sweetest little woman that ever lived--too brave and true to be anything
else but good!

As he turned he saw something that checked his futile anger. A tall
shadow that had come up the path behind them stretched out an arm, and
he heard the vilifier's words gurgle and die away, as one of the strong
hands that had beat the tattoo of approbation clutched him by the
throat. The boy would have rushed to the assistance of this executive
friend if the girl had not clasped his arm in detention.

"It's Mortimer!" he cried, as a voice from the strong-armed figure cut
the night air with sharp decision.

Then the shadowy forms twisted up grotesquely, weaving in and out.
There were voices of expostulation and strong words of anger; but the
new serious business that had materialized had most effectually put a
stop to reflections upon the innocent girl who had so unwittingly
offended.

"It's George Mortimer--he's in our bank," Alan confided to his sister,
as they moved away. "He's all right--he's strong as a horse; and I bet
Crandal'll have a kink in his neck to-morrow, where George pinched him."

"What was it about?" the girl asked.

"Crandal was jawing about people who own race horses," the boy answered,
evasively. "It's Crandal, the butcher."