ollycoddles," continued Duane cruelly, "do the sort of things you do.
You're one."

"I--don't _want_ to be one," stammered Scott. "How can I help it?"

Duane ignored the appeal. "Playing with three boys isn't anything," he
said. "I play with forty every day."

"W-where?" asked Scott, overwhelmed.

"In school, of course--at recess--and before nine, and after one. We
have fine times. School's all right. Don't you even go to school?"

Scott shook his head, too ashamed to speak. Naida, with a flirt of her
kilted skirts, had abruptly turned her back on him; yet he was miserably
certain she was listening to her brother's merciless catechism.

"I suppose you don't even know how to play hockey," commented Duane
contemptuously.

There was no answer.

"What do you do? Play with dolls? Oh, what a molly!"

Scott raised his head; he had grown quite white. Naida, turning, saw the
look on the boy's face.

"Duane doesn't mean that," she said; "he's only teasing."

Geraldine came hurrying back with the boxing-gloves and a suit of
Scott's very best clothes, halting when she perceived the situation, for
Scott had walked up to Duane, and the boys stood glaring at one another,
hands doubling up into fists.

"You think I'm a molly?" asked Scott in a curiously still voice.

"Yes, I do."

"Oh, Scott!" cried Geraldine, pushing in between them, "you'll have to
hammer him well for that----"

Naida turned and shoved her brother aside:

"I don't want you to fight him," she said. "I like him."

"Oh, but they must fight, you know," explained Geraldine earnestly. "If
we didn't fight, we'd really be what you call us. Put on Scott's
clothes, Naida, and while our brothers are fighting, you and I will
wrestle to prove that I'm not a mollycoddle----"

"I don't want to," said Naida tremulously. "I like you, too----"

"Well, _you're_ one if you don't!" retorted Geraldine. "You can like
anybody and have fun fighting them, too."

"Put on those clothes, Naida," said Duane sternly. "Are you going to
take a dare?"

So she retired very unwillingly into the hedge to costume herself while
the two boys invested their fists with the soft chamois gloves of
combat.

"We won't bother to shake hands," observed Scott. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, you will, too," insisted Geraldine; "shake hands before you begin
to fight!"

"I won't," retorted Scott sullenly; "shake hands with anybody who calls
me--what he did."

"Very well then; if you don't, I'