Mr. Baxter marshaled his son into the room on the tail of this remark, and ordered him to take off his hat—a command instantly followed by another that took him back to the door mat, where he sullenly performed a forgotten obligation. And so it came to pass on this mild September evening, that young Oliver October learned what was in store for him if his “fortune” came true. He sat very still and wide-eyed in the depths of the Morris chair—a distinction conferred upon him by his compassionate elders—his sturdy black-hosed legs sticking straight out before him, his grimy hands stuck—for reasons of shame—into his already crowded trouser pockets. His gray eyes, from which the cloud of obstinacy soon disappeared, went quickly from speaker to speaker as the grewsome story of that remote October night was unfolded in varying degrees of lucidity by the giants who towered over him. He was a very small boy and they were very big and very, very old monsters. And they were telling him all this, they said, because they loved him and were going to do everything they could to keep him from being hung some day! There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t do! But a great deal depended on him. That was the thing, repeated Mr. Link, over and over again. He must realize that a great deal depended on him. First of all, it was imperative that he should never, never allow his temper to get the better of him; he must never, never get mad at anybody or anything; he must never get into fights; no matter what the provocation, he must not get into fights; if there was no other way, he must play with the little girls and avoid the boys—at least, until the little girls grew up and were too big for him to play with. He revealed a most commendable temper when Mr. Link stipulated that he should play with the little girls. “I won’t play with the girls,” he cried hotly. “I hate ’em. I’ll kill ’em if they try to play with me.” “My, my!” exclaimed Mr. Link in dismay. “Tut-tut!” said Mr. Sikes reproachfully. “Oliver!” cautioned his father, speaking for the first time since the ordeal began. “Well, I won’t play with girls,” repeated Oliver. “You bet I won’t. I hate ’em.” “I guess there’s no reason why you can’t play with the boys,” compromised Mr. Link, “provided you’ll only remember that you mustn’t fight with ’em.” “Well, I got to fight with ’em if they fight with me, don’t I?” cried Oliver. “Spoken like a man,” said the minister, patting him on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll be doggoned!” gasped Mr. Sikes, staring in disgust at the speaker. “And you a minister of the gospel!” “We must not make a coward of Oliver,” said the other, a trifle warmly. “That’s right,” said Oliver’s father. “Mary wouldn’t have liked to see a son of hers grow up to be a—a feller who wouldn’t stand up for his rights. And neither would I. What’s more, Joe Sikes, you’re a fine one to talk. You’ve had more fights than anybody in—”