guardian--is always with us when we are permitted to speak to other boys
and girls."

"That's babyish," remarked Duane in frank disgust. "You are a
mollycoddle."

The deep red of mortification spread over Scott's face; he looked shyly
at Naïda, doubly distressed that a girl should hear the degrading term
applied to him. The small girl returned his gaze without a particle of
expression in her face.

"Mollycoddles," continued Duane cruelly, "do the sort of things you do.
You're one."

"I--don't _want_ to be one," stammered Scott. "How can I help it?"

Duane ignored the appeal. "Playing with three boys isn't anything," he
said. "I play with forty every day."

"W-where?" asked Scott, overwhelmed.

"In school, of course--at recess--and before nine, and after one. We
have fine times. School's all right. Don't you even go to school?"

Scott shook his head, too ashamed to speak. Naïda, with a flirt of her
kilted skirts, had abruptly turned her back on him; yet he was miserably
certain she was listening to her brother's merciless catechism.

"I suppose you don't even know how to play hockey," commented Duane
contemptuously.