Mr. Link, nothing loth, turned back to join him at the fence. The broad grins suddenly froze on their faces. The surge of battle caused the ring of spectators to open up a little, exposing the combatants to plain view from the excellent vantage point held by the Messrs. Sikes and Link. They recognized Oliver October—but never had they seen him look like this! His chubby face was white and set, his teeth were bared, his eyes were blazing. He was the embodiment of fury. And he was fighting like a demon! “Gosh!” fell from the lips of Joseph Sikes, and his cigar would have done likewise had it not been so deeply inserted. “It’s—it’s little Oliver!” gasped Silas Link, gripping the top board of the fence. “Fi-fighting!” muttered Mr. Sikes, aghast. “Like a wildcat,” groaned Mr. Link. “Why, he’s a reg’lar little devil.” “Looks as if he’d like to kill that boy of Sam Parr’s. We got to stop ’em, Joe—Hey, there! You boys quit that! Hear what I say? Quit it this—” Suddenly there was a cry of “teacher,” and then a wild scattering of spectators. The schoolmaster, Mr. Elwell, was advancing upon the belligerents. The Parr boy, in no fear of Oliver, was stricken by the most abject terror in the presence of an on-rushing doom, for well he knew the sting of Mr. Elwell’s hand when punitively applied to the seat of his breeches whilst he reposed in ungainly disorder across the pedagogic knee. It was the Parr boy’s luck to be facing the teacher as he swooped down upon them. He took advantage of that gracious bit of luck, and, turning tail, sped swiftly away, leaving the astonished Oliver to his fate. A firm hand fell upon the Baxter boy’s shoulder and closed in a grip that brought a stifled yelp from the lips of the unvanquished warrior. Then something happened that drew a simultaneous groan of dismay from the elderly onlookers. Oliver October, still in a state of baffled fury and wriggling in the clutch of the common enemy of all schoolboys, delivered a vicious kick at an Elwell shin. So faultless was his aim that Mr. Elwell’s grunt of pain was loud enough to be heard by timid schoolgirls some twenty yards away—and as it was an articulate grunt those who heard it plainly were shocked, as good little girls ought to be. Oliver, blubbering with rage, kicked again and again, efforts rendered futile by the length of the teacher’s arm. A little girl of six, in a brown coat and a red tam o’ shanter, stood near by, shrieking with terror. She alone of all the scholars had failed to leave the field of battle. The two lifelong friends of the Baxter family looked at each other. Speech was unnecessary. Their expressions spoke plainer than words. They faced calamity—desolating calamity. Oliver October had a temper, and it was ungovernable! He was ferocious! He was a regular little devil! They watched the teacher as he yanked the struggling lad across the yard and into the school-house, and a great dread took possession of their souls.