Roger Blake and Belcher Whitmarsh were both called quite good boys, but for different reasons. As their friends used sometimes to put it, Belcher was liked because of his temper, and Roger was liked in spite of his temper.

Roger was quick to fly into a passion, and as quick to get over it, while Belcher was almost always good natured, but when once really offended remembered the offense like an Indian.

The broad play-green in front of the country schoolhouse, where the boys spent their term times together, was surrounded by trees and rocky pasture lots. A pretty brook ran through it. On the sides of the brook and in the rain-gulleys there were plenty of pebbles and small stones.

One noon, when the boys had begun a trial of skill in firing stones at a mark, an unlucky turn was given to this small "artillery practice" by the thoughtless challenge of one of the youngsters to a playmate:

"I stump you to hit me."

The stones soon began to fly promiscuously, and the play grew more lively than safe. The boys became excited and ran in all directions, exclaiming "Hit me, hit me!" The missiles were dodged with exultant laughter, and the shots returned with interest.

As must be supposed, some of the players were really hit, and sore heads, and backs, and limbs made the sham skirmish before long a good deal like a real battle.

Belcher Whitmarsh was about the only really cool fellow on the ground.

"Come, fellows," he remonstrated, "this is getting dangerous. What's the good of throwing stones when you're mad? It's poor play, any way."

"Ho, you're afraid," shouted Roger Blake, and in this he was joined by several others.

Roger had received one rather hard thump, and feeling quite fiery about it determined to be "even with somebody." He kept on hurling right and left reckless of consequences.

Belcher paid no attention to the derision with which his words were treated. He was preparing, with one or two companions, to leave the playground when he saw Roger near him with a heavy stone in his hand drawing back for a furious throw.

Partly in sport and partly out of regard for the lad aimed at, he stepped behind the excited boy and caught his arm.

Roger whirled about instantly in a great heat. As Belcher stepped quickly backward, laughing, he let fly the stone at him with all his force, crying:

"Take it yourself, then!"

The stone struck Belcher full in the face, breaking two of his front teeth and knocking him down.

Seeing what he had done, Blake sobered in an instant and ran to the aid of his fallen schoolfellow.

"I didn't mean to, Belcher," said Roger, bending over him remorsefully, and evidently afraid he had killed him.

The boys began to express their indignation quite loudly, but Blake made no attempt to defend himself, only hanging over the injured lad, and declaring how sorry he was.

"Come," pleaded he, "try to get up, and let me help you down to the schoolhouse—I'll pay the doctor anything in the world to make you well again."

But Whitmarsh, as soon as he recovered a little, showed that he resented his sympathy as bitterly as he did his blow.

Pushing away his hand spitefully, he staggered to his feet with the help of another boy, and holding his handkerchief to his bloody face moved off the green, sobbing with pain and revengeful rage.

By the time school commenced he had been assisted to wash and bind up his bleeding mouth, when he started for home, giving Roger a look which was very seldom seen on his face, but which meant plainly enough:

"I'll have the worth of this out of your skin some day, see if I don't!"

That afternoon the boys received a sound lecture from the teacher on the evil of throwing stones, and a penalty was imposed upon the leaders in the reckless sport, Roger among them, who, however, in consideration of his penitence, was only charged with a message to his parents, making full confession and submitting his case entirely to their judgment.

Days passed, and everything went on much as before at the school, save that Belcher Whitmarsh was missed, being at home healing his wound.

Every day that his absence was noticed was to Roger's quick feelings like a new condemnation.

No one was more pleased, then, than Roger Blake to see Belcher, after a little more than a week had passed, back at his place in school.

He soon found, however, that bygones were not to be bygones between them.

Belcher not only refused to respond to his hearty congratulations, but showed by his manner and words (hissed through his broken teeth) that so far from forgiving Roger's offense he meant to lay it up against him.

Several times when thrown in close company with him Blake tried to disarm his dislike.

"Come," he would say, "now, Belch, shake hands and say quits."

But Whitmarsh would only answer with a surly half threat, or grin significantly, to expose the notch in his gums where the teeth were gone.

The boys saw this unreasonable dislike, and gradually transferred their sympathy to Roger.

At last the school closed, and though Belcher was not cordial the whole affair between the two lads seemed likely to be soon forgotten.

One day during vacation, as Roger was picking whortleberries with two other boys in a lonely pasture, he was unexpectedly joined by Belcher, who had come thither on the same errand.

