He was deeply interested in the great fist-fighters, and his hero was John Morrissey. In the last hour of work one day, after the Crockets had gone home, three or four boys of about our age gathered in the shop. We had removed our overalls and were getting ready to go, when Swipes approached me. His fists were moving playfully. “I could put an epitaph on that face o' your'n,” he threatened. “It would be your epitaph,” I answered, promptly. The others laughed and urged me to go on. He began to jump up and down, with his fists out in front of me. “Fight me, fight me, if you ain't a coward!” he hissed. That word was more than I could endure. I flew at Swipes like a panther and floored him. He rose, bleeding, but unwhipped. We fought fiercely up and down among the gravestones, and in a moment were locked together. I had the under hold and forced him into the water-tub. Swipes said that would do, and I released my hold upon him. He rose, dripping, and offered me his hand. “You're all right,” said he, cheerfully. “I only wanted to know if you could fight.” He had a kind of pride in his bruised face, and would not let me wash away the blood. Directly another boy began to dance in front of me. It was a desperate battle I had then, and Swipes, when he saw me getting the worst of it, broke in for the sake of fairness. “It ain't right,” said he. “You tackled him when he was tired.” The bout ended, and Swipes gave me his hand with a cheering word as I left him. “I told 'em you could fight,” he whispered. I had a hard week of it then, for they were bound to know what I was made of--those warlike and barbaric people. I avenged my wrongs, and stepped off the plane of reprobation and contempt forever. I tried to like my task, and worked hard and spent three evenings a week with Mr. Pearl. He lived in his little shop, and had been kind enough to offer me what help he could in my studies. He had some learning, a rare talent in mathematics, and a genius for explanation. I brought my suppers with me, and we often ate together. The first time I entered the shop, after my week of battle, the Pearl looked at me and laughed. “Confound that dog!” he exclaimed. The dog stood up before him. “I've often talked to you about fighting,” said the Pearl. “I want t' tell you again it's poor business, Mr. Barker.” “He's an awful quarrelsome cuss,” he added, as he dismissed the dog and turned to me with an apology for delay. We had scarcely begun our work when Mr. McCarthy entered. He had two good legs under him--so one might have thought--and a shoe on each foot, and a step like that of a sound man. He was “all dressed up,” as they used to say, and a bit too well aware of it. He took off his hat and bowed politely. “Gentleman,” said he, “Mr. McCarthy presents his compliments.” “I see that your off foot is on,” said Mr. Pearl.