oily voice broke the stillness.

"Oh, well, of course if he's a friend of yourn, Alek! You know I wouldn't want to make no trouble for a friend

"Well, then, it seems as if about the only thing to do is for you to tell me his name so's I can send him his

Alek took off his hat, and in perplexity ran his hand over his wool. He studied the ground. But several times

he raised his eyes to take a sly peep at the imperturbable visage of the white man. "Y y yes, Mist'

Bryant....I raikon dat's erbout all what kin be done. I gwine tell you who b'longs ter dish yer knife."

"Of course," said the smooth Bryant, "it ain't a very nice thing to have to do, but "

"No, seh," cried Alek, brightly; "I'm gwine tell you, Mist' Bryant. I gwine tell you erbout dat knife. Mist'

"Well, I gwine tell. I gwine tell who, Mr. Bryant " The old man drew himself to a stately pose and held

forth his arm. "I gwine tell who. Mist' Bryant, dish yer knife b'longs ter Sam Jackson!"

"He's a nigger," said Alek, impressively, "and he wuks in er lumberyawd up yere in Hoswego."

WHEN the angel child returned with her parents to New York, the fond heart of Jimmie Trescott felt its

bruise greatly. For two days he simply moped, becoming a stranger to all former joys. When his old comrades

yelled invitation, as they swept off on some interesting quest, he replied with mournful gestures of

He thought often of writing to her, but of course the shame of it made him pause. Write a letter to a girl? The

mere enormity of the idea caused him shudders. Persons of his quality never wrote letters to girls. Such was

the occupation of mollycoddles and snivellers. He knew that if his acquaintances and friends found in him

evidences of such weakness and general milkiness, they would fling themselves upon him like so many

However, one day at school, in that time of the morning session when children of his age were allowed

fifteen minutes of play in the schoolgrounds, he did not as usual rush forth ferociously to his games.

Commonly he was of the worst hoodlums, preying upon his weaker brethren with all the cruel disregard of a

grown man. On this particular morning he staid in the schoolroom, and with his tongue stuck from the

corner of his mouth, and his head twisting in a painful way, he wrote to little Cora, pouring out to her all the

poetry of his hungry soul, as follows: "My dear Cora I love thee with all my hart oh come bac again, bac, bac

gain for I love thee best of all oh come bac again When the spring come again we'l fly and we'l fly like a

As for the last word, he knew under normal circumstances perfectly well how to spell "bird," but in this case

Nor had this letter been composed without fear and furtive glancing. There was always a number of children

who, for the time, cared more for the quiet of the schoolroom than for the tempest of the playground, and

there was always that dismal company who were being forcibly deprived of their recess who were being

"kept in." More than one curious eye was turned upon the desperate and lawless Jimmie Trescott suddenly

taken to ways of peace, and as he felt these eyes he flushed guiltily, with felonious glances from side to side.

It happened that a certain vigilant little girl had a seat directly across the aisle from Jimmie's seat, and she had

remained in the room during the intermission, because of her interest in some absurd domestic details

concerning her desk. Parenthetically it might be stated that she was in the habit of imagining this desk to be a

house, and at this time, with an important little frown, indicative of a proper matron, she was engaged in

But this small Rose Goldege happened to be of a family which numbered few males. It was, in fact, one of

those curious middleclass families that hold much of their ground, retain most of their position, after all

their visible means of support have been dropped in the grave. It contained now only a collection of women

who existed submissively, defiantly, securely, mysteriously, in a pretentious and often exasperating virtue. It

was often too triumphantly clear that they were free of bad habits. However, bad habits is a term here used in

a commoner meaning, because it is certainly true that the principal and indeed solitary joy which entered their

lonely lives was the joy of talking wickedly and busily about their neighbors. It was all done without dream

of its being of the vulgarity of the alleys. Indeed it was simply a constitutional but not incredible chastity and

honesty expressing itself in its ordinary superior way of the whirling circles of life, and the vehemence of the

criticism was not lessened by a further infusion of an acid of worldly defeat, worldly suffering, and worldly

Out of this family circle had sprung the typical little girl who discovered Jimmie Trescott agonizingly writing

a letter to his sweetheart. Of course all the children were the most abandoned gossips, but she was peculiarly

adapted to the purpose of making Jimmie miserable over this particular point. It was her life to sit of evenings

about the stove and hearken to her mother and a lot of spinsters talk of many things. During these evenings

she was never licensed to utter an opinion either one way or the other way. She was then simply a very little

girl sitting openeyed in the gloom, and listening to many things which she often interpreted wrongly. They

on their part kept up a kind of a smugfaced pretence of concealing from her information in detail of the

widespread crime, which pretence may have been more elaborately dangerous than no pretence at all. Thus

all her hometeaching fitted her to recognize at once in Jimmie Trescott's manner that he was concealing

something that would properly interest the world. She set up a scream. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Jimmie Trescott's

