OLIVER IS FOUND TO HAVE A TEMPER
Ten years pass. The time has come when Oliver October Baxter is to be
told what is in store for him if he does not mend his ways. For, be it
here recorded, Oliver not only possesses a quick temper but a
surprisingly sanguinary way of making it felt. He is a rugged,
freckle-faced youngster with curly brown hair, a pair of stout legs, and
a couple of hard little fists. It is with these hard little fists that
he makes his temper felt. Ordinarily he retires behind a barn or down
into the grove back of the school-house to settle his quarrels, not
through any sense of delicacy but because both he and his adversary of
the moment realize that if they are caught at it the pride of victory or
the gloom of defeat would soon be forgotten in the sound thrashings
administered by teacher or parent, justice monstrously untempered by
mercy.
But there came a day when Oliver’s valor got the better of his
discretion, and, sad to relate, Joseph Sikes and Silas Link took that
very day to accompany each other to the north end of town, where, just
beyond the school-house, was situated the home of a vacillating
Republican who had made up his mind to vote the Democratic ticket at the
coming county election. They were on their way, as a committee of two,
to convince him that he couldn’t commit a crime like that and still go
on enjoying the respect, the confidence, and to some extent, the credit,
that had been his up to that time.
They arrived at the school-house just in time to witness a fierce but
bloodless fight between two panting, clawing youngsters. It was taking
place in the schoolyard, in plain view of passers-by, and was being
relished by a score or more of pupils of both sexes.
Now, Mr. Sikes was a man who enjoyed a good fight. He was getting to the
age where he had to think twice and study his adversary cautiously
before engaging in one himself, for, notwithstanding his strength and
his pugnacity, he was not the man he used to be—witness: the awful
beating he sustained in his fifty-second year at the hands of Joe Fox,
the twenty-one year old shortstop on the Rumley base ball team. It was
he, therefore, who stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gleefully
yelled “sic-em” to the battling youngsters.
Mr. Link, nothing loth, turned back to join him at the fence. The broad
grins suddenly froze on their faces. The surge of battle caused the ring
of spectators to open up a little, exposing the combatants to plain view
from the excellent vantage point held by the Messrs. Sikes and Link.
They recognized Oliver October—but never had they seen him look like
this! His chubby face was white and set, his teeth were bared, his eyes
were blazing. He was the embodiment of fury. And he was fighting like a
demon!
“Gosh!” fell from the lips of Joseph Sikes, and his cigar would have
done likewise had it not been so deeply inserted.
“It’s—it’s little Oliver!” gasped Silas Link, gripping the top board of
the fence.
“Fi-fighting!” muttered Mr. Sikes, aghast.
“Like a wildcat,” groaned Mr. Link.
“Why, he’s a reg’lar little devil.”
“Looks as if he’d like to kill that boy of Sam Parr’s. We got to stop
’em, Joe—Hey, there! You boys quit that! Hear what I say? Quit it
this—”
Suddenly there was a cry of “teacher,” and then a wild scattering of
spectators. The schoolmaster, Mr. Elwell, was advancing upon the
belligerents. The Parr boy, in no fear of Oliver, was stricken by the
most abject terror in the presence of an on-rushing doom, for well he
knew the sting of Mr. Elwell’s hand when punitively applied to the seat
of his breeches whilst he reposed in ungainly disorder across the
pedagogic knee. It was the Parr boy’s luck to be facing the teacher as
he swooped down upon them. He took advantage of that gracious bit of
luck, and, turning tail, sped swiftly away, leaving the astonished
Oliver to his fate.
A firm hand fell upon the Baxter boy’s shoulder and closed in a grip
that brought a stifled yelp from the lips of the unvanquished warrior.
Then something happened that drew a simultaneous groan of dismay from
the elderly onlookers. Oliver October, still in a state of baffled fury
and wriggling in the clutch of the common enemy of all schoolboys,
delivered a vicious kick at an Elwell shin. So faultless was his aim
that Mr. Elwell’s grunt of pain was loud enough to be heard by timid
schoolgirls some twenty yards away—and as it was an articulate grunt
those who heard it plainly were shocked, as good little girls ought to
be. Oliver, blubbering with rage, kicked again and again, efforts
rendered futile by the length of the teacher’s arm.
