He paused in the doorway timidly. Red Head was standing just outside, one shoulder turned toward Freckles Redmond. It was the signal for a fight, and the small boys were crowded about them. “Aw, you're one yourself,” Red Head was saying, “an' you dassan't say it agin. I dare you to say it,” he cried, but he caught sight of Willie. “Huh!” he shouted. “Look here, fellers! Here's Whistle Breeches. Let's spit on 'em!” The boys crowded into the entry and spat on them. Red Head pulled Willie's hair twice, drawing his head forward as he would pull a bell rope. “Don't he think he's smart?” “Wouldn't have 'em!” “Whistle Breeches! Whistle Breeches!” they shouted in derision, and Willie whimpered and edged into a corner. “Don't you do that,” he said in a choking voice. “I'll tell teacher, I will!” Red Head stuck his freckled face close and shoved him with a warlike shoulder. His fists were doubled, and he jabbed Willie with his elbow. “Aw, you tell him, then, why don't you, Whistle Breeches?” he inquired. “Jist you tell him, an' I'll punch your face off.” He drew his arm back and feinted, Willie crooked his elbow to hide his face. “Aw, come on, fellers,” said Red Head with deep disgust. “What's the use of foolin' with him? He ain't nothin' but a cry-baby in whistle breeches. He ain't no fun.” III. That noon Willie remained in the schoolroom until the boys had gone. Some went home for dinner, and the rest ate their lunches under the oak tree at the side of the school. When the room was clear, Willie stole out by the back way and ran rapidly up the alley. He knew he was branded for life; The shame of the name of Whistle Breeches bore him down. He meditated wild plans for getting rid of the offending garment. He would burn it, lose it in the river. He even considered running away from home. [Illustration: 35] After dinner he slipped quietly away from the table, crept up to his room under the slanting roof, and put on his old, patched breeches. He came down quietly, but his mother caught him tiptoeing through the hall. “Why, Willie,” she said, “where are your new trousers, dear?” “Up-stairs,” he said simply. “I don't want to wear them They--they're too tight.” His mother saw the prevarication in the droop of his head. “Nonsense!” she answered lightly. “They fit you perfectly, dear. If they are a little stiff now, they will soon wear soft. Go up and put them on.” “I don't want to,” he replied stubbornly. He meant, “I will not,” but he had learned the disadvantage of contradicting his mother flatly. “William,” said his mother sternly, “go up-stairs and put on those trousers this instant.”