boys the preacher continued
his discourse. Brother Baker's unctuousness angered Bud Perkins. He
felt the implication that his conduct was bad, and his sense of guilt
spurred his temper. Satan put a pin in Bud's hand. Slowly, almost
imperceptibly, Satan moved the boy's arm on the back of the pew,
around Jimmy Sears. Then an imp pushed Bud's hand as he jabbed the pin
into the back of a North Ender. The boy from the North End let out a
yowl of pain. Bud was not quick enough. Brother Baker saw the pin; two
hundred devout Methodists saw him clamp his fingers on Bud Perkins's
ear, and march him down the length of the church and set him beside
Miss Morgan. It was a sickening moment. The North End grinned as one
boy under its skin, and was exceeding glad. So agonizing was it for
Bud that he forgot to imagine what a triumph it was for the North
End--and further anguish is impossible for a boy.

[Illustration: _Brother Baker--a tiptoeing Nemesis_.]

Miss Morgan and Bud Perkins left the church with the congregation. Bud
dreaded the moment when they would leave the crowd and turn into their
side street. When they did turn, Bud was lagging a step or two behind.
A boy's troubles are always the fault of the other boy. The North End
boy's responsibility in the matter was so clear--to Bud--that, when he
went to justify himself to Miss Morgan, he was surprised and hurt at
what he considered her feminine blindness to the fact. After she had
passed her sentence she asked: "Do you really think you deserve to go,
Henry?"

The blow stunned the boy. He saw the visions of two weeks burst like
bubbles, and he whimpered: "I dunno." But in his heart he did know
that to deny a boy the joy of seeing Willie Sells on his three
Shetland ponies, for nothing in the world but showing a North-ender
his place, was a piece of injustice of the kind for which men and
nations go to war. At breakfast Bud kept his eyes on his plate. His
face wore the resigned look of a martyr. Miss Morgan was studiously
gracious. He dropped leaden monosyllables into the cheery flow of her
conversation, and after breakfast put in his time at the woodshed.

At eight o'clock that morning the town of Willow Creek was in the
thrall of the circus. Country wagons were passing on every side
street. Delivery carts were rattling about with unusual alacrity.
By half-past nine dressed-up children were flitting along the side
streets hurrying their seniors. On the main thoroughfare flags