"S-a-a-y," he said, "yer wanter git licked again, d'yer? You must'er got inter the habit. I tell yer what--I got a baby brother two years old ter home. I'll go fetch him, and the two o' yez kin have it out." It was here that André François' early training enabled him to make an impression. He stood up on his toes, as he had once seen the Marquis de Boissé stand up on his toes, and slapped Jimmie McCarthy across the mouth with his open palm, as he had seen that noble marquis slap a count of France. But what followed was not an exchange of ultra courteous priorities to a duel. It was a good American fight in the middle of a ring of small boys, and what happened is what always happens when natural and scientific force stand up before each other. That fight will be long remembered in the annals of the gang, which, like the records of the great Homeric fights or the sagas of the primitive Northmen, are first handed down by word of mouth. "I wished yer'd seen it, kid," said Charlie Brown, to his wide-eyed, freckled-faced junior, whom he was trying to bring up in the right way. "It'd bin an eddycation fer yer. Andray Franswa jumped round jest like he was made o' rubber. Every time that Jim grabbed fer him, he was on the other side an' had landed him one on the nose. Gee, yer oughter seen it bleed--it was worse'n the time Jim beat Buck Paxell. Now, Teddy, yer want ter keep yer eye on Andray Franswa, an' do same as yer see him doin'--'cause he's goin' ter be a great man some day like Jim Jeffries--see?" That afternoon the manager of the White Star chanced to look out of his window, and he saw André François, with his white sailor hat, fashioned after that of Prince Edward, set rakishly over one ear, his hands in his pockets, whistling at the top of his lungs, come down the street. His face was muddy and bleeding, a great scratch cut across it from ear to ear, his hair was wild and tangled, but his swagger was that of a conqueror, and he took the middle of the road. An admiring concourse of small boys followed along at a respectful distance. [Illustration: "AN ADMIRING CONCOURSE OF SMALL BOYS FOLLOWED AT A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE"] Mr. Biron smiled to himself. Then he took down his ledger, for he was a careful man of business, and read over a certain page. On it was written fourteen times: "To Andrew Francis, licking... $1.00" "Um," said the manager of the White Star softly at the end of the addition, "fourteen dollars." Then he took another look out of the window: "I never made a better bargain in my life." AIN'T YOU GWINE TO COME? BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE De debbil done ast me to be his chile; De debbil he's allus a follerin'; I run de debbil foh mos' a mile; Don' you hear de debbil a-hollerin'? I'se gwine to jine de fambly of de Lohd; I'se gwine to glory in de mawnin'; I'se gwine to be bohn in de grace of Gohd; Ain't you gwine to come to my bohnin'?