“Oh, the wicked, wicked boy!” cried Mahala. She dragged Edith out of the way of the oncoming rush, but as she did so, her eyes swiftly searched the board walk over which they had been passing. One of her feet moved forward from beneath the hem of her skirts and a toe tip was firmly set on the end of a loose board. As Junior approached, running swiftly, that board lifted slightly so that he tripped over it and fell sprawling, soiling his hands, his face, and sliding over the walk on his velvet suit. Unable to stop in her rush after him, Rebecca tripped and fell on him in a heap. Jason turned a corner and came in sight, reading one of his books as he walked. Instantly he understood. He dropped his books on a strip of grass between the fence and the walk, and ran to Rebecca. He helped her to her feet, and knowing her aversion to having her head and face seen by the public, he flew to find and replace her bonnet. He found the white flag and did what he could to straighten and clean it, and, as he put it into her hand, he said to her: “Never mind, you can wash it, you know. You can make it white again in only a little while. If I were you, I’d go back home and wash it right away.” The fact that some one was sympathizing with her, was helping her, comforted Rebecca. She looked at Jason intently. “You are a good boy,” she said. “You have a white soul. I will go back and make the flag white again.” She turned and went back toward the small house where she lived alone on the outskirts of the village. Junior stood scowling, beating the dust from his clothing. He was jarred and angry. He wanted to reinstate himself, to dominate some one. Jason was his legitimate prey. He advanced, blocking the other boy’s way. Jason tried to extricate himself. He wanted to avoid trouble. He put out his hands to keep the boys from pulling at his clothing and tried to back from the crowd. As he did so he found Mahala Spellman by his side. She had been in the same room in school with him ever since they had begun going to school. To his amazement he heard her whisper at his elbow: “Out early and late like you are, I bet you ain’t afraid of any boy in the whole world.” Jason stopped suddenly. His figure stiffened and straightened. A queer light passed over his face. At his elbow Mahala whispered: “Carrying those big, heavy baskets like you do, I bet your arms are strongest of any boy in this town.” Jason’s fists clenched. His arms flexed involuntarily. At his elbow came the whisper: “Remember the bugs!” Jason’s mind flew to a poem in one of the school readers. Into his brain rushed the lines: Three little bugs in a basket, And hardly room for two— and again, with the kaleidoscopic rush of memory: Then he that was cold and hungry, Strength from his weakness drew, He pulled the rugs from the other bugs And he killed them and ate them, too.