A forlorn little Italian girl was trying to slip past on the other
side of the street. Someone caught sight of her and with a whoop
the Apaches were upon her pell-mell. She began to run, but they
hemmed her in. One tugged at her braided hair. Another flipped mud
at her dress from the end of a stick. Merrill snatched her slate
and made off with it.

Jeff cut swiftly across the street. Merrill was coming directly
toward him, his head turned to the girl. Triumphant whoops broke
from his throat. He bumped into Jeff, stumbled, and went down in
the mud.

Young Merrill was up in an instant, clamorous for battle. His
hands and clothes were plastered with filth.

"I'm goin' to lick the stuffin' out of you," he bellowed.

Jeff said nothing. He was very white. His fingers worked
nervously.

"Yah! Yah! He's scared," the mob jeered.

Jeff was. In that circle of hostile faces he found no sympathy. He
had to stand up to the bully of the class, a boy who could have
given him fifteen pounds. Looking around for help, he saw that
none was at hand. The thin legs of the rescued Italian girl were
flashing down the street. On the steps of the big house of P. C.
Frome a six-year-old little one was standing with her nurse.
Nobody else was in sight except his cousin, James, and the
Apaches.