Phil knew Rod’s nature—knew that he was a quiet, peaceful chap, who never sought trouble and usually tried to avoid it when he could without positive loss of self-respect. Furthermore, Phil was aware by observation that, when aroused through physical violence, the boy from Texas, having a fiery temper, was a most formidable and dangerous antagonist. Well aware of his own volcanic nature when provoked or aroused, since coming to Oakdale, it had been Rodney Grant’s constant purpose to hold himself in check and master the fighting strain in his blood. In this he had succeeded at first only by avoiding violent clashes of any sort, which had, for the time being, given him among the Oakdale lads the reputation of being something of a coward. In the end, however, circumstances and events had conspired to reveal their mistake of judgment, and had led them to acknowledge Rodney as a thoroughbred in whose veins there was not one craven drop. Feeling certain he knew quite well what would happen to Simpson if the fellow attacked Rod, Phil believed it a duty to give him fair warning. “Sus-say, look a’ here,” he cried, pointing a finger at the pugnacious rustic, “if you don’t want to get the worst lul-licking you ever had, you better keep away from this fellow. He’ll pup-punch the packing out of you in just about two jabs.” “Ho! ho! Is that so!” mocked Simpson. “Why, I can wallop the both of you, and not half try. I’ll learn ye to fish in our brook! So that’s what ye ketched, is it?” he went on, his eye falling on the contents of the basket, at sight of which he became still more enraged. “Well, you won’t take any of them to your old camp.” With a sudden swing of his heavy boot, he kicked the basket over and sent the fish flying toward the water, some of them falling into it. A moment later, as Springer scrambled frantically to recover as many of those fish as possible, Grant, moving like lightning, seized Simpson by the neck and a convenient part of his trousers and pitched him sprawling into the brook. CHAPTER VIII. ONE FROM THE SHOULDER. Spluttering, choking, snarling, the astonished recipient of this summary treatment scrambled to his feet, dripping and as enraged as a mad bull. Brushing the water from his eyes with a sweep of his hand, he beheld Grant, hands on his hips, standing as if waiting, wholly unconcerned. With a roar, Simpson splashed out of the water, his boot-legs full and sloshing, and charged at Rodney. “Oh,” said Springer, recovering two of the trout from the water and tossing them back into the basket, “the performance is just beginning in the big tut-tent; the circus has started.”