Jimmie cast a miserable glance upon her a glance in which hatred mingled with despair. Through the open

window he could hear the boisterous cries of his friends his hoodlum friends who would no more

understand the utter poetry of his position than they would understand an ancient tribal signlanguage. His

face was set in a truer expression of horror than any of the romances describe upon the features of a man

flung into a moat, a man shot in the breast with an arrow, a man cleft in the neck with a battleaxe. He was

suppedaneous of the fullest power of childish pain. His one course was to rush upon her and attempt, by an

The teacher, a thoughtful young woman at her desk upon the platform, saw a little scuffle which informed her

that two of her scholars were larking. She called out sharply. The command penetrated to the middle of an

early world struggle. In Jimmie's age there was no particular scruple in the minds of the male sex against

laying warrior hands upon their weaker sisters. But, of course, this voice from the throne hindered Jimmie in

Even the little girl was retarded by the voice, but, without being unlawful, she managed soon to shy through

the door and out upon the playground, yelling, "Oh, Jimmie Trescott's been writing to his girl!"

The unhappy Jimmie was following as closely as he was allowed by his knowledge of the decencies to be

Jimmie himself was mainly responsible for the scene which ensued on the playground. It is possible that the

little girl might have run, shrieking his infamy, without exciting more than a general but unmilitant interest.

These barbarians were excited only by the actual appearance of human woe; in that event they cheered and

danced. Jimmie made the strategic mistake of pursuing little Rose, and thus exposed his thin skin to the

whole school. He had in his cowering mind a vision of a hundred children turning from their play under the

mapletrees and speeding toward him over the gravel with sudden wild taunts. Upon him drove a yelping

demoniac mob, to which his words were futile. He saw in this mob boys that he dimly knew, and his deadly

enemies, and his retainers, and his most intimate friends. The virulence of his deadly enemy was no greater

than the virulence of his intimate friend. From the outskirts the little informer could be heard still screaming

the news, like a toy parrot with clock work inside of it. It broke up all sorts of games, not so much because of

the mere fact of the letterwriting, as because the children knew that some sufferer was at the last point, and,

like little bloodfanged wolves, they thronged to the scene of his destruction. They galloped about him shrilly

chanting insults. He turned from one to another, only to meet with howls. He was baited.

Then, in one instant, he changed all this with a blow. Bang! The most pitiless of the boys near him received a

punch, fairly and skilfully, which made him bellow out like a walrus, and then Jimmie laid desperately into

the whole world, striking out frenziedly in all directions. Boys who could handily whip him, and knew it,

backed away from this onslaught. Here was intention serious intention. They themselves were not in

frenzy, and their cooler judgment respected Jimmie's efforts when he ran amuck. They saw that it really was

none of their affair. In the mean time the wretched little girl who had caused the bloody riot was away, by the

Jimmie several times hit the wrong boy that is to say, he several times hit a wrong boy hard enough to

arouse also in him a spirit of strife. Jimmie wore a little shirtwaist. It was passing now rapidly into oblivion.

He was sobbing, and there was one bloodstain upon his cheek. The schoolground sounded like a pinetree

Then upon the situation there pealed a brazen bell. It was a bell that these children obeyed, even as older

nations obey the formal law which is printed in calfskin. It smote them into some sort of inaction; even

Jimmie was influenced by its potency, although, as a finale, he kicked out lustily into the legs of an intimate

When they came to form into line for the march into the schoolroom it was curious that Jimmie had many

admirers. It was not his prowess; it was the soul he had infused into his gymnastics; and he, still panting,

And yet when the long tramping line had entered the schoolroom his status had again changed. The other

children then began to regard him as a boy in disrepair, and boys in disrepair were always accosted

ominously from the throne. Jimmie's march toward his seat was a feat. It was composed partly of a most

slinking attempt to dodge the perception of the teacher and partly of pure braggadocio erected for the benefit

"Yes'm," he answered, with businesslike briskness, which really spelled out falsity in all its letters.

"Yes'm," he answered. This was not so much an admission of the fact as it was a concessional answer to

Whereupon the empress blazed out in wrath. "You don't know who you've been fighting?"

She seemed about to disintegrate to mere flaming fagots of anger. "You don't know who you've been

fighting?" she demanded, blazing. "Well, you stay in after school until you find out."

As he returned to his place all the children knew by his vanquished air that sorrow had fallen upon the house

of Trescott. When he took his seat he saw gloating upon him the satanic black eyes of the little Goldege girl.

"THEY'LL bring her," said Mrs. Trescott, dubiously. Her cousin, the painter, the bewildered father of the

angel child, had written to say that if they were asked, he and his wife would come to the Trescotts for the

Christmas holidays. But he had not officially stated that the angel child would form part of the expedition.

The doctor assented. "Yes, they'll have to bring her. They wouldn't dare leave New York at her mercy."

"Well," sighed Mrs. Trescott, after a pause, "the neighbors will be pleased. When they see her they'll

"Anyhow," said Trescott, "the devastation of the Margate twins was complete. She can't do that particular

thing again. I shall be interested to note what form her energy will take this time."

"Oh yes! that's it!" cried the wife. "You'll be interested. You've hit it exactly. You'll be interested to note what

form her energy will take this time. And then, when the real crisis comes, you'll put on your hat and walk out

of the house and leave me to straighten things out. This is not a scientific question; this is a practical matter."

