“Maurice and Felix Clement, Dick Schofield, Burt Layton, and—­”

“That ’s enough.  Milk-and-water chaps, all of them.”

“I—­I wanted to ask you and Fred and Charley,” she said in a quavering voice.  “That ’s what I called you in for—­to ask you to come.”

“And what are you going to do?” he asked.

“Walk, gather wild flowers,—­the poppies are all out now,—­eat luncheon at some nice place, and—­and—­”

“Come home,” he finished for her.

Bessie nodded her head.  Joe put his hands in his pockets again, and walked up and down.

“A sissy outfit, that ’s what it is,” he said abruptly; “and a sissy program.  None of it in mine, please.”

She tightened her trembling lips and struggled on bravely.  “What would you rather do?” she asked.

“I ’d sooner take Fred and Charley and go off somewhere and do something—­well, anything.”

He paused and looked at her.  She was waiting patiently for him to proceed.  He was aware of his inability to express in words what he felt and wanted, and all his trouble and general dissatisfaction rose up and gripped hold of him.

“Oh, you can’t understand!” he burst out.  “You can’t understand.  You ’re a girl.  You like to be prim and neat, and to be good in deportment and ahead in your studies.  You don’t care for danger and adventure and such things, and you don’t care for boys who are rough, and have life and go in them, and all that.  You like good little boys in white collars, with clothes always clean and hair always combed, who like to stay in at recess and be petted by the teacher and told how they’re always up in their studies; nice little boys who never get into scrapes—­who are too busy walking around and picking flowers and eating lunches with girls, to get into scrapes.  Oh, I know the kind—­afraid of their own shadows, and no more spunk in them than in so many sheep.  That ’s what they are—­sheep.  Well, I ’m not a sheep, and there ’s no more to be said.  And I don’t want to go on your picnic, and, what ’s more, I ’m not going.”

The tears welled up in Bessie’s brown eyes, and her lips were trembling.  This angered him unreasonably.  What were girls good for, anyway?—­always blubbering, and interfering, and carrying on.  There was no sense in them.

“A fellow can’t say anything without making you cry,” he began, trying to appease her.  “Why, I did n’t mean anything, Sis.  I did n’t, sure.  I—­”

He paused helplessly and looked down at her.  She was sobbing, and at the same time shaking with the effort to control her sobs, while big tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“Oh, you—­you girls!” he cried, and strode wrathfully out of the room.

CHAPTER II

“The Draconian reforms”