“Aren’t you ashamed to fight?” asked the girl, reprovingly. “Nix,” replied Tommy. “A feller ain’t no good that can’t fight. Me brudder Bill says that Lefty can fight jest as well as he can pitch, an’ that’s goin’ some.” “I am afraid,” said Janet to Locke, “that you have set a bad example.” “But not willingly,” he quickly declared. “I hope you do not think I would engage in a public fist fight from inclination. I assure you that the knowledge that you witnessed that wretched affair has caused me no little mortification.” “You were justified,” she said. “I saw it all, and there was no manly way by which you could have avoided it.” CHAPTER XXXII THE INITIALS He thanked her for the words, and secured his hat and book as they walked slowly toward the log. Tommy was again blowing away at his harmonica, Jimmy was sulking, and the others fell to amusing themselves with a game of hide and seek. Janet sat on the log, and Locke seated himself near her. “What were you reading?” she asked curiously. He gave her the book, and she glanced at it. It was a well-thumbed volume of “The Merchant of Venice.” “My favorite when I read Shakespeare,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I have read it over and over. At the moment when I heard you calling, I was reading Bassanio’s raptures on finding Portia’s portrait in the leaden casket.” Leaning forward a bit and looking steadily at her, he quoted: “‘Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men.’” His voice was low and soft, yet full and deep. Again her eyes drooped before his. One shapely white hand toyed with a loose bit of bark. “You quote well,” she said, compelling herself to speak calmly, almost carelessly. “You should be a teacher of elocution.” “The task would be agreeable indeed,” he returned, “if I could choose my pupil.” “You speak in the singular.” “Which,” he declared instantly, “is not at all singular, the situation considered. Had I my choice, I’d not seek a pupil beyond this little glade.” “Oh, if you were to pick one of my Sunday-school class, I’m afraid you would not find the task particularly agreeable. Teaching elocution to Tommy or Jimmy or any of the others would be thankless work.” He smiled. “I’d not care to seek so far, yet I know it is presumptuous for me to fancy that I could teach _you_.” She flashed him a smile that went to his head like wine and made him long to imprison the dainty hand that was still toying with the bit of loose bark. There was a brief silence, broken only by the echoing cries of the romping children. “Tommy, Tommy!” she cried suddenly, “play ‘Marching Through Georgia.’ Just listen, Mr. Locke; Tommy plays very well for a little fellow. Don’t you think so?”