“The thing is,” broke in Mr. Link, “if Oliver October can fight without losing his temper, I’ll not say a word. Do you think you can, my lad?” “What’s the use of fighting if you ain’t mad?” reasoned Oliver October. “It would be just like wrassling.” “Now, see here, Oliver,” spoke up Mr. Sikes severely, “all we ask of you is to grow up to be a good, kind, peaceful man like your Pa here. He’s getting along towards sixty years of age, and I don’t know as he ever had a fight in his life. If he ever did, he probably wished he hadn’t. Your Pa is a respected, upright citizen of this here town, and I want to see you foller in his footsteps. And what’s more, your Pa ain’t a coward. Not much! He’s as brave as I am—yes, siree, he’s a _braver_ man than I am. I was always going around picking up fights, just because I was big and strong and didn’t have any sense. That’s it. I didn’t have the sense that God gives a hickory-nut. Your Pa had a lot of sense. He’s got it yet. And why? I’ll tell you why, Oliver. He saw right smack in the beginning that no matter how good a fighter you are when you’re young, it ain’t going to do you any good when you’re old—because when you’re old nobody gives a _dern_ how good a fighter you were when you were young. They just say you used to be a tough customer—and sort of shoulder you out of the way. But if you’ve got a reputation like your Pa’s—for common sense, fair-dealing, kindness, good-nature and—and—(with a conciliatory glance at Mr. Sage)—and religion, why—er—why, you’re all right. Understand? But, on the other hand, if, as you say, you’ve got to fight in case somebody picks on you, why, you ought to have some lessons in boxing. I’ve been thinking it over. If you’d like for me to do it, I’ll show you a lot about boxing. Boxing lessons will prove to you how important it is to keep your temper. The minute a boxer loses his temper and gets mad, he’s going to get licked. That’s as sure as shooting. You never saw a prizefighter in your life that got mad when he was in the ring. If you’ll come around to the feed yard after school to-morrow, I’ll learn you how to—” “About what time, Uncle Joe?” broke in Oliver eagerly, his face lighting up. CHAPTER VI A PASTOR PROMISES AID Four mature throats were simultaneously cleared, and Mr. Sage, being a very unusual sort of minister, abruptly put his hand over his mouth—not quite soon enough, however, to smother a spasmodic chuckle.