A little girl of six, in a brown coat and a red tam o’ shanter, stood
near by, shrieking with terror. She alone of all the scholars had failed
to leave the field of battle.
The two lifelong friends of the Baxter family looked at each other.
Speech was unnecessary. Their expressions spoke plainer than words. They
faced calamity—desolating calamity. Oliver October had a temper, and it
was ungovernable! He was ferocious! He was a regular little devil! They
watched the teacher as he yanked the struggling lad across the yard and
into the school-house, and a great dread took possession of their souls.
Said Mr. Sikes: “Don’t you think we’d better go in there and rescue him
while there’s time to—”
“Not a bit of it,” protested Mr. Link. “Let him take his medicine.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Oliver October. Who did you think I was talking about?”
“Arthur Elwell, of course. That boy’s got a knife. I gave it to him last
Christmas—darn my fool soul! Chances are he’ll stick it into Arthur—”
“Listen!” hissed Mr. Link. A series of sharp, staccato howls in the
shrill voice of a boy came from the interior of the school-house. “That
don’t sound much like Oliver was sticking a knife into anybody, does
it?”
“But the way he kicked Arthur on the shin,” began Mr. Sikes forcibly.
“Why, that boy’s got murder in his heart, Silas. And the way he fought
that Parr boy. Gee whiz! He’s got a lot of hell in him and it’s just
beginning to break loose. I tell you, Silas, that gypsy was right. No
use trying to laugh it off. Now maybe you and Reverend Sage will pay
some attention to me. I’ve been saying for two or three years we ought
to take that boy in hand and train him to keep—”
“Why, darn it, ain’t we been training him since he first began to walk?
Ain’t we been making him go to Sunday-school, and—”
“Yes, but we never told him to fight or kick his teacher, did we?”
“Certainly _not_.”
“Well, he’s doing it, ain’t he? Going to Sunday-school ain’t helped him
a damn’ bit. I said it wouldn’t. It’s been a waste of money, that’s what
it’s been.”
“Waste of—how do you make that out? Sunday-school’s free, ain’t it?”
“Every Sunday for the last five years,” proceeded Mr. Sikes, “I’ve been
giving that boy a nickel to put in the collection box—and here he is,
behaving as bad as any boy in town. I—Gee whiz! Listen to him yell!
Say, we’d ought to go in there and put a stop to that dodgasted idiot.
He’ll kill the poor boy.”
The wails indoors ceased abruptly, but, to the astonishment of the
highly exercised pair, they were taken up almost directly under their
noses. That is to say, their attention was drawn for the first time to
the little six-year-old girl, whose heart-rending squeals were now
piercing the silence that followed the awful uproar in which Oliver
October had been taking part.
“Hello!” cried Mr. Sikes. “What are _you_ crying about, Janie?”
“You ain’t been spanked,” supplemented Mr. Link. He reached over the
fence and put his hands under the arms of the weeping child. Lifting her
over, he held her close to his expansive breast. She buried her face on
his shoulder and sobbed. “There, there, now,” he whispered soothingly.
“Your Uncle Silas won’t let anybody hurt you.”
“Your Uncle Joe will just everlastingly slaughter anybody that touches
you,” added Mr. Sikes fiercely.
They waited, their eyes fixed on the school-house door. Presently they
were rewarded. A small figure, with tousled hair and a face screwed up
into a mask of pain and mortification, came slinking down the steps—a
thoroughly chastened gladiator who sniffled and was without glory. His
streaming eyes swept the yard and took in the staring group of pupils
clustered at the upper corner; and then the two “Uncles” at the fence.
He stopped short in his tracks—but only for an instant. His degradation
was complete. With an explosive sob, wrenched from his very soul, he
whirled and darted around the corner of the building and disappeared
from view.
Mr. Link, bearing the sobbing Jane in his arms, turned and started back
in the direction from which he had come, his companion trailing close
behind. They had changed their minds about seeing the recalcitrant
Republican. As they strode swiftly away they heard the stern voice of
the schoolmaster calling out:
“Where is Sammy Parr?”
But Sammy was far, far away, streaking it for home; a chorus of treble
voices answered for him:
“He ain’t here, teacher.”