"Well, as a practical man, I advocate chaining her out in the stable," answered the doctor.

When Jimmie Trescott was told that his old flame was again to appear, he remained calm. In fact, time had so

mended his youthful heart that it was a regular apple of oblivion and peace. Her image in his thought was as

the track of a bird on deep snow it was an impression, but it did not concern the depths. However, he did

what befitted his state. He went out and bragged in the street: "My cousin is comin' next week from New

"Girl or boy?" said the populace, bluntly; but, when enlightened, they speedily cried, "Oh, we remember

her!" They were charmed, for they thought of her as an outlaw, and they surmised that she could lead them

into a very ecstasy of sin. They thought of her as a brave bandit, because they had been whipped for various

pranks into which she had led them. When Jimmie made his declaration, they fell into a state of pleased and

Mrs. Trescott pronounced her point of view: "The child is a nice child, if only Caroline had some sense. But

she hasn't. And Willis is like a wax figure. I don't see what can be done, unless unless you simply go to

Willis and put the whole thing right at him." Then, for purposes of indication, she improvised a speech:

"Look here, Willis, you've got a little daughter, haven't you? But, confound it, man, she is not the only girl

child ever brought into the sunlight. There are a lot of children. Children are an ordinary phenomenon. In

China they drown girl babies. If you wish to submit to this frightful impostor and tyrant, that is all very well,

"Anyhow," said Mrs. Trescott, determinedly, "that is what you should say to him."

"It wouldn't do the slightest good. It would only make him very angry, and I would lay myself perfectly open

to a suggestion that I had better attend to my own affairs with more rigor." "Well, I suppose you are right,"

Mrs. Trescott again said. "Why don't you speak to Caroline?" asked the doctor, humorously.

"Speak to Caroline! Why, I wouldn't for the world! She'd fly through the roof. She'd snap my head off! Speak

One afternoon the doctor went to await his visitors on the platform of the railway station. He was

thoughtfully smiling. For some quaint reason he was convinced that he was to be treated to a quick

manifestation of little Cora's peculiar and interesting powers. And yet, when the train paused at the station,

there appeared to him only a pretty little girl in a furlined hood, and with her nose reddening from the

sudden cold, and attended respectfully by her parents. He smiled again, reflecting that he had comically

exaggerated the dangers of dear little Cora. It amused his philosophy to note that he had really been

As the big sleigh sped homeward there was a sudden shrill outcry from the angel child: "Oh, mamma!

"Hush, dear; hush!" said the mother. "It's all right." "Oh, but, mamma, they've forgotten my stove!"

The doctor thrust his chin suddenly out of his topcoat collar. "Stove?" he said. "Stove? What stove?"

"Oh, just a toy of the child's," explained the mother. "She's grown so fond of it, she loves it so, that if we

didn't take it everywhere with her she'd suffer dreadfully. So we always bring it."

"Oh!" said the doctor. He pictured a little tin trinket. But when the stove was really unmasked, it turned out to

be an affair of cast iron, as big as a portmanteau, and, as the stage people say, practicable. There was some

trouble that evening when came the hour of children's bedtime. Little Cora burst into a wild declaration that

she could not retire for the night unless the stove was carried up stairs and placed at her bedside. While the

mother was trying to dissuade the child, the Trescotts held their peace and gazed with awe. The incident

closed when the lambeyed father gathered the stove in his arms and preceded the angel child to her

In the morning, Trescott was standing with his back to the diningroom fire, awaiting breakfast, when he

heard a noise of descending guests. Presently the door opened, and the party entered in regular order. First

came the angel child, then the cooing mother, and last the great painter with his arms full of the stove. He

"What are you carting that thing all over the house for?" he said, brutally. "Why don't you put it some place

The mother rebuked him with a look. "Well, if it gives her pleasure, Ned?" she expostulated, softly. "If it

makes the child happy to have the stove with her, why shouldn't she have it?" "Just so," said the doctor, with

Jimmie's idea was the roaring fireplace in the cabin of the lone mountaineer. At first he was not able to

admire a girl's stove built on wellknown domestic lines. He eyed it and thought it was very pretty, but it did

not move him immediately. But a certain respect grew to an interest, and he became the angel child's

accomplice. And even if he had not had an interest grow upon him, he was certain to have been implicated

sooner or later, because of the imperious way of little Cora, who made a serf of him in a few swift sentences.

Together they carried the stove out into the desolate garden and squatted it in the snow. Jimmie's snug little

muscles had been pitted against the sheer nervous vigor of this little goldenhaired girl, and he had not won

great honors. When the mind blazed inside the small body, the angel child was pure force. She began to

speak: "Now, Jim, get some paper. Get some wood little sticks at first. Now we want a match. You got a

match? Well, go get a match. Get some more wood. Hurry up, now! No. No! I'll light it my own self. You get

some more wood. There! Isn't that splendid? You get a whole lot of wood an' pile it up here by the stove. An'

now what'll we cook? We must have somethin' to cook, you know, else it ain't like the real."

