in them, and all that. You like good little boys in white collars, with
clothes always clean and hair always combed, who like to stay in at
recess and be petted by the teacher and told how they're always up in
their studies; nice little boys who never get into scrapes--who are too
busy walking around and picking flowers and eating lunches with girls,
to get into scrapes. Oh, I know the kind--afraid of their own shadows,
and no more spunk in them than in so many sheep. That 's what they
are--sheep. Well, I 'm not a sheep, and there 's no more to be said.
And I don't want to go on your picnic, and, what 's more, I 'm not going."

The tears welled up in Bessie's brown eyes, and her lips were trembling.
This angered him unreasonably. What were girls good for, anyway?--always
blubbering, and interfering, and carrying on. There was no sense in them.

"A fellow can't say anything without making you cry," he began, trying to
appease her. "Why, I did n't mean anything, Sis. I did n't, sure. I--"

He paused helplessly and looked down at her. She was sobbing, and at the
same time shaking with the effort to control her sobs, while big tears
were rolling down her cheeks.

"Oh, you--you girls!" he cried, and strode wrathfully out of the room.




CHAPTER II

"THE DRACONIAN REFORMS"