Now, the incident just related may appear to be of very small
consequence as viewed from the standpoint of the disinterested
spectator—who, it so happens, must be the reader of this narrative. As
a matter of fact, it has a great deal to do with the history of Oliver
October Baxter. It was that gallant afternoon’s engagement between the
supposedly pacific Oliver and his bosom friend, Sammy Parr, that aroused
the town as nothing else had stirred it in years. Certainly nothing had
stirred it in quite the same way.
For nearly ten years every adult citizen of Rumley had looked upon
Oliver October as a sort of public liability. Within twenty-four hours
after it was uttered on that fierce October night, the sinister prophecy
of the gypsy queen was known from one end of the town to the other, and
while many scoffed and made light of it, not one was there among them
who felt confident that Oliver would be absolutely safe until he had
passed his thirtieth birthday. And now, after ten years of complacent
trust in Oliver October, the town was to discover that he had an
outlandish temper and a decided inclination to commit murder—in a small
way, to be sure, but none the less instinctive.
If Oliver and Sammy had retired—as was the custom—to some secluded
battlefield, no doubt the crisis would have been delayed. But inasmuch
as Sammy had taken it into his head to torment little Jane Sage in so
public a place as the playground it was only natural that her champion
should offer battle on the spot. Moreover, he scorned Sammy’s invitation
to “come on down back of the warehouse,” and likewise was indifferent to
the warnings of peacemakers who urged them not to fight until they were
safely out of all danger of being interfered with by the teacher. It is
probable—aye, more than that, it is absolutely certain—that young
Oliver wished to “lick” the offender in the presence of the offended,
and that would have been quite out of the question had they repaired to
some familiar jousting-ground. At any rate, he valiantly pitched into
Sammy and was getting the better of him under the very eyes of his
“ladye faire” when the not unexpected catastrophe occurred.
Juvenile Rumley knew him far better than its seniors. It had seen him
fight on more than one occasion—which was more than grown-up Rumley had
seen or even suspected—but so loyal is youth that not a word of his or
any other boy’s fistic exploits ever reached the ears of the blissfully
ignorant.
Messrs. Sikes and Link, having abandoned their original mission, were
bent upon a new one. They were filled with a deep concern, and spoke but
few words to each other in the course of the half-mile walk to the home
of the Reverend Herbert Sage. Their reticence may have been due to the
presence of little Jane Sage, who walked between them; or, it may have
been due to the seriousness of their reflections. The statement that
Jane walked between them is not an accurate one. It is true that Mr.
Sikes held one of her hands while Mr. Link held the other, but her legs
were short and theirs were long, and so there were times when her feet
failed to touch the ground at all, or, in touching it, were sadly
without sustained purpose.
Shortly before seven o’clock that evening, Oliver October, fearing the
worst, remarked three well-known figures coming up the path to the
Baxter house. He had just finished his supper and was on the point of
departing for the home of Sammy Parr down the road for a few minutes’
play before darkness fell. Seeing the three visitors and sensing the
nature of their descent upon the home of his father, he stole out the
back way, and, even as a dog retreats with his tail between his legs,
made tracks toward the barn and its friendly hayloft. Something told him
that Sammy’s parents already had received a call from the dread
Committee of Three and perhaps were even now making it hot for Sammy—in
which case that bosom friend of his would be in no mood for play.
“Where’s Oliver October?” inquired Mr. Sikes of Mr. Baxter, who opened
the door to admit his callers.
Mr. Baxter is scrawnier than he was at forty-five, which is saying
something that challenges the credulity. He is still strong, and active,
and wiry, but he is a thing of knobs and joints and wrinkles. The
passing years seem deliberately to have neglected the rest of his person
in a shameless endeavor to develop for him a prize Adam’s apple; it has
become quite a fascinating though bewildering product, scarce what you
would call an adornment and yet not without its own peculiar charm.
It is a shifting, unstable hump that appears to have no definite place
of lodgment; no sooner does it settle into a momentary state of repose
than something comes up—or down—to disturb its serenity and, in a
charmed sort of way, you watch it resume its spasmodic titillations. It
grips you. You can’t help wondering what it is going to do next. And as
it happens to be placed in the scrawniest part of Mr. Baxter’s
person—his neck—it is always visible. He makes a practice of removing
his collar the instant he reaches home of an evening, a provision that
affords great relief not only to himself but also to the vagrant
protuberance.