The day was clear, cold, bright. An icy wind sped from over the waters of the lake. A grown person would

hardly have been abroad save on compulsion of a kind, and yet, when they were called to luncheon, the two

II The ladies of Whilomville were somewhat given to the pagan habit of tea parties. When a tea party was to

befall a certain house one could read it in the manner of the prospective hostess, who for some previous days

would go about twitching this and twisting that, and dusting here and polishing there; the ordinary habits of

the household began then to disagree with her, and her unfortunate husband and children fled to the lengths of

their tethers. Then there was a hush. Then there was a tea party. On the fatal afternoon a small picked

company of latent enemies would meet. There would be a fanfare of affectionate greetings, during which

everybody would measure to an inch the importance of what everybody else was wearing. Those who wore

old dresses would wish then that they had not come; and those who saw that, in the company, they were well

clad, would be pleased or exalted, or filled with the joys of cruelty. Then they had tea, which was a habit and

Usually the party jerked horribly in the beginning, while the hostess strove and pulled and pushed to make its

progress smooth. Then suddenly it would be off like the wind, eight, fifteen, or twentyfive tongues

clattering, with a noise of a few penny whistles. Then the hostess had nothing to do but to look glad, and see

that everybody had enough tea and cake. When the door was closed behind the last guest, the hostess would

usually drop into a chair and say: "Thank Heaven! They're gone!" There would be no malice in this

expression. It simply would be that, womanlike, she had flung herself headlong at the accomplishment of a

pleasure which she could not even define, and at the end she felt only weariness.

The value and beauty, or oddity, of the teacups was another element which entered largely into the spirit of

these terrible enterprises. The quality of the tea was an element which did not enter at all. Uniformly it was

rather bad. But the cups! Some of the more ambitious people aspired to have cups each of a different pattern,

possessing, in fact, the sole similarity that with their odd curves and dips of form they each resembled

anything but a teacup. Others of the more ambitious aspired to a quite severe and godly "set," which, when

viewed, appalled one with its austere and rigid family resemblances, and made one desire to ask the hostess if

the teapot was not the father of all the little cups, and at the same time protesting gallantly that such a young

But of course the serious part is that these collections so differed in style and the obvious amount paid for

them that nobody could be happy. The poorer ones envied; the richer ones feared; the poorer ones continually

striving to overtake the leaders; the leaders always with their heads turned back to hear overtaking footsteps.

And none of these things here written did they know. Instead of seeing that they were very stupid, they

thought they were very fine. And they gave and took heartbruises fierce deep heartbruises under the

clear impression that of such kind of rubbish was the kingdom of nice people. The characteristics of outsiders

of course emerged in shreds from these tea parties, and it is doubtful if the characteristics of insiders escaped

entirely. In fact, these tea parties were in the large way the result of a conspiracy of certain unenlightened

Mrs. Trescott was in the circle of teafighters largely through a sort of artificial necessity a necessity, in

When the painter and his family came for the holidays, Mrs. Trescott had for some time been feeling that it

was her turn to give a tea party, and she was resolved upon it now that she was reenforced by the beautiful

wife of the painter, whose charms would make all the other women feel badly. And Mrs. Trescott further

resolved that the affair should be notable in more than one way. The painter's wife suggested that, as an

innovation, they give the people good tea; but Mrs. Trescott shook her head; she was quite sure they would

It was an impressive gathering. A few came to see if they could not find out the faults of the painter's wife,

and these, added to those who would have attended even without that attractive prospect, swelled the

company to a number quite large for Whilomville. There were the usual preliminary jolts, and then suddenly

Mrs. Trescott exchanged a glance with the painter's wife. They felt proud and superior. This tea party was

III Jimmie and the angel child, after being oppressed by innumerable admonitions to behave correctly during

the afternoon, succeeded in reaching the garden, where the stove awaited them. They were enjoying

themselves grandly, when snow began to fall so heavily that it gradually dampened their ardor as well as

extinguished the fire in the stove. They stood ruefully until the angel child devised the plan of carrying the

stove into the stable, and there, safe from the storm, to continue the festivities. But they were met at the door

"An' have er fiah in it? No, seh! G'w'on 'way f'm heh! g'w'on! Don' 'low no sech foolishin' round yer. No,

seh!" "Well, we ain't goin' to hurt your old stable, are we?" asked Jimmie ironically.

