a big limb in a tree at the side of the road, his pockets bulging with
stones, which he was hurling with unpleasant accuracy at every one who
came within range. Several youngsters were howling from having served as
targets to the urchin up the tree, and as soon as Mr. Pangborn saw how
things were going he shouted to Dewey to stop his sport. The boy replied
by advising the teacher to go to the hottest region named in works on
theology, and, descending the tree, led several young scamps in an
attack upon the instructor. There was a lively brush, in which it cannot
be said that either party was the victor.

A drawn battle is always unsatisfactory to two armies, and George
determined to have it out in the schoolroom with the teacher, who,
expecting the struggle, had prepared for it and was as eager as the
boys for the fight. As before, Dewey was the leader in the attack on
the pedagogue, who was wiry, active, and strong. He swung his rawhide
with a vigor that made Dewey and the others dance, but they pluckily
kept up the assault, until the instructor seized a big stick, intended
to serve as fuel for the old-fashioned stove, and laid about him with an
energy that soon stretched the rebels on the floor.

Then how he belabored them! As fast as one attempted to climb to his
feet he was thumped back again by the club that continually whizzed
through the air, and if a boy tried to stay the storm by remaining
prone, the instructor thumped him none the less viciously. Indeed,
matters had got to that point that he enjoyed the fun and was loath to
let up, as he felt obliged to do, when the howling rebels slunk to their
seats, thoroughly cowed and conquered.

George Dewey was the most battered of the lot and made a sorry sight. In
fact, he was so bruised that his teacher thought it prudent to accompany