"Hallo, fellers," shouted someone in the outer circle of light. "It's Windy Batts," several declared at once, and immediately the man whose qualifications to become a member of the charmed group had been put to the test, entered the circle of light. He was scrutinized and with not an altogether approving eye. His arm was done up in a sling. The forefinger of his right hand was wrapped in a red, calico handkerchief. Something like a knob stuck out back of one ear which was covered with a square of muslin, giving it the appearance of a pat of butter. One eye was black and both legs seemed to be stiff. Greetings were brief. The main question was. "Who whipped?" "Yeh--who hollered?" was asked. Windy drew near the fire. "It was a great fight," he began. "The greatest fight that was ever fought in Springfield. We rolled over and over, him sometimes on top and me sometimes under. It was a fearful fight. Court turned out to see it and an Indian Chief was there. He said he never seen nothing like it." "Who whipped?" was again asked. "Yeh--who hollered?" Ignoring these questions, Windy continued. "The big Indian and the Judge of the Court both said they hadn't never seen such sledge-hammer blows as I hit. It was them blows that put my shoulder out of joint. But I fixed his eye. You couldn't have told it from a knot-hole in a burnt tree. Time he aimed a second socdologer at me I was ready. The crowd roared like a camp-meeting. We fell to it. He got a straddle of my head and chawed my finger. There wasn't no place for me to git holt owing to the fact my head was pinned in twix his legs. Jean britches didn't taste well and was ungodly tough. But I was resolute. I found the right place and I chawed like hell. But would he let go of my finger? No, and I finally had to knock half his teeth out to git my finger out his mouth." "You tanned him--hey?" "You mauled him, Windy?" "You beat the Springfield stuffing out of him?" "And nobody parted you?" Ignoring these questions, Windy took a fresh start. "And there's no telling how long it might have lasted, us two going 'round and 'round and up and down and every which way. I was eternally mauling the ding-blasted daylights out of him when the Judge got hold of me and asked as a favor if I wouldn't put off the finish till next day. He said he couldn't get nobody into court if I didn't and so I--I hollered." There was a moment of profound silence. Windy shifted his weight from one stiff leg to the other, stroked his bandaged arm and sighed. "Spit in his ashes!" It was the voice of Jack Armstrong that broke the painful stillness. Immediately every man emptied the contents of his mouth, with no small force, into the fire, which voiced its protest by a vigorous spitting and sputtering. Then Windy was given some advice.