Another hastily fired “plaster” got Mr. Gooch on the leg, and then young Oliver took to his heels—not because he was afraid of his uncle but because he had caught sight of the far more terrifying figure of Mr. Sikes. “Whose boy is that?” demanded the outraged Mr. Gooch, addressing Mr. Sikes. “None of your damned business,” snarled Mr. Sikes, lowering his chin in a menacing way. “I will make it my business,” roared the other. “I’ll have the little scoundrel locked up for—” “You just go ahead and try it,” broke in Mr. Sikes, advancing slowly. “Just you go ahead and try it. That’s all I got to say. Go ahead and try it.” By this time Mr. Gooch had recognized the angry citizen. “Oho! Mr. Sikes, eh? Well, what cause have you got for losing your temper like this, Mr. Sikes? What right have you to get mad because I ask you the name of a dodgasted little—” “Mad? I’m not mad,” interrupted Mr. Sikes violently. “And I’ll tell you who that boy is if you really want to know.” “I do,” said Mr. Gooch, feeling of his elbow. “Well, he is the owner of that pup you just kicked in the ribs. Good day!” With that, Mr. Sikes stalked around the corner, a prey to conflicting emotions. He stole down the alley, with many a furtive glance over his shoulder. He felt very guilty. He had openly, vociferously encouraged Oliver October in the commission of a deed of violence. Suppose, for instance, one of those rocks—(he did not know they were marbles)—had struck Horace Gooch at the base of the brain! He wiped his moist forehead. Just suppose! And how was he to take Oliver to task for flying into a rage and throwing stones, with murderous intent, when he himself had been so overjoyed that he yelled to him to keep it up? Yes, he was in a very awkward position. So he decided that unless somebody took him to task for _not_ taking Oliver October to task, he would consider the incident closed. But every time he thought of the way Horace Gooch grabbed his elbow and subsequently clapped his hand to his “off” leg, he gave way to inordinate mirth. At supper that evening Mr. Baxter asked his son if he knew who it was that hit his Uncle Horace with a rock. Oliver had spent most of the afternoon in hiding. Hunger and the approach of night were responsible for his decision to give himself up, so to speak. Just before the supper hour he ventured out of his place of hiding—a cornfield down the road—prepared to face the town marshal and arrest. His dog had basely deserted him an hour or so earlier. His spirits rose a little as he took his seat at the table, for old Oliver appeared to be in an unusually cheerful frame of mind. Just as he began to feel that, after all, there was nothing to face, his father frowned severely and asked: “Oliver, do you know who hit your Uncle Horace with a stone this afternoon?” There was a loophole. “I didn’t know anybody hit him with a stone, Pa.” Mr. Baxter reflected. “Well, what _was_ he hit with if it wasn’t a stone?” “A marble.”