It was not noticed that they greeted each other very differently from the usual manner of boys, and during the whole time they were together Belcher behaved himself in a way that made neither Blake nor his companions feel any the less at ease for his company. Least of all had they any reason to suspect that he still harbored his old revenge.

A ruined house, many years deserted, stood in sight of the spot where the boys were picking, and growing tired of their work they agreed to go and examine the old building, and perhaps take a game of "hi spy" there.

As they went over the house they found a trap-door opening into a small vault, which had evidently once been used for the family cellar—for the ancient dwelling was rather cramped in size and accommodations—and, boy-like, they all went down into the moldy hole.

As the last boy was descending the rotten ladder tumbled to pieces under his weight, and the adventurous youngsters found themselves caught like the fox and goat in the well.

Philip Granger, however, being a lad of quick resources, soon hit upon the fox's plan of getting out, which was that each should climb the shoulders of a comrade, and when all but one were safely above ground these should join in pulling out the last.

The plan was varied a little in practice, as it was awkward business to decide who of them should be the "goat."

Phil got up first, climbing over Frank Staples, and then aided his helper out.

Belcher, who had made a ladder of Roger Blake, was performing the pulling of his generous companion toward the opening, when a sudden yell was heard outside, and crying out "There come Dirk Avery and Ben Trench!" Frank and Phil darted away, running as if for their lives.

Seized with their panic, Belcher instantly dropped Roger, and regardless of his terrified calls rushed from the hut in a twinkling.

The jar of the hurried departure of the boys over the rickety floor brought down the trap-door with a bang, and Roger was left a prisoner indeed.

Dirk Avery and Ben Trench were two bad characters who lived a sort of half-vagabond life, rarely doing any honest work, and whose savage looks and cruel natures made them the terror of all the children of the neighborhood.

Their appearance in any place was the signal for a general stampede of the young people who happened to be about. There was not one in our little whortleberry party who was not as much afraid of them as if they had actually worn horns and hoofs.

On this occasion they were out on a fishing tramp, and the contents of a bottle of cheap rum that each of them carried had made them more wicked than usual.

Accordingly, they were in just the mood to take all possible advantage of the fright they had caused, and when the boys fled so precipitately from the ruined house they pursued them with horrible threats and shouts of hoarse laughter.

Frank and Phil ran toward the lot where they had hidden their baskets, the loud voice of Dirk crying, "Skin the rascals! Wring their necks!"

Dirk, however, soon overdid himself, for the two boys were fleet of foot, and saved their breath. They finally got away, with their berries.

Belcher struck a bee-line for home, forgetting his basket, and though Ben gave him a hot chase he succeeded in distancing him.

Poor Roger! For some minutes after he found himself shut fast in the vault his mortal fear of being found by the two roughs left him no courage to cry out, and gave him no time to think whether he ought to blame Belcher or not.

Judging his act by his own feelings then, he could not say but he should have done the same.

But the immediate fright soon passed, and he began to feel the real misery of his situation.

Nobody but Whitmarsh knew where he was. What if he should leave him there, for the old grudge? And then it came to him how singular it was that the one on whom he depended to help him out should be just he—the boy who had threatened him.

Wearily enough passed the time to Roger down there in the dismal hole.

Neither shout nor scream would help him. No one lived within half a mile of the house; or if his cries should chance to be heard it might be Avery and Trench, and they would certainly bring him more hurt than good.

Suddenly he heard footsteps. A hand seized the trap-door and lifted it. Belcher Whitmarsh's face looked into the vault.

"Hollo," said Roger joyfully, "I thought you'd be back before long. Now let's get out of this—I've had enough of it, I'm sure."

But Belcher only grinned, showing the vacancy in his front teeth, and replied coolly:

"Want me to help you out?"

"Of course. Don't be fooling now," pleaded Roger.

"Well," said Belcher, "I've thought it over, and seeing you're in there so nicely I've concluded I won't. I've an old score against you. Perhaps you'd like to pay it now."

With that he dropped the trap-door, and made off.

He had come after his basket of berries. Would he be heartless enough to go home now and leave his schoolmate in that damp hole, pestilent with mildew and haunted, perhaps, by sliding adders and loathsome creatures?

Meantime the parents of Roger, when the hour passed at which he was expected home, began to make inquiries for him. Frank Staples and Philip Granger, who both supposed he had climbed out of the vault and ran away with Belcher from the hut, were much surprised when asked where he was, and told that he had not returned.

Their story of the encounter with Dirk Avery and Ben Trench made the parