"Just try it," said Henry Burns, quietly. Benny Ellison, larger and heavier than the youth who thus dared him, hesitated only a moment. Then he rushed at Henry Burns and they clinched. The struggle seemed over before it had hardly begun, however, for the next moment Benny Ellison found himself lying on his back in the road, with Henry Burns firmly holding him there. "Let me up!" he cried, squirming and kicking. "You don't dare let me up." By way of answer, Henry Burns relinquished his hold and allowed his antagonist to regain his feet. Again Benny Ellison, wild with anger, made a rush for Henry Burns, aiming a blow at him as he came on. Dodging it, and without deigning to attempt to return it, Henry Burns closed with him once more, and they reeled together to and fro for a moment. If Benny Ellison had but known it, he had met with one whom Tom Harris and Bob White, who prided themselves on their athletics, and even stalwart Jack Harvey, had often found to be their match in wrestling. Slight in build, but with well-knit muscles, Henry Burns was surprisingly strong. And, above all, he never lost his head. The contest this time was a moment more prolonged; but again Benny Ellison felt his feet going from under him, and again he went down--but this time harder--to the ground. He lay for a moment, with the breath knocked out of him. "Want another?" inquired Henry Burns, calmly. He had not even offered to strike a blow. Benny Ellison, picking himself up slowly from the dust, hesitated a moment; then backed away. "I'll have it out with you again some time," he muttered. "I'll get square with you for this." Henry Burns's eyes twinkled. "Why not now?" he asked. Benny Ellison made no reply, but went on up the road. Bess Thornton's face, radiant with delight as Henry Burns turned to her, suddenly clouded. "Guess I'll have to look out now," she said. "He'll give it to me, if he catches me." Henry Burns's face wore an expression of mingled perplexity and embarrassment. Then, as one resolved to see the thing through, he replied, "Come on, I'll get you home all right." CHAPTER XI COL. WITHAM GETS THE MILL It was the evening before the glorious Fourth of July, and Tim Reardon was dragging an iron cannon along the street, by a small rope. It was a curious, clumsy piece of iron-mongery, about a foot and a half long, with a heavily moulded barrel mounted on a block of wood that ran on four wheels; a product of the local machine shop, designed for the purpose of being indestructible rather than for show. Tim Reardon, smudgy-faced, but wearing an expression of deep satisfaction, paused for a moment before a gate where stood a boy somewhat younger than himself, who eyed the cannon admiringly. "Hello, Willie," said Tim. "Comin' out, ain't yer?" The boy shook his head, disconsolately. "What's the matter?" "Can't," said the boy. "Father won't let me." Tim looked at him pityingly.