Prominent among them was Duncan Woodward, and I rightfully guessed
that it was he who had organized the attack.

"Take it easy, Strong," exclaimed a fellow named Moran, "unless you
want to be all broke up."

"What do you mean by treating me in this way?" I cried indignantly.

"You'll find out soon enough," said Phillips, another of the young
men. "Come, stop your struggling."

"I'll do nothing of the kind. You have no right to molest me."

"Pooh!" sniffed Duncan. "The Models have a right to do anything."

"The Models?" I queried, in perplexity. "Who are they?"

"The Models are a band of young gentlemen organized for the purpose of
social enjoyment and to teach cads lessons that they are not likely to
forget," replied Moran.

"I suppose you are the members," I said, surveying the half-dozen.

"We have that honor," rejoined a boy named Barton, who had not yet
spoken.

"And we intend to teach you a lesson," added Pultzer, a short, stout
chap, whose father had once been a butcher.