Which accounts for his being quite collarless when he faced his three
visitors. He blinked at them uneasily, for their faces were long and
joyless.
“He was here a minute ago,” he replied. “Why?”
“Before we proceed any farther, Brother Baxter,” announced the Reverend
Sage, “I wish to state that I do not agree with our friends here.”
“You never do agree with us,” said Mr. Link, but without a trace of
resentment.
“I wouldn’t go quite so far as that if I were you, Silas,” protested the
minister affably. “It is only in the case of Oliver October that I
disagree with you. We heartily agree on almost everything else, I am
sure.”
“But the time has come when we got to agree about Oliver October,”
declared Mr. Sikes dictatorially. “I said it would come, and here it is.
I only hope we ain’t too late. It seems to be the style not to pay a
damn’ bit of attention to anything I say nowadays. It’s a hell of a—”
“My dear Brother Sikes,” broke in the parson, lifting his eyebrows.
Joseph Sikes swallowed hard before speaking again. “It ain’t always my
fault when I cuss and blaspheme like this,” he muttered defensively.
“The thing is,” began Mr. Link, compressing his lips and squinting
earnestly; “what is the best way to go about it?”
“Go about what?” demanded the mystified Mr. Baxter.
“Have you licked him yet?” inquired Sikes darkly.
“Licked who?”
“Oliver October.”
“Not in the last three years. I promised I wouldn’t.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Ollie Baxter, that you don’t know what that
boy’s been up to to-day?”
Oliver’s parent regarded Mr. Sikes coldly. “Yes, I _do_ know,” he
snapped.
“Well, what _has_ he been up to, if you know so much about it?”
“None of your derned business. I’m not obliged to consult you or
anybody—”
“Calm yourself, Brother Baxter,” admonished the parson gently. “As I was
saying before, I do not agree with Joe and Silas. They are making a
mountain out of a mole hill. The boy is all right. He is high-spirited,
he is mischievous—as all boys are if they’re any good at all—and he is
not a coward. Of course, it would be most reprehensible—er—and quite
unpardonable in me if I were to say that I approve of fighting, but when
I look back upon my own boyhood and recall the—er—rather barbarous joy
I took in bloodying some other boy’s nose, I—ahem!—well, I believe I
can understand why Oliver October preferred to stand up and fight rather
than run away. Ahem! Yes, in spite of my calling, I think I can
understand that in any real boy.”
Mr. Baxter’s face lengthened. “Oh, Lordy! Has Oliver been fighting?”
“Like a wildcat,” said Mr. Sikes sententiously. “Everybody in town knows
about it. Everybody but you, I mean.”
The father groaned. “I thought he looked as if he’d done something he’d
oughtn’t—Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell me he used a knife or—”
“Nothing but his fists, my dear Baxter—from all reports. I did not
witness the—”
“How about the hide he peeled off of Arthur Elwell’s shin?” demanded Mr.
Sikes. “He didn’t do that with his fists, did he? Why, I’ve knowed blood
poisoning to set in on a feller’s shin bone from a scratch you couldn’t
hardly see. It’s almost sure to happen if you wear green socks like
Arthur does. The dye or something gets into the—”
“Jeemes’s River! Has that fool boy been trying to lick Arthur Elwell?”
gasped Mr. Baxter, blinking rapidly. “Ain’t he got any more sense than
to tackle a six-foot man like—”
“It seems that Oliver, in his rage, kicked Mr. Elwell after he had
separated—er—that is, when he took him in hand for fighting in the
playground after school,” said Mr. Sage. “That is something that
frequently happens to peacemakers, Joseph.”
“The thing is,” said Mr. Link, “we got to do something about Oliver
October’s temper. We got to make him realize the awfulness of being hung
by the neck—”
“Justly or unjustly,” put in Mr. Sikes.
“Absolutely,” accepted Mr. Link. “The time has come when we got to head
that boy into the right path by telling him what the gypsy woman said.”
