me run the thing.  You can begin right off a Monday.  They a’n’t been no other applications.  You see, it takes grit to apply for this school.  The last master had a black eye for a month.  But, as I wuz sayin’, you can jist roll up and wade in.  I ’low you’ve got spunk, maybe, and that goes for a heap sight more’n sinnoo with boys.  Walk in, and stay over Sunday with me.  You’ll hev’ to board roun’, and I guess you better begin here.”

Ralph did not go in, but sat out on the wheelbarrow, watching the old man shave shingles, while the boys split the blocks and chopped wood.  Bull smelled of the new-comer again in an ugly way, and got a good kick from the older son for his pains.  But out of one of his red eyes the dog warned the young school-master that he should yet suffer for all kicks received on his account.

“Ef Bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth can’t make him let go,” said the older son to Ralph, by way of comfort.

It was well for Ralph that he began to “board roun’” by stopping at Mr. Means’s.  Ralph felt that Flat Creek was what he needed.  He had lived a bookish life; but here was his lesson in the art of managing people, for he who can manage the untamed and strapping youths of a winter school in Hoopole County has gone far toward learning one of the hardest of lessons.  And in Ralph’s time, things were worse than they are now.  The older son of Mr. Means was called Bud Means.  What his real name was, Ralph could not find out, for in many of these families the nickname of “Bud” given to the oldest boy, and that of “Sis,” which is the birth-right of the oldest girl, completely bury the proper Christian name.  Ralph saw his first strategic point, which was to capture Bud Means.

After supper, the boys began to get ready for something.  Bull stuck up his ears in a dignified way, and the three or four yellow curs who were Bull’s satellites yelped delightedly and discordantly.

“Bill,” said Bud Means to his brother, “ax the master ef he’d like to hunt coons.  I’d like to take the starch out uv the stuck-up feller.”

“’Nough said[3],” was Bill’s reply.

“You durn’t[4] do it,” said Bud.

“I don’t take no sech a dare[5],” returned Bill, and walked down to the gate, by which Ralph stood watching the stars come out, and half wishing he had never seen Flat Creek.

“I say, mister,” began Bill, “mister, they’s a coon what’s been a eatin’ our chickens lately, and we’re goin’ to try to ketch[6] the varmint.  You wouldn’t like to take a coon hunt nor nothin’, would you?”

“Why, yes,” said Ralph, “there’s nothing I should like better, if I could only be sure Bull wouldn’t mistake me for the coon.”