“So I will,” cried Bob Croaker, glaring round with passion.  “Come on any of you that likes.  I don’t care a button for the biggest of you.”

No one accepted this challenge, for Bob was the oldest and the strongest boy in the school, although, as is usually the case with bullies, by no means the bravest.

Seeing that no one intended to fight with him, and that a crowd of boys strove to hold Martin Rattler back, while they assured him that he had not the smallest chance in the world, Bob turned towards the kitten, which was quietly and busily employed in licking itself dry, and said, “Now, Martin, you coward, I’ll give it another swim for your impudence.”

“Stop, stop!” cried Martin earnestly.  “Bob Croaker, I would rather do anything than fight.  I would give you everything I have to save my kitten; but if you won’t spare it unless I fight, I’ll do it.  If you throw it in before you fight me, you’re the greatest coward that ever walked.  Just give me five minutes to breathe and a drink of water, and I’ll fight you as long as I can stand.”

Bob looked at his little foe in surprise.  “Well, that’s fair.  I’m your man; but if you don’t lick me I’ll drown the kitten, that’s all.”  Having said this, he quietly divested himself of his jacket and neckcloth, while several boys assisted Martin to do the same, and brought him a draught of water in the crown of one of their caps.  In five minutes all was ready, and the two boys stood face to face and foot to foot, with their fists doubled and revolving, and a ring of boys around them.

Just at this moment the kitten, having found the process of licking itself dry more fatiguing than it had expected, gave vent to a faint mew of distress.  It was all that was wanting to set Martin’s indignant heart into a blaze of inexpressible fury.  Bob Croaker’s visage instantly received a shower of sharp, stinging blows, that had the double effect of taking that youth by surprise and throwing him down upon the green sward.  But Martin could not hope to do this a second time.  Bob now knew the vigour of his assailant, and braced himself warily to the combat, commencing operations by giving Martin a tremendous blow on the point of his nose, and another on the chest.  These had the effect of tempering Martin’s rage with a salutary degree of caution, and of eliciting from the spectators sundry cries of warning on the one hand, and admiration on the other, while the young champions revolved warily round each other, and panted vehemently.

The battle that was fought that day was one of a thousand.  It created as great a sensation in the village school as did the battle of Waterloo in England.  It was a notable fight; such as had not taken place within the memory of the oldest boy in the village, and from which, in after years, events of juvenile history were dated,—­especially pugilistic events, of which, when a good one came off, it used to be said that “such a battle had not taken place