the achievement, could vouch for the sure result of his
prescription. It was guaranteed to cure the dress-habit in seven
days. At first, though, Mitch would not tell how the great honor
of pants had been bestowed upon him. He was then too important
even to say, "Hello, kid!" For a time he did not deign to notice
anybody, and when he did notice anybody it was only to pretend
that David was nothing but a little girl.

"I am not, neither."

David filed his protest between the palings of the fence. But it
was no use. He might protest, he might cross his heart and hope
to die, but still the boy on the other side of the fence would
not believe.

"Are, too," Mitch would say.

Then a startled look, an appealing, hopeless fear suddenly
abashed the little boy in the dainty white dress. As he shook the
ringlets out of his eyes he asked, earnestly:

"Why, then, am I a girl?"

Here, you see, was another case like the bow 'n' arrow. Mitch did
not have to tell all he knew. He only got proud and spat through
his teeth and said, "Why?" right back at David.

Such a question, you must agree, may be illuminating, but is not
satisfying. The meaning of it seems a bit indefinite and
lonesome, but if you are a little boy with ringlets it has