Then Sube caught sight of a real stone, and eagerly bent to pick it up; but before he could steady himself so as to throw it with any kind of aim, Sport beat a hasty retreat homeward, and the stone went clattering down the walk wide of its mark. Having thus disposed of the dog Sube proceeded on his way with the thought that Sport must be losing his mind when he couldn't tell a school day from any other day. But Sport was far from losing his mind. A certain psychic agency called instinct by uncomprehending humans had told him that for Sube this was not to be a school day; but Sport realized that he could never hope to get this through the dull brain of an ordinary boy, so he made no attempt. At the first corner Sube fell in with a company of his fellows bound for the cobble-stone church to pay their last sad respects to the mortal remains of Mag Macdougall, deceased. He would have avoided them if he could, but they were upon him before he was aware of their presence. "Hey, Sube!" shouted Gizzard as he caught sight of his chum. "Goin'?" This was somewhat awkward, but Sube managed to assume a look of bold confidence as he replied, "What do you _s'pose_?" "I s'pose you are," returned Gizzard. "Everybody is. _All_ the girls are goin', and even Biscuit Westfall!" Sube was lost. This was the limit of human endurance. He might have stood it even if all the girls did go; but he had counted on Biscuit Westfall as the one person absolutely certain to be in his seat at school. And besides, the groundless suspicion was never wholly absent from Sube's mind that as far as Nancy Guilford was concerned, Biscuit needed watching. Then a voice came to him from the crowd almost as if the speaker had read his mind. It was unnecessarily high and nasal in quality. "Nancy Guilford's goin'!" Sube turned and glared into the grinning face of Dick Bissell, a tattered youth of questionable pedigree, who stood head and shoulders above the other boys, and who was no respecter of size so long as it was smaller than his. But immediately upon identifying Dick Bissell as the author of the gibe, Sube's glare melted into a sheepish grin, and he himself melted into the crowd and became as inconspicuous as possible. He was distinctly relieved when a moment later a concerted movement towards the church began. At his side walked the faithful Gizzard, who, after they had gone a short distance, asked: "What you so mum about?" "Who? Me?" grunted Sube. "How you want a feller to act when he's goin' to a funeral?" The truth was that in addition to the humiliation put upon him by Dick Bissell, Sube was feeling a little lonely in his outlawry. The other boys doing exactly what he was doing were guiltless. But he was a criminal. He alone must be on the watch for tattle-tales, must run the risk of punishment. On the whole he was in an excellent frame of mind to get the most out of a funeral.