"Dat you ain't, Jim! Not so long's I keep my two eyes right plumb squaah pinted at ol' Jim. No, seh!" Peter

The two vagabonds stood before him while he informed them of their iniquities as well as their absurdities,

and further made clear his own masterly grasp of the spirit of their devices. Nothing affects children so much

as rhetoric. It may not involve any definite presentation of commonsense, but if it is picturesque they

surrender decently to its influence. Peter was by all means a rhetorician, and it was not long before the two

Depositing the stove in the snow, they straightened to look at each other. It did not enter either head to

relinquish the idea of continuing the game. But the situation seemed invulnerable. The angel child went on a

scouting tour. Presently she returned, flying. "I know! Let's have it in the cellar! In the cellar! Oh, it'll be

The outer door of the cellar was open, and they proceeded down some steps with their treasure. There was

plenty of light; the cellar was highwalled, warm, and dry. They named it an ideal place. Two huge

cylindrical furnaces were humming away, one at either end. Overhead the beams detonated with the different

Jimmie worked like a stoker, and soon there was a fine bright fire in the stove. The fuel was of small brittle

"Now what'll we cook?" cried little Cora. "What'll we cook, Jim? We must have something to cook, you

But the angel child made a scornful gesture. "No. I've cooked 'bout a million potatoes, I guess. Potatoes aren't

Jimmie's mind was all said and done when the question of potatoes had been passed, and he looked weakly at

"Haven't you got any turnips in your house?" she inquired, contemptuously. "In my house we have turnips."

"Oh, turnips!" exclaimed Jimmie, immensely relieved to find that the honor of his family was safe. "Turnips?

"Well, go an' get a whole lot," commanded the angel child. "Go an' get a whole lot. Grea' big ones. We

Jimmie went to the shed and kicked gently at a company of turnips which the frost had amalgamated. He

made three journeys to and from the cellar, carrying always the very largest types from his father's store. Four

of them filled the oven of little Cora's stove. This fact did not please her, so they placed three rows of turnips

on the hot top. Then the angel child, profoundly moved by an inspiration, suddenly cried out,

"Oh, Jimmie, let's play we're keepin' a hotel, an' have got to cook for 'bout a thousand people, an' those two

"No; I'll be chief cook my own self. You must be my 'sistant. Now, I'll prepare 'em see? An' then you put

'em in the ovens. Get the shovel. We'll play that's the pan. I'll fix 'em, an' then you put 'em in the oven. Hold it

Jim held the coalshovel while little Cora, with a frown of importance, arranged turnips in rows upon it. She

patted each one daintily, and then backed away to view it, with her head critically sideways.

Jimmie marched with his shovelful of turnips to one of the furnaces. The door was already open, and he slid

"But what am I goin' to do with these?" asked Jimmie. "There ain't only one shovel."

"Leave 'm in there," retorted the girl, passionately. "Leave 'm in there, an' then play you're comin' with

So Jimmie expelled all his turnips from his shovel out upon the furnace fire, and returned obediently for

another batch. "These are puddings," yelled the angel child, gleefully. "Dozens an' dozens of puddings for the

IV At the first alarm the painter had fled to the doctor's office, where he hid his face behind a book and

pretended that he did not hear the noise of feminine revelling. When the doctor came from a round of calls,

he too retreated upon the office, and the men consoled each other as well as they were able. Once Mrs.

Trescott dashed in to say delightedly that her tea party was not only the success of the season, but it was

probably the very nicest tea party that had ever been held in Whilomville. After vainly beseeching them to

The doctor and the painter remained for a long time in silence, Trescott tapping reflectively upon the

windowpane. Finally he turned to the painter, and sniffing, said: "What is that, Willis? Don't you smell

The puzzled doctor opened the door into the hall, and at first it appeared that he was going to give back two

paces. A result of frizzling turnips, which was almost as tangible as mist, had blown in upon his face and

The doctor made his way hurriedly to his wife, but before he could speak with her he had to endure the

business of greeting a score of women. Then he whispered, "Out in the hall there's an awful "

But at that moment it came to them on the wings of a sudden draught. The solemn odor of burning turnips

rolled in like a seafog, and fell upon that dainty, perfumed tea party. It was almost a personality; if some

unbidden and extremely odious guest had entered the room, theeffect would have been much the same. The

sprightly talk stopped with a jolt, and people looked at each other. Then a few brave and considerate persons

made the usual attempt to talk away as if nothing had happened. They all looked at their hostess, who wore

The odor of burning turnips grew and grew. To Trescott it seemed to make a noise. He thought he could hear

the dull roar of this outrage. Under some circumstances he might have been able to take the situation from a

point of view of comedy, but the agony of his wife was too acute, and, for him, too visible. She was saying:

"Yes, we saw the play the last time we were in New York. I liked it very much. That scene in the second act

the gloomy church, you know, and all that and the organ playing and then when the four singing

little girls came in " But Trescott comprehended that she did not know if she was talking of a play or a

He had not been in the room twenty seconds before his brow suddenly flushed with an angry inspiration. He

left the room hastily, leaving behind him an incoherent phrase of apology, and charged upon his office, where

The painter was immediately agitated. He always seemed to feel more than any one else in the world the

peculiar ability of his child to create resounding excitement, but he seemed always to exhibit his feelings very

late. He arose hastily, and hurried after Trescott to the top of the inside cellar stairway. Trescott motioned him

"Hurry up, Jim," cried the busy little Cora. "Here's another whole batch of lovely puddings. Hurry up now,

Trescott looked at the painter; the painter groaned. Then they appeared violently in the middle of the great

kitchen of the hotel with a thousand people in it. "Jimmie, go up stairs!" said Trescott, and then he turned to

With some imitation of wrath, the painter stalked to his daughter's side and grasped her by the arm.

