t, was dismissed. I followed shortly after, and, on stepping into
the playground, saw my little friend plastered, as it were, up against
the fence, and Conway standing in front of him ready to deliver a blow
on the upturned, unprotected face, whose gentleness would have stayed
any arm but a coward's.
Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, was leaning against the
pump lazily enjoying the sport; but on seeing me sweep across the
yard, whirling my strap of books in the air like a sling, he called out
lustily, "Lay low, Conway! Here's young Bailey!"
Conway turned just in time to catch on his shoulder the blow intended
for his head. He reached forward one of his long arms--he had arms like
a windmill, that boy--and, grasping me by the hair, tore out quite a
respectable handful. The tears flew to my eyes, but they were not the
tears of defeat; they were merely the involuntary tribute which nature
paid to the departed tresses.
In a second my little jacket lay on the ground, and I stood on guard,
resting lightly on my right leg and keeping my eye fixed steadily on
Conway's--in all of which I was faithfully following the instructions of
Phil Adams, whose father subscribed to a sporting journal.
Conway also threw himself into a defensive attitude, and there we were,
glaring at each other motionless, neither of us disposed to risk an
attack, but both on the alert to resist one. There is no telling how
long we might have remained in that absurd position, had we not been
interrupted.
It was a custom with the larger pupils to return to the playground
after school, and play baseball until sundown. The town authorities
had prohibited ball-playing on the Square, and, there being no other
available place, the boys fell back perforce on the school-yard. Just at
this crisis a dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, seeing
at a glance the belligerent status of Conway and myself, dropped bat and
ball, and rushed to the spot where we stood.
"Is it a fight?" asked Phil Adams, who saw by our freshness that we had
not yet got to work.
"Yes, it's a fight," I answered, "unless Conway will ask Wallace's
pardon, promise never to hector me in future--and put back my hair!"
This last condition was rather a staggerer.
"I sha'n't do nothing of the sort," said Conway, sulkily.
"Then the thing must go on," said Adams, with dignity. "Rodgers, as I
understand it, is your second, Conway? Bailey, come here. What's the ro
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