“I must repeat—as I have repeated times without end—that I think it
would be the height of cruelty to tell the child any of that nonsense,”
protested Mr. Sage, rather vigorously for him. “Why, when I think of
little Oliver lying awake nights picturing himself on the gallows—”
“It’s our duty to warn him,” insisted Sikes. “It’s our duty by Ollie
here and poor Mary to see that that boy has everything done for him that
can be done in the way of—er—advice. The first thing we got to do, now
that he’s old enough to understand—and, mind you, I claim he was old
enough three or four years ago—is to make him control his temper. We
got to bring him up so’s nobody on earth can truthfully say he’s got a
mean and cruel and bloodthirsty nature. So when his trial comes up
there’ll be plenty of witnesses to testify that he wouldn’t kill a fly,
much less a man. But, by criminy, if he goes on kicking school-teachers
and fighting like a bull dog, he’ll get such a reputation that he won’t
have a ghost of a chance when it comes to testifying as regards to his
character.”
“Let’s go inside,” said Oliver’s father, wiping a little moisture from
his brow.
He led the way into the sitting-room where a lamp was burning above the
center table—a brassy, ornate lamp suspended from the ceiling over a
glossy mahogany table. The former was a Christmas present from Oliver to
his wife and the latter was a present from Mary to her husband. All
about the refurbished room were to be seen other gifts from Oliver to
Mary, and Mary to Oliver—such as the comparatively new ingrain carpet;
a larger and more generous base-burner stove with very bright nickel
trimmings and a towering “dome”; a three-year old wall-paper in which
poppies and humming-birds abounded; a “Morris” chair of the mission
type; a hard, high-backed leather couch; two rocking-chairs, very
comfortable but of peripatetic habits; a new eight-day clock; several
framed “engravings” of a patriotic or sentimental character; a sectional
book case containing sets of Dickens, Thackeray and Charles Lever (two
dollars a month until paid for); chintz window curtains; and, last but
not least, a wall-telephone. (Party J, ring 4.)
These were but a few of the symbols of prosperity that marked the
progress of the Baxters during the decade. The same mellowing influence
of a well-directed opulence prevailed throughout the house. For one
thing, a separate dining-room had been constructed off the sitting-room;
the porch and the house had undergone repairs and painting; the gravel
walk was replaced by one of soft red brick, and the fences were in
order. The only thing about the place that had not improved with the
times and the conditions was Oliver Baxter himself. He, alas, could not
be re-upholstered; he could not be painted or repaired; moreover, he
could not be stored away in the attic with all the other things
belonging to another day.
“It’s more cheerful in here,” explained Mr. Baxter, in a most cheerless
voice. “Sit down. Had I better call Oliver in now—or wait a while?”
His three visitors solemnly seated themselves.
“Better wait a few minutes,” advised Mr. Link.
“I—I kind of hate to whip him,” said Mr. Baxter forlornly. “He’s a good
little boy, and I—I promised his mother I’d never whip him unless I
actually caught him doing something bad.”
“Who said you had to whip him?” demanded Mr. Link.
“I wouldn’t let you whip him, even if you wanted to,” stated Mr. Sikes
flatly. “All I want is for us to talk to him about—well, about his
future.”
“It has just occurred to me that it might be advisable for me to find
Oliver and have a talk with him privately before we drag him before
this—er—before his executioners,” said Mr. Sage, with kindly irony. “I
could explain gently and—”
“I know just what you’d do, Parson,” broke in Mr. Sikes. “You’d explain
things to him by telling him there was a couple of blamed old fools in
here making up a story he oughtn’t to pay any attention to—just be
polite and say ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, sir’ and act like a little gentleman
no matter what we say, but not to worry, because there ain’t a damn’
thing to worry about.”
“I dare say you are right,” sighed the kind-hearted minister. “My little
girl, it appears, was the cause of this fight, Brother Baxter. I regret
to say that Jane—ah—sort of egged him on. It does not seem to me to be
quite just that Oliver should be penalized for his—shall we say an act
of chivalry? Naturally I am inclined to favor the boy. No doubt if Jane
had refrained from—”
“That ain’t the point,” interrupted Mr. Link. “The thing is, did he lose
his temper or did he not—and if so, is it safe to let him go on losing
it like that? You can’t tell what it will lead to.”