Oh, papa! papa!" she screamed, "You're pinching me! You're pinching me! You're pinching me, papa!"

At first the painter had seemed resolved to keep his grip, but suddenly he let go her arm in a panic. "I've hurt

Trescott had swiftly done much toward the obliteration of the hotel kitchen, but he looked up now and spoke,

after a short period of reflection. "You've hurt her, have you? Well, hurt her again. Spank her!" he cried,

enthusiastically. "Spank her, confound you, man! She needs it. Here's your chance. Spank her, and spank her

The painter naturally wavered over this incendiary proposition, but at last, in one supreme burst of daring, he

The spanking was lamentably the work of a perfect bungler. It couldn't have hurt at all; but the angel child

raised to heaven a loud, clear soprano howl that expressed the last word in even mediaeval anguish. Soon the

painter was aghast. "Stop it, darling! I didn't mean I didn't mean to to hurt you so much, you know."

But the pasturecall of suffering motherhood came down to them, and a moment later a splendid apparition

appeared on the cellar stairs. She understood the scene at a glance. "Willis! What have you been doing?"

Trescott sat on his box, the painter guiltily moved from foot to foot, and the angel child advanced to her

mother with arms outstretched, making a piteous wail of amazed and pained pride that would have moved

Peter the Great. Regardless of her frock, the panting mother knelt on the stone floor and took her child to her

bosom, and looked, then, bitterly, scornfully, at the cowering father and husband.

The painter, for his part, at once looked reproachfully at Trescott, as if to say: "There! You see?"

Trescott arose and extended his hands in a quiet but magnificent gesture of despair and weariness. He seemed

about to say something classic, and, quite instinctively, they waited. The stillness was deep, and the wait was

longer than a moment. "Well," he said, "we can't live in the cellar. Let's go up stairs."

FROM time to time an enwearied pine bough let fall to the earth its load of melting snow, and the branch

swung back glistening in the faint wintry sunlight. Down the gulch a brook clattered amid its ice with the

sound of a perpetual breaking of glass. All the forest looked drenched and forlorn.

The skyline was a ragged enclosure of gray cliffs and hemlocks and pines. If one had been miraculously set

down in this gulch one could have imagined easily that the nearest human habitation was hundreds of miles

away, if it were not for an old halfdiscernible woodroad that led toward the brook.

This low and gruff cry suddenly dispelled the stillness which lay upon the lonely gulch, but the hush which

followed it seemed even more profound. The hush endured for some seconds, and then the voice of the

"Halt! Who's there? Why don't you answer when I holler? Don't you know you're likely to get shot?"

"That don't make no diff'rence." One of the Margate twins stepped from a thicket and confronted Homer

Phelps on the old woodroad. The majestic scowl of official wrath was upon the brow of Reeves Margate, a

long stick was held in the hollow of his arm as one would hole a rifle, and he strode grimly to the other boy.

"That don't make no diff'rence. You've got to answer when I holler, anyhow. Willy says so."

At the mention of the dread chieftain's name the Phelps boy daunted a trifle, but he still sulkily murmured,

He started on his way through the snow, but the twin sturdily blocked the path. "You can't pass less'n you

But the Phelps boy became very angry. "Can't I, hey? Can't I, hey? I'll show you whether I can or not! I'll

There was a short scuffle, and then arose the anguished clamor of the sentry: "Hey, fellers! Here's a man

There was a great noise in the adjacent underbrush. The voice of Willie could be heard exhorting his

followers to charge swiftly and bravely. Then they appeared Willie Dalzel, Jimmie Trescott, the other

Margate twin, and Dan Earl. The chieftain's face was dark with wrath. "What's the matter? Can't you play it

The sentry was yelling out his grievance. "Now he came along an' I hollered at 'im, an' he didn't pay no

'tention, an' when I ast 'im for the countersign, he wouldn't say nothin'. That ain't no way."

"That 'ain't got nothin' to do with it," cried the chief, furiously. "That 'ain't got nothin' to do with it. If you're

goin' to play, you've got to play it right. It ain't no fun if you go spoilin' the whole thing this way. Can't you

Whereupon the remainder of the band yelled out, with one triumphant voice: "War to the knife! War to the

The leader was puzzled. Evidently he was trying to develop in his mind a plan for dealing correctly with this

unusual incident. He felt, no doubt, that he must proceed according to the books, but unfortunately the books

did not cover the point precisely. However, he finally said to Homer Phelps, "You are under arrest." Then

His loyal followers looked startled for a brief moment, but directly they began to move upon the Phelps boy.

The latter clearly did not intend to be seized. He backed away, expostulating wildly. He even seemed

somewhat frightened. "No, no; don't you touch me, I tell you; don't you dare touch me."

