Fred loved to make everybody happy around him, and this treating was only second best to leading his class; so when, at the corner of the street turning to his father’s house, he parted from his young companions, I doubt whether there was a happier boy in all Andrewsville.
I do not think we shall blame him very much if he unconsciously carried his head pretty high and looked proudly happy.
Out from under the low archway leading to Bill Crandon’s house a boy about as tall as Fred, but stout and coarse, in ragged clothes, stood staring up and down the street as Fred came toward him.
Something in Fred’s looks and manner seemed especially to displease him. He moved directly into the middle of the sidewalk, and squared himself as if for a fight.
There was no other boy in town whom Fred disliked so much, and of whom he felt so afraid.
Sam Crandon, everybody knew, was a bully. He treated boys who were larger and stronger than himself civilly, but was cruel and domineering over the poor and weak.
So far in his life, though they met often, Fred had avoided coming into contact with Sam, and Sam had seemed to feel just a little awe of him; for Mr. Sargent was one of the wealthiest leading men in town, and Sam, in spite of himself, found something in the handsome, gentlemanly boy that held him in check; but to-day Sam’s father had just beaten him, and the boy was smarting from the blows.
I dare say he was hungry, and uncomfortable from many other causes; but however this may have been, he felt in the mood for making trouble; for seeing somebody else unhappy beside himself. This prosperous, well-dressed boy, with his books under his arm, and his happy face, was the first person he had come across–and here then was his opportunity.
Fred saw him assume the attitude of a prize fighter and knew what it meant. Sam had a cut, red and swollen, across one cheek, and this helped to make his unpleasant face more ugly and lowering than usual.
What was to be done? To turn and run never occurred to Fred. To meet him and fight it out was equally impossible; so Fred stopped and looked at him irresolutely.
”You’re afraid of a licking?“ asked Sam, grinning ominously.
”I don’t want to fight,“ said Fred, quietly.
”No more you don’t, but you’ve got to.“
Fred’s blood began to rise. The words and looks of the rough boy were a little too much for his temper.
”Move out of the way,“ he said, walking directly up to him.
Sam hesitated for a moment. The steady, honest, bold look in Fred’s eyes was far more effective than a blow would have been; but as soon as Fred had passed him he turned and struck him a quick, stinging blow between his shoulders.
”That’s mean,“ said Fred, wheeling round.
”Strike fair and in front if you want to, but don’t hit in the back–that’s a coward’s trick.“
”Take it there, then,“ said Sam, aiming a heavy blow at Fred’s breast. But the latter skillfully raised his books, and Sam’s knuckles were the worse for the encounter.
”Hurt, did it?“ said Fred, laughing.
”What if it did?“
”Say quits, then.“
”Not by a good deal;“ and in spite of himself Fred was dragged into an ignominious street fight.
Oh, how grieved and mortified he was when his father, coming down the street, saw and called to him. Hearing his voice Sam ran away and Fred, bruised and smarting, with his books torn and his clothes, too, went over to his father.
Not a word did Mr. Sargent say. He took Fred’s hand in his, and the two walked silently to their home.
I doubt whether Mr. Sargent was acting wisely. Fred never had told him an untruth in his life, and a few words now might have set matters right. But to this roughness in boys Mr. Sargent had a special aversion. He had so often taken pains to instill its impropriety and vulgarity into Fred’s mind that he could not now imagine an excuse.
”He should not have done so under any circumstances,“ said his father sternly, to himself. ”I am both surprised and shocked, and the punishment must be severe.“