“What I want to know,” broke in Mr. Baxter, “is who he’s been fighting
with.”
“Sammy Parr,” replied the three visitors.
“Sammy Parr? Why, doggone it, it ain’t more than an hour ago they were
playing hopscotch out in my barn lot. I never saw two boys more friendly
and happy than they were.”
“That’s the worst of it,” said Mr. Link solemnly: “It goes to prove that
when Oliver gets mad he don’t know what he’s doing. It’s these violent,
ungovernable tempers that raises thunder, Ollie. The kind that flares up
like a powder explosion, does a lot of damage, and then dies down like a
breeze. Fighting fit to kill one minute, smiling the next. They’re the
worst kind.”
It was decided by Messrs. Sikes and Link, over the objections of Mr.
Sage, to have Oliver October up before the tribunal forthwith. The boy’s
father apparently had no voice in the matter.
“Of course, I’ll admit he’s got a temper,” said the latter, as he arose
to go in search of his son. “I don’t know where he gets it from. Mary
usually had her own way, but it wasn’t because she insisted on having
it. And she never got mad if I opposed her. She just laughed and went
ahead and did things her way. In that way we always got along without a
sign of a quarrel. As for me, I haven’t got any more of a temper than a
sheep has. He don’t get it from either of us. My grandfather had an
uncle that he used to talk a good deal about—a feller that would fight
at the drop of the hat—but he always claimed he did it for fun and
because he enjoyed lickin’ somebody every once in awhile. Oliver seems
to take after me in a good many ways, and he’s like his Ma in others.
He’s got my freckles and nose and when he grows up I guess maybe he’ll
have my hair, but he’s got Mary’s eyes and ears and mouth and his legs
are more like hers—ha! ha!—I mean they ain’t skinny and crooked like
mine—er—Well, I guess I’ll go out and see if I can find him.”
With that, he dashed hurriedly from the room. Presently they heard him
out in the yard calling Oliver’s name. That Oliver did not respond at
once was obvious. The shout was repeated several times, growing fainter
as the search took Mr. Baxter around to the back of the house and into
the region of the barn and outbuildings.
“Everything that gypsy woman said has come true up to date,” announced
Mr. Sikes, after silence had reigned for many minutes in the
sitting-room. “In the first place, she said he was going to look like
his pa—and he does. He’s an improvement on big Ollie, I’ll admit—a big
improvement—but just the same he’s a lot like him. Then she said he’d
always be at the head of his class and as bright as a dollar, didn’t
she? Well, _that’s_ come true, ain’t it?”
Here he paused, reluctant to go on with his justification of the gypsy’s
prophecy. He looked at Mr. Link, who at once accepted the unspoken
challenge by assuming the funereal air that always marked his
translation from livery-man to undertaker.
“Yes,” said Silas, his gaze lifted toward the ceiling, “and we must not
forget that his beloved mother died before he was ten years old.”
“True,” mused the minister, nodding his head slowly. “Doubly unfortunate
was that dear woman’s death. If God in his wisdom had seen fit to spare
her for a few days longer all this nonsense about the gypsy woman’s
prophecy would be—”
“Sh! Here they come,” cautioned Silas, as steps were heard on the front
porch.
“I hope Serepty Grimes don’t happen to drop in,” said Mr. Sikes
uneasily.
“She won’t,” vouchsafed Mr. Link. “I happen to know that Ed Tucker’s
wife ain’t expected to live till morning.”
“You don’t say so! I heard she was better to-day.”
“False alarm,” said the undertaker, thoughtlessly.
Mr. Baxter marshaled his son into the room on the tail of this remark,
and ordered him to take off his hat—a command instantly followed by
another that took him back to the door mat, where he sullenly performed
a forgotten obligation.
And so it came to pass on this mild September evening, that young Oliver
October learned what was in store for him if his “fortune” came true.
He sat very still and wide-eyed in the depths of the Morris chair—a
distinction conferred upon him by his compassionate elders—his sturdy
black-hosed legs sticking straight out before him, his grimy hands
stuck—for reasons of shame—into his already crowded trouser pockets.
