not the same Tim who had passed me a while before, swaggering and
singing in the joy of his conquest; that was not the same Tim who had
stood before me that very afternoon in all the pomp of well-cut
clothes, drawing on his whitened hands a pair of woman's gloves; that
was not the same Tim who by his artful lies had won what had been
denied my stupid, blundering devotion. My Tim was a sturdy little
fellow whose booted legs scarce touched the floor, whose tousled black
head hardly showed above the desk-top. His cheeks would turn crimson
at the thought of woman's gloves on those brown hands. His tongue
would cleave to his mouth in a woman's presence, let alone his lying to
her. That was the real Tim--the rare Tim. To my eyes he was but a
small boy; to my mind he was a mighty man. The first reader that
presented such knotty problems to his intellectual side was but part of
the impedimenta of his youth, and was no fair measure of his real size.
That very day he had fought with me and for me; not because I was in
the right, but because I was his brother.

A lean, cadaverous boy from along the mountain, a born enemy of the
lads of the village, had dared me. I endured his insults until the
time came when further forbearance would have been a disgrace, and then
I closed with him. In the front of the little circle drawn about us,
right outside there in the school-yard, Tim stood. As we pitched to
and fro, the cadaverous boy and I, Tim's shrill cry came to me, and
time and again I caught sight of his white face and small clinched
hands waving wildly. I believe I should have whipped the cadaverous
boy. I had suffered his foul kicks and borne him to the ground; in a
second I should have planted him fairly on his back, but his brother,
like him a lank, wiry lad and singly more than my match, ran at me. My
head swam beneath his blows, and I released my almost vanquished enemy
to face the new foe with upraised fists. Then Tim came. A black head