“Have you had enough?” demanded Walter through his clenched teeth.

Dan sulkily admitted that he had.

“My mother doesn’t write lies?”

“No.”

“Faith Meredith isn’t a pig-girl?”

“No.”

“Nor a rooster-girl?”

“No.”

“And I’m not a coward?”

“No.”

Walter had intended to ask, “And you are a liar?” but pity intervened and he did not humiliate Dan further.  Besides, that blood was so horrible.

“You can go, then,” he said contemptuously.

There was a loud clapping from the boys who were perched on the rail fence, but some of the girls were crying.  They were frightened.  They had seen schoolboy fights before, but nothing like Walter as he had grappled with Dan.  There had been something terrifying about him.  They thought he would kill Dan.  Now that all was over they sobbed hysterically—­except Faith, who still stood tense and crimson cheeked.

Walter did not stay for any conqueror’s meed.  He sprang over the fence and rushed down the spruce hill to Rainbow Valley.  He felt none of the victor’s joy, but he felt a certain calm satisfaction in duty done and honour avenged—­mingled with a sickish qualm when he thought of Dan’s gory nose.  It had been so ugly, and Walter hated ugliness.

Also, he began to realize that he himself was somewhat sore and battered up.  His lip was cut and swollen and one eye felt very strange.  In Rainbow Valley he encountered Mr. Meredith, who was coming home from an afternoon call on the Miss Wests.  That reverend gentleman looked gravely at him.

“It seems to me that you have been fighting, Walter?”

“Yes, sir,” said Walter, expecting a scolding.

“What was it about?”

“Dan Reese said my mother wrote lies and that that Faith was a pig-girl,” answered Walter bluntly.

“Oh—­h!  Then you were certainly justified, Walter.”

“Do you think it’s right to fight, sir?” asked Walter curiously.

“Not always—­and not often—­but sometimes—­yes, sometimes,” said John Meredith.  “When womenkind are insulted for instance—­as in your case.  My motto, Walter, is, don’t fight till you’re sure you ought to, and then put every ounce of you into it.  In spite of sundry discolorations I infer that you came off best.”

“Yes.  I made him take it all back.”

“Very good—­very good, indeed.  I didn’t think you were such a fighter, Walter.”

“I never fought before—­and I didn’t want to right up to the last—­and then,” said Walter, determined to make a clean breast of it, “I liked it while I was at it.”

The Rev. John’s eyes twinkled.

“You were—­a little frightened—­at first?”

“I was a whole lot frightened,” said honest Walter.  “But I’m not going to be frightened any more, sir.  Being frightened of things is worse than the things themselves.  I’m going to ask father to take me over to Lowbridge to-morrow to get my tooth out.”