Mud balls can be hard as well as soggy; some of those that reached Penrod were of no inconsiderable weight and substance, and they made him grunt despite himself. Finally, one, at close range, struck him in the pit of the stomach, whereupon he clasped himself about the middle silently, and executed some steps in seeming imitation of a quaint Indian dance. His plight being observed through a knothole, his enemies climbed upon the fence and regarded him seriously. “Aw, YOU'RE all right, ain't you, old tree-mores?” inquired one. “I'll SHOW you!” bellowed Penrod, recovering his breath; and he hurled a fat ball--thoughtfully retained in hand throughout his agony--to such effect that his interrogator disappeared backward from the fence without having taken any initiative of his own in the matter. His comrade impulsively joined him upon the ground, and the battle continued. Through the gathering dusk it went on. It waged but the hotter as darkness made aim more difficult--and still Penrod would not be driven from the field. Panting, grunting, hoarse from returning insults, fighting on and on, an indistinguishable figure in the gloom, he held the back alley against all comers. For such a combat darkness has one great advantage; but it has an equally important disadvantage--the combatant cannot see to aim; on the other hand, he cannot see to dodge. And all the while Penrod was receiving two for one. He became heavy with mud. Plastered, impressionistic and sculpturesque, there was about him a quality of the tragic, of the magnificent. He resembled a sombre masterpiece by Rodin. No one could have been quite sure what he was meant for. Dinner bells tinkled in houses. Then they were rung from kitchen doors. Calling voices came urging from the distance, calling boys' names into the darkness. They called and a note of irritation seemed to mar their beauty. Then bells were rung again--and the voices renewed appeals more urgent, much more irritated. They called and called and called. THUD! went the mud balls. Thud! Thud! Blunk! “OOF!” said Penrod. ... Sam Williams, having dined with his family at their usual hour, seven, slipped unostentatiously out of the kitchen door, as soon as he could, after the conclusion of the meal, and quietly betook himself to the Schofields' corner. Here he stationed himself where he could see all avenues of approach to the house, and waited. Twenty minutes went by, and then Sam became suddenly alert and attentive, for the arc-light revealed a small, grotesque figure slowly approaching along the sidewalk. It was brown in colour, shaggy and indefinite in form; it limped excessively, and paused to rub itself, and to meditate. Peculiar as the thing was, Sam had no doubt as to its identity. He advanced. “'Lo, Penrod,” he said cautiously, and with a shade of formality.