The others did not seem anxious to engage. They moved slowly, watching the desperate light in his eyes. The

chieftain stood with folded arms, his face growing darker and darker with impatience. At length he burst out:

"Oh, seize him, I tell you! Why don't you seize him? Grab him by the leg, Dannie! Hurry up, all of you! Seize

Thus adjured, the Margate twins and Dan Earl made another pained effort, while Jimmie Trescott

manoeuvred to cut off a retreat. But, to tell the truth, there was a boyish law which held them back from

laying hands of violence upon little Phelps under these conditions. Perhaps it was because they were only

playing, whereas he was now undeniably serious. At any rate, they looked very sick of their occupation.

"Don't you dare!" snarled the Phelps boy, facing first one and then the other; he was almost in tears "don't

The chieftain was now hopping with exasperation. "Oh, seize him, can't you? You're no good at all!" Then he

loosed his wrath upon the Phelps boy: "Stand still, Homer, can't you? You've got to be seized, you know.

That ain't the way. It ain't any fun if you keep adodgin' that way. Stand still, can't you! You've got to be

"But you've got to be seized!" yelled the maddened chief. "Don't you see? That's the way to play it."

"But that's the right way to play it. Don't you see? You've got to play it the right way. You've got to be seized,

But this prospect held no illusions for the Phelps boy. He continued doggedly to repeat, "I don't want to play

Of course in the end the chief stooped to beg and beseech this unreasonable lad. "Oh, come on, Homer! Don't

be so mean. You're aspoilin' everything. We won't hurt you any. Not the tintiest bit. It's all just playin'.

The different tone of the leader made an immediate impression upon the other. He showed some signs of the

"Why, first we're goin' to put you in a dungeon, or tie you to a stake, or something like that just pertend

you know," added the chief, hurriedly, "an' then we'll hold a trial, awful solemn, but there won't be anything

And so the game was readjusted. The Phelps boy was marched off between Dan Earl and a Margate twin. The

party proceeded to their camp, which was hidden some hundred feet back in the thickets. There was a

miserable little hut with a pinebark roof, which so frankly and constantly leaked that existence in the open

air was always preferable. At present it was noisily dripping melted snow into the black mouldy interior. In

front of this hut a feeble fire was flickering through its unhappy career. Underfoot, the watery snow was of

The party having arrived at the camp, the chief leaned against a tree, and balancing on one foot, drew off a

rubber boot. From this boot he emptied about a quart of snow. He squeezed his stocking, which had a hole

from which protruded a lobsterred toe. He resumed his boot. "Bring up the prisoner," said he. They did it.

"Guilty or not guilty?" demanded, the chief, peremptorily. "Guilty or not guilty? Don't you understand?"

Homer Phelps looked profoundly puzzled. "Guilty or not guilty?" he asked, slowly and weakly.

The chief made a swift gesture, and turned in despair to the others. "Oh, he don't do it right! He does it all

wrong!" He again faced the prisoner with an air of making a last attempt. "Now lookahere, Homer, when I

say, 'Guilty or not guilty?' you want to up an' say, 'Not guilty.' Don't you see?"

"No, no, no. Wait till I ask you. Now wait." He called out, pompously, "Pards, if this prisoner before us is

"But lookahere," argued Homer, "you said it wouldn't be nothin' that would hurt. I "

"Thunder an' lightnin'!" roared the wretched chief. "Keep your mouth shut, can't ye? What in the mischief

But there was an interruption from Jimmie Trescott, who shouldered a twin aside and stepped to the front.

"Here," he said, very contemptuously, "let me be the prisoner. I'll show 'im how to do it."

"All right, Jim," cried the chief, delighted; "you be the prisoner then. Now all you fellers with guns stand

there in a row! Get out of the way, Homer!" He cleared his throat, and addressed Jimmie. "Prisoner, are you

"Not guilty," answered Jimmie, firmly. Standing there before his judge unarmed, slim, quiet, modest

The chief beamed upon him, and looked aside to cast a triumphant and withering glance upon Homer Phelps.

"That's all right so far, anyhow," said the satisfied chief. "Ah, now we'll now we'll we'll perceed with

"That ain't right," said the new prisoner, suddenly. "That ain't the next thing. You've got to have a trial first.

"That's so," said the chief. "I didn't think. Here, Reeves, you be first witness. Did the prisoner do it?"

The twin gulped for a moment in his anxiety to make the proper reply. He was at the point where the roads

"There," said the chief, "that's one of 'em. Now, Dan, you be a witness. Did he do it?"

Dan Earl, having before him the twin's example, did not hesitate. "Yes," he said.

