“To your seat, Mr. Bristow!  You’re acting like a rowdy!”

Principal Cantwell uttered the order sharply.

Fully half the student body had gathered in the big assembly room at the High School.  It was still five minutes before the opening hour, and there had been a buzz of conversation through the room.

The principal’s voice was so loud that it carried through the room.  Almost at once the buzz ceased as the students turned to see what was happening.  Bristow had been skylarking a bit.  Undoubtedly he had been more boisterous with one of the other fellows in the assembly room than good taste sanctioned.

Just as naturally, however, Bristow resented the style of rebuke from authority.  The boy wheeled about, glaring at the principal.

“Go to your seat, sir!” thundered the principal, his face turning ghastly white from his suppressed rage.

Bristow wheeled once more, in sullen silence, to go to his seat.  Certainly he did not move fast, but he was obeying.

“You mutinous young rascal, that won’t do!” shot out from the principal’s lips.  In another instant Mr. Cantwell was crossing the floor rapidly toward the slow-moving offender.

“Get to your seat quickly, or go in pieces!” rasped out the angry principal.

Seizing the boy from behind by both shoulders, Mr. Cantwell gave him a violent push.  Bristow tripped, falling across a desk and cutting a gash in his forehead.

In an instant the boy was up and wheeled about, blood dripping from the cut, but something worse flashing in his eyes.

The principal was at once terrified.  He was not naturally courageous, but he had a dangerous temper, and he now realized to what it had brought him.  Mr. Cantwell was trying to frame a lame apology when an indignant voice cried out: 

“Coward!”

His face livid, the principal turned.

“Who said that?” he demanded, at white heat.

“I did!” admitted Purcell, promptly.  Abner Cantwell sprang at this second “offender.”  But Purcell threw himself quickly into an attitude of defence.

“Keep your hands off of me, Mr. Cantwell, or I’ll knock you down!”

“Good!”

“That’s the talk!”

The excited High School boys came crowding about the principal and Purcell.  Bristow was swept back by the surging throng.  He had his handkerchief out, now, at his forehead.

“Some of you young men seize Purcell and march him to my private office,” commanded the principal, who had lacked the courage to strike at the young fellow who stood waiting for him.

“Will you fight Purcell like a man, if we do?” asked another voice.

“Run Cantwell out!  He isn’t fit to be here!” yelled another voice.

Mr. Drake, the only submaster in the room at the time, was pushing his way forward.

“Calmly, boys, calmly,” called Drake.  “Don’t do anything you’ll be sorry for afterwards.”