“Played hookey! Played hookey! Jeff Farnum played hookey!” they shrilled at him. Ned Merrill assumed leadership of the young Apaches. “You're goin' to catch it. Old Webber was down askin' for you. Wasn't he, Tom? Wasn't he, Dick?” Tom and Dick lied cheerfully to increase Jeff's dread. They added graphic details to help the story. The victim looked around with stoicism. He remembered the philosophy of the optimist that a licking does not last long. “Don't care if he was down,” the boy bluffed. “Huh! Mr. Don't Care! Mr. Don't Care!” shrieked Merrill gleefully. They made a circle around Jeff and mocked him. Once or twice a bolder tormentor snatched at his cap or pushed a neighbor against him. Then, with the inconstancy of youth, they suddenly deserted him for more diverting game. A forlorn little Italian girl was trying to slip past on the other side of the street. Someone caught sight of her and with a whoop the Apaches were upon her pell-mell. She began to run, but they hemmed her in. One tugged at her braided hair. Another flipped mud at her dress from the end of a stick. Merrill snatched her slate and made off with it. Jeff cut swiftly across the street. Merrill was coming directly toward him, his head turned to the girl. Triumphant whoops broke from his throat. He bumped into Jeff, stumbled, and went down in the mud. Young Merrill was up in an instant, clamorous for battle. His hands and clothes were plastered with filth. “I'm goin' to lick the stuffin' out of you,” he bellowed. Jeff said nothing. He was very white. His fingers worked nervously. “Yah! Yah! He's scared,” the mob jeered. Jeff was. In that circle of hostile faces he found no sympathy. He had to stand up to the bully of the class, a boy who could have given him fifteen pounds. Looking around for help, he saw that none was at hand. The thin legs of the rescued Italian girl were flashing down the street. On the steps of the big house of P. C. Frome a six-year-old little one was standing with her nurse. Nobody else was in sight except his cousin, James, and the Apaches. “You're goin' to get the maulin' of your life,” Ned Merrill promised as he slipped out of his coat. “Webber'll lick you if he finds out you been fightin',” James Farnum prophesied cheerfully to his cousin. He intended to do his duty in the way of protest and then watch the fight. Ned worked his wiry little foe to the fence and pummeled him. Jeff ducked and backed out of danger. Keeping to the defensive, he was being badly punished. Once he slipped in the mud and went down, but he was up again before his slower antagonist could close with him. Blood streamed from his nose. His lip was gashed. Under the buffeting he was getting his head began to sing. “Punch him good, Ned,” one of the champion's friends advised. “You bet he is,” another chortled.