Sube struggled to his feet, groggily murmuring, "Good boy, Sport." And with a boy's first instinct on emerging from a fight began to hunt for his cap. Sport quickly found it and brought it. Then Sube noticed for the first time that he was alone, and that the big barn door was closed. But he had no idea that it had been barred in the interest of public policy to keep what the stablemen regarded as a mad dog from running at large. The back door was open. And towards it he staggered, bleeding and disheveled. He made his way into the clump of willows, where he lay for a time and rested while Sport licked affectionately at his hand whenever it came near enough for his rosy tongue to reach. As he took a circuitous route homeward a little later he became conscious of a dull ache in his ear. Then he discovered that his lip was swollen. In another moment he became painfully aware that something had happened to one of his cheeks. Next a skinned knuckle attracted his attention. He considered these injuries too valuable to be wasted, and at once invented a new game to make use of them. He pretended that he was a wounded soldier returning from the wars, and gave himself up to such limps and groans as seemed to fit the fancy. He dragged himself up to the back door of his home, and after satisfying himself that the kitchen was empty, fell prostrate on the threshold, gasping: "Water!--Water!--I must rinse these awful wounds!" With an exaggerated effort he pulled himself to his feet and reeled across the kitchen, only to fall in an imaginary swoon at the foot of the back stairs. But hearing footsteps he revived sufficiently to crawl upstairs dragging a bullet-pierced leg lifelessly behind. He had reached the room occupied jointly by himself and his brother Henry, where he had indulged in several additional swoons (in the performance of which he had now become quite an expert) when he was suddenly reminded of the accident to his clothes. He took them off and holding them at arm's length, sniffed at them judicially. Then he pronounced them guilty, and dropped them on the floor pending sentence. He at once began to put on his best suit, but before he had finished he heard Henry coming. He kicked the offending garments under the bed and stepped into the hallway, pulling on his jacket as he went. He intercepted his brother at the head of the stairs. "Hey, Cathead!" he called affably, addressing Henry by his nickname. "Know some'pm?" "What?" grunted Cathead, who was fourteen, studiously inclined, and suspicious of anything Sube knew and he didn't, because it was usually inaccurate and often led into mischief. "There's a new batch of cookies down in the pantry!" Cathead's interest was aroused, but he tried to conceal it. "What you all dressed up for?" he demanded. Sube had hoped to preclude any such inquiry, and made something of a mess of his reply. "Why--now--now, I'm--I'm goin' somewheres," he stammered. "Where?"