With Jimmie in the principal role, this drama, hidden deep in the hemlock thicket, neared a kind of

perfection. "You must blindfold me," cried the condemned lad, briskly, "an' then I'll go off an' stand, an' you

The chief gave this plan his urbane countenance, and the twins and Dan Earl were greatly pleased. They

blindfolded Jimmie under his careful directions. He waded a few paces into snow, and then turned and stood

with quiet dignity, awaiting his fate. The chief marshalled the twins and Dan Earl in line with their sticks. He

gave the necessary commands: "Load! Ready! Aim! Fire!" At the last command the firing party all together

Jimmie threw his hands high, tottered in agony for a moment, and then crashed full length into the snow

He arose almost immediately and came back to them, wondrously pleased with himself. They acclaimed him

The chief was particularly grateful. He was always trying to bring off these little romantic affairs, and it

seemed, after all, that the only boy who could ever really help him was Jimmie Trescott. "There," he said to

They were touched to the heart by the whole thing, and they looked at Jimmie with big smiling eyes. Jimmie,

blown out like a balloonfish with pride of his performance, swaggered to the fire and took seat on some wet

hemlock boughs. "Fetch some more wood, one of you kids," he murmured, negligently. One of the twins

came fortunately upon a small cedartree the lower branches of which were dead and dry. An armful of these

branches flung upon the sick fire soon made a high, ruddy warm blaze, which was like an illumination in

The boys sprawled about the fire and talked the regular language of the game. "Waal, pards," remarked the

chief, "it's many a night we've had together here in the Rockies among the b'ars an' the Indyuns, hey?"

"Yes, pard," replied Jimmie Trescott, "I reckon you're right. Our wild free life is there ain't nothin' to

Whereupon the two lads arose and magnificently shook hands, while the others watched them in an ecstasy.

"I'll allus stick by ye, pard," said Jimmie, earnestly. "When yer in trouble, don't forgit that Lightnin' Lou is at

"Thanky, pard," quoth Willie Dalzel, deeply affected. "I'll not forgit it, pard. An' don't you forgit, either, that

But Homer Phelps was having none of this great fun. Since his disgraceful refusal to be seized and executed

he had been hovering unheeded on the outskirts of the band. He seemed very sorry; he cast a wistful eye at

the romantic scene. He knew too well that if he went near at that particular time he would be certain to

At last the moment came when he dared venture near enough to the fire to gain some warmth, for he was now

bitterly suffering with the cold. He sidled close to Willie Dalzel. No one heeded him. Eventually he looked at

"Now if I was seized now to be executed, I could do it as well as Jimmie Trescott, I could."

The chief gave a crow of scorn, in which he was followed by the other boys. "Ho!" he cried, "why didn't you

do it then? Why didn't you do it?" Homer Phelps felt upon him many pairs of disdainful eyes. He wagged his

"You're dead," said the chief, frankly. "That's what you are. We executed you, we did."

The trained chorus cried: "Yes, of course we did. You're dead, Homer. You can't play any more. You're

"That wasn't me. It was Jimmie Trescott," he said, in a low and bitter voice, his eyes on the ground. He would

have given the world if he could have retracted his mad refusals of the early part of the drama.

"No," said the chief, "it was you. We're playin' it was you, an' it was you. You're dead, you are." And seeing

the cruel effect of his words, he did not refrain from administering some advice: "The next time, don't be such

Presently the camp imagined that it was attacked by Indians, and the boys dodged behind trees with their

stickrifles, shouting out, "Bang!" and encouraging each other to resist until the last. In the mean time the

dead lad hovered near the fire, looking moodily at the gay and exciting scene. After the fight the gallant

defenders returned one by one to the fire, where they grandly clasped hands, calling each other "old pard,"

Parenthetically, one of the twins had an unfortunate inspiration. "I killed the Indyun chief, fellers. Did you

But Willie Dalzel, his own chief, turned upon him wrathfully: "You didn't kill no chief. I killed 'im with me

"Oh!" said the twin, apologetically, at once. "It must have been some other Indyun."

"Who's wounded?" cried Willie Dalzel. "Ain't anybody wounded?" The party professed themselves well and

sound. The roving and inventive eye of the chief chanced upon Homer Phelps. "Ho! Here's a dead man!

Come on, fellers, here's a dead man! We've got to bury him, you know." And at his bidding they pounced

upon the dead Phelps lad. The unhappy boy saw clearly his road to rehabilitation, but mind and body revolted

at the idea of burial, even as they had revolted at the thought of execution. "No!" he said, stubbornly. "No! I

"You've got to be buried!" yelled the chief, passionately. "'Tain't goin' to hurt ye, is it? Think you're made of

They scattered hemlock boughs upon the snow in the form of a rectangle, and piled other boughs near at

hand. The victim surveyed these preparations with a glassy eye. When all was ready, the chief turned

determinedly to him. "Come on now, Homer. We've got to carry you to the grave. Get him by the legs, Jim!"

Little Phelps had now passed into that state which may be described as a curious and temporary childish

fatalism. He still objected, but it was only feeble muttering, as if he did not know what he spoke. In some

confusion they carried him to the rectangle of hemlock boughs and dropped him. Then they piled other

boughs upon him until he was not to be seen. The chief stepped forward to make a short address, but before

proceeding with it he thought it expedient, from certain indications, to speak to the grave itself. "Lie still,

can't ye? Lie still until I get through." There was a faint movement of the boughs, and then a perfect silence.

The chief took off his hat. Those who watched him could see that his face was harrowed with emotion.

"Pards," he began, brokenly "pards, we've got one more debt to pay them murderin' redskins.

Bowieknife Joe was a brave man an' a good pard, but he's gone now gone." He paused for a moment,

overcome, and the stillness was only broken by the deep manly grief of Jimmie Trescott.