Reluctantly he set his feet against the pedals, glanced across his shoulder to Kay and was going to have said-- Something that glistened shot down her cheek and swiftly vanished. Very deliberately he dismounted. Yankee-Doodle, or a tune not unlike it, was being played at the moment. He thumped the student of the mouth-organ in the place from which Eve was created. Kay, all legs, flushed face and blown hair, watched from the back seat of the trike the novel sight of her brother being violent. The boy tumbled from his perch, putting the gate between himself and Peter. Yankee-Doodle ended abruptly--the mouth-organ slipped from his hand. The freckled good humor of his face changed to an expression of amused and fierce intelligence. It was his way to be amused when he was angry or in danger--Kay and Peter were to learn that later. He bobbed in the grass, recovered his fallen treasure, rubbed it on his sleeve, stuffed it into his knickerbockers' pocket and grimaced across the rail. “You're a fresh kid.” Peter removed his cap; his curly hair fell about his forehead. “You've made my sister cry,” he said. His hands were clenched. One leg hopped over the gate; then another. “I haven't,” the boy denied stoutly. “You have. You called her 'just anybody.'” The boy stepped into the road--a pugnacious little figure. “Pshaw! What of it? Girls cry for nothing.” Peter drew himself erect. “My sister doesn't.” The boy raised his eyes and met Kay's. Ashamed of himself, but more ashamed of showing it, he spoke stubbornly, “She's doing it now.” There was silence. A small strained voice, which sounded not at all like Peter's, said, “I never hurt people. I never fought in my life. But if I did ever fight, I'd like to punch your head. And--and I think I could do it.” The boy lost his shame and became happy. “Guess you can't. Anyhow, why don't you have a shot at it?” Without waiting for a reply, he commenced to take off his coat and to roll up his shirt-sleeves. He did it with an air of competence which was calculated to intimidate. All the while he carried on a monologue. “So he'd like to punch my head--_my_ head. Why, I could get his goat by just looking at him. In America I've licked boys twice his size, and they hadn't curly hair, either.” He faced Peter, doubling his fore-arm, and inviting him to feel his muscle. “See that. Say, kid, I'm sorry for you.--Ready?” Peter nodded; before his nod had ended something hit him on the nose. He threw up his arms to defend himself, but the something seemed all about him. Always smiling into his own was the freckled face of a pleasant looking boy--so pleasant that it was hard to believe that it was he who was doing the hurting. And Peter--he hit back valiantly; but somewhere at the back of his brain he kept on seeing pictures of the boy dead. It was disconcerting; every now and then, when he should have pressed home his advantage, he shortened his blows intentionally, with the strong weakness of the humanitarian.