At the close of the afternoon session it happened that Binny Wallace and myself, having got swamped in our Latin exercise, were detained in school for the purpose of refreshing our memories with a page of Mr. Andrews’s perplexing irregular verbs.  Binny Wallace finishing his task first, was dismissed.  I followed shortly after, and, on stepping into the playground, saw my little friend plastered, as it were, up against the fence, and Conway standing in front of him ready to deliver a blow on the upturned, unprotected face, whose gentleness would have stayed any arm but a coward’s.

Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, was leaning against the pump lazily enjoying the sport; but on seeing me sweep across the yard, whirling my strap of books in the air like a sling, he called out lustily, “Lay low, Conway!  Here’s young Bailey!”

Conway turned just in time to catch on his shoulder the blow intended for his head.  He reached forward one of his long arms—­he had arms like a windmill, that boy—­and, grasping me by the hair, tore out quite a respectable handful.  The tears flew to my eyes, but they were not the tears of defeat; they were merely the involuntary tribute which nature paid to the departed tresses.

In a second my little jacket lay on the ground, and I stood on guard, resting lightly on my right leg and keeping my eye fixed steadily on Conway’s—­in all of which I was faithfully following the instructions of Phil Adams, whose father subscribed to a sporting journal.

Conway also threw himself into a defensive attitude, and there we were, glaring at each other motionless, neither of us disposed to risk an attack, but both on the alert to resist one.  There is no telling how long we might have remained in that absurd position, had we not been interrupted.

It was a custom with the larger pupils to return to the play-ground after school, and play baseball until sundown.  The town authorities had prohibited ball-playing on the Square, and, there being no other available place, the boys fell back perforce on the school-yard.  Just at this crisis a dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, seeing at a glance the belligerent status of Conway and myself, dropped bat and ball, and rushed to the spot where we stood.

“Is it a fight?” asked Phil Adams, who saw by our freshness that we had not yet got to work.

“Yes, it’s a fight,” I answered, “unless Conway will ask Wallace’s pardon, promise never to hector me in future—­and put back my hair!”

This last condition was rather a staggerer.

“I sha’n’t do nothing of the sort,” said Conway, sulkily.

“Then the thing must go on,” said Adams, with dignity.  “Rodgers, as I understand it, is your second, Conway?  Bailey, come here.  What’s the row about?”

“He was thrashing Binny Wallace.”

“No, I wasn’t,” interrupted Conway; “but I was going to because he knows who put Meeks’s mortar over our door.  And I know well enough who did it; it was that sneaking little mulatter!” pointing at me.