One day the pile of stones near the broken paling fence seemed
splendidly high. They were muddy too, splendidly muddy, for it had
rained in the night, and Hope Carolina had gouged the last ones out of
the wet dirt with a sharp stick. She had even intentionally kept nice
pats of earth around some; and directly, with the enemy approaching in
the lonely way desired, there she was "scrouged" behind the paling
fence, as Robert Lee Preston scrouged when he threw stones at
Radicals. The brisk heels clicked nearer--passed; and then, with a
fine sweep of a fat arm, a loud "ooh, ooh, ooh," she let fly the
deadly missile.

The effect of it was magical. The enemy leaped as if the long-expected
bullet had indeed pierced his chain armor; for the stone, perhaps the
tiniest in Democracy's fort, had neatly nipped his stiff back. But the
dark frown he turned toward her changed instantly. A slow smile, and
then laughter--the doting laughter of the child-lover, to whom even
the naughtiest phases are dear--replaced it. And, indeed, Hope
Carolina did seem a sweet and comical figure in her low-necked,
short-sleeved calico, with her brass toes hitched in the paling fence
somehow, and her cropped head rising barely above it. Excitement, too,
had lent a warmer pink to her apple cheeks, and her blue eyes were
like deep and hating stars.

"Oh, you bad baby!" he called in a moment, plainly ravished with the
nature of his would-be assassin. He knew why the stone had come--only
too well. "You hateful little Democrat!"

Hope Carolina fired up furiously at that. "Wadical!" she called back,
her voice tremulous with rage. And then, deliberately, "Wenegade!
Seef!" fell from her pouting baby lips.