Oh, if it could only inflict mere physical pain instead of such agonies of terror as made the idea of any bodily injury—mere cutting, burning, beating, blinding—a trifling nothing-at-all. Anyhow, he could _imagine_ that Bully Harberth was the Snake or Its emissary and, since he was indirectly brought upon him by the Snake, regard him as a myrmidon—and deal with him accordingly…. “How do you like this?” inquired that young gentleman as he suddenly seized the seated and unsuspecting Dam by the head, crushed him down with his superior weight and dug cruelly into the sides of his neck, below the ears, with his powerful thumb and fingers. “It is called ‘grippers’. You’ll begin to enjoy it in a minute.” … In a few seconds the pain became acute and after a couple of minutes, excruciating. Dam kept absolutely still and perfectly silent. To Harberth this was disappointing and after a time he grew tired. Releasing his impassive victim he arose preparatory to introducing the next item of his programme of tortures. “How do you like _this_?” inquired Dam rising also—and he smote his tormentor with all his strength beneath the point of his chin. Rage, pain, rebellion, and undying hatred (of the Snake) lent such force to the skilful blow—behind which was the weight and upward spring of his body—that Bully Harberth went down like a nine-pin, his big head striking the sharp edge of a desk with great violence. He lay still and white with closed eyes. “Golly,” shrilled the Haddock, “Funky Warren has murdered Bully Harberth. Hooray! Hooray!” and he capered with joy. A small crowd quickly collected, and, it being learned from credible eye-witnesses that the smaller boy had neither stabbed the bully in the back nor clubbed him from behind, but had well and truly smitten him on the jaw with his fist, he went at one bound from despised outcast coward to belauded, admired hero. “You’ll be hung, of course, Warren,” said Delorme. “And a jolly good job,” replied Dam, fervently and sincerely. As he spoke, Harberth twitched, moved his arms and legs, and opened his eyes. Sitting up, he blinked owl-like and inquired as to what was up. “You are down is what’s up,” replied Delorme. “Oh—he’s not dead,” squeaked the Haddock, and there was a piteous break in his voice. “What’s up?” asked Harberth again. “Why, Funky—that is to say, Warren—knocked you out, and you’ve got to give him best and ask for _pax_, or else fight him,” said Delorme, adding hopefully, “but of course you’ll fight him.” Harberth arose and walked to the nearest seat. “He hit me a ‘coward’s poke’ when I wasn’t looking,” quoth he. “It’s well known he is a coward.” “You are a liar, Bully Harberth,” observed Delorme. “He hit you fair, and anyhow he’s not afraid of _you_. If you don’t fight him you become Funky Harberth _vice_. Funky Warren—no longer Funky. So you’d better fight. See?” The Harberth bubble was evidently pricked, for the sentiment was applauded to the echo.