"What do you do for recreation? What sport do you have now, for instance?" "We fence, father," said André François, listlessly. "Ah, yes," said the White Star manager, introducing his subject in as elaborately casual a way as a politician about to ask for a favor, "just so. Well, you see we don't do much fencing in America, not very much. Boxing, now, is more in our line." A gleam of interest, which was not lost upon his father, shot into André François' weary eyes. "Father," he asked timidly, "are you familiar with the manly art of self-defense?" "I am, my son," answered the manager of the White Star gravely. André François gazed at him questioningly a moment, then drew the manual from under the sofa cushion. "I have been practising some of the things described in this book," he said, slowly opening it and disclosing diagrams of a heavy-muscled individual executing a wonderful curve along a dotted line marked "a----a----a," "but I am unable to make out the explanations attached to most of these figures. If you could show me the rudiments----" he finished tentatively. It was at this point that the manager of the White Star joyously threw diplomacy to the winds. "You bet I will," he cried enthusiastically, "we will have our first lesson to-night in the attic," and grasping his son's arm he started off. Miss Biron and Angélique, sedately sewing by the fire in the next room, were electrified to see, a moment later, the manager of the White Star and André François rush madly through, banging a door at either end in their flight, and laughing at the top of their voices. They also stayed awake that night beyond their usual retiring time, for strange noises emanated from the attic long after the hour when a well-conducted father and son should have been in bed. The next morning the manager of the White Star let the applicant in waiting know that no further business would be transacted, and the word went forth among the members of the gang that he would pay for no more André François lickings, and would tolerate no unpaid-for ones. So, by the ultimatum of his father, André François went whither he would, unmolested except by word of mouth. But he underwent such martyrdom as only a small boy can receive at the hands of others of his kind. Not only did the gang remember and resent his former attitude of superiority, but they looked on him as a source of revenue taken from them. His presence irritated them as the presence of a government-owned railroad might irritate a company of magnates shorn of their profits. His first position had been marked at least by a certain uniqueness and dignity. He _had_ never been licked, even if he could have been.