His gray eyes, from which the cloud of obstinacy soon disappeared, went
quickly from speaker to speaker as the grewsome story of that remote
October night was unfolded in varying degrees of lucidity by the giants
who towered over him. He was a very small boy and they were very big and
very, very old monsters. And they were telling him all this, they said,
because they loved him and were going to do everything they could to
keep him from being hung some day! There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t
do! But a great deal depended on him. That was the thing, repeated Mr.
Link, over and over again. He must realize that a great deal depended on
him.
First of all, it was imperative that he should never, never allow his
temper to get the better of him; he must never, never get mad at anybody
or anything; he must never get into fights; no matter what the
provocation, he must not get into fights; if there was no other way, he
must play with the little girls and avoid the boys—at least, until the
little girls grew up and were too big for him to play with.
He revealed a most commendable temper when Mr. Link stipulated that he
should play with the little girls.
“I won’t play with the girls,” he cried hotly. “I hate ’em. I’ll kill
’em if they try to play with me.”
“My, my!” exclaimed Mr. Link in dismay.
“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Sikes reproachfully.
“Oliver!” cautioned his father, speaking for the first time since the
ordeal began.
“Well, I won’t play with girls,” repeated Oliver. “You bet I won’t. I
hate ’em.”
“I guess there’s no reason why you can’t play with the boys,”
compromised Mr. Link, “provided you’ll only remember that you mustn’t
fight with ’em.”
“Well, I got to fight with ’em if they fight with me, don’t I?” cried
Oliver.
“Spoken like a man,” said the minister, patting him on the shoulder.
“Well, I’ll be doggoned!” gasped Mr. Sikes, staring in disgust at the
speaker. “And you a minister of the gospel!”
“We must not make a coward of Oliver,” said the other, a trifle warmly.
“That’s right,” said Oliver’s father. “Mary wouldn’t have liked to see a
son of hers grow up to be a—a feller who wouldn’t stand up for his
rights. And neither would I. What’s more, Joe Sikes, you’re a fine one
to talk. You’ve had more fights than anybody in—”
“The thing is,” broke in Mr. Link, “if Oliver October can fight without
losing his temper, I’ll not say a word. Do you think you can, my lad?”
“What’s the use of fighting if you ain’t mad?” reasoned Oliver October.
“It would be just like wrassling.”
“Now, see here, Oliver,” spoke up Mr. Sikes severely, “all we ask of you
is to grow up to be a good, kind, peaceful man like your Pa here. He’s
getting along towards sixty years of age, and I don’t know as he ever
had a fight in his life. If he ever did, he probably wished he hadn’t.
Your Pa is a respected, upright citizen of this here town, and I want to
see you foller in his footsteps. And what’s more, your Pa ain’t a
coward. Not much! He’s as brave as I am—yes, siree, he’s a _braver_ man
than I am. I was always going around picking up fights, just because I
was big and strong and didn’t have any sense. That’s it. I didn’t have
the sense that God gives a hickory-nut. Your Pa had a lot of sense. He’s
got it yet. And why? I’ll tell you why, Oliver. He saw right smack in
the beginning that no matter how good a fighter you are when you’re
young, it ain’t going to do you any good when you’re old—because when
you’re old nobody gives a _dern_ how good a fighter you were when you
were young. They just say you used to be a tough customer—and sort of
shoulder you out of the way. But if you’ve got a reputation like your
Pa’s—for common sense, fair-dealing, kindness, good-nature
and—and—(with a conciliatory glance at Mr. Sage)—and religion,
why—er—why, you’re all right. Understand? But, on the other hand, if,
as you say, you’ve got to fight in case somebody picks on you, why, you
ought to have some lessons in boxing. I’ve been thinking it over. If
you’d like for me to do it, I’ll show you a lot about boxing. Boxing
lessons will prove to you how important it is to keep your temper. The
minute a boxer loses his temper and gets mad, he’s going to get licked.
That’s as sure as shooting. You never saw a prizefighter in your life
that got mad when he was in the ring. If you’ll come around to the feed
yard after school to-morrow, I’ll learn you how to—”
“About what time, Uncle Joe?” broke in Oliver eagerly, his face lighting
up.