“I can’t bear the stifling old place!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his feelings with a low exclamation of exultation, as the fresh breeze from Lake Seneca cooled his overheated temples. “Don’t that feel good--free, just as I feel, free! “I do not blame Mr. Montague for wanting to keep me, just as I was becoming useful, and thinking, as he does, that he was doing father and mother a great favor. I am grateful to him for his six months’ kindly supervision of my fate, as he put it. “Mother was loath to have me leave, but father could see more clearly than she that my heart was not in it. They all have called it ‘a boyish choice.’ Strange they all should have used the same words. But I am in for it, and, make or break, I am going to win. Sleepy old town, little do you realize that you are about to be suddenly awakened.” Again the youthful speaker laughed softly to himself, his handsome, manly countenance showing a firmness of character not usually seen in a youth of seventeen. Suddenly a look of concern swept over his face, and he started on a smart run toward the lake shore, murmuring as he ran: “The _Warrior_ is about to start. I shall miss my passage.” Five minutes of his rapid advance brought Dean to within a few yards of where one of the boats that plied on the lake, between that town and another at the foot of the lake, was chafing at its moorings. Catching sight of her commander, Dean asked: “Is the _Warrior_ about to start, Captain Weymouth?” “Start? Bless you, lad, did you ever know the _Warrior_ to start on time? It will be a good two hours before we leave our moorings.” “Thank you, sir.” Then Dean added to himself: “I shall have ample time to see Judge Oglesby, as I ought to, before leaving for Springfield. Hello! what’s going on over yonder?” If everything was quiet about the wharf, Dean had suddenly discovered that there was excitement reigning but a short distance away, though nothing could be seen to indicate trouble. Still cries of distress came from near at hand, and a moment’s study of the situation told Dean that they came from behind a pile of old boxes and barrels. Without further hesitation he sprang swiftly toward the spot, and in a moment these bitter words, uttered in a revengeful tone, came to his ears: “Stung again!” Biff--whack--biff! rang on the air, mingled with the cries for “help!” Then Dean Mercer abruptly came upon a sight which made his blood boil with indignation. A burly-framed youth of eighteen had succeeded in throwing to the ground a boy of nearly his age, but considerably smaller, and was pummelling him most unmercifully. “Sass me, will ye?” half questioned, half answered the belligerent bully, continuing to pound his victim with unremitting vengeance. “Stop, Tim Downey!” fairly shouted Dean, who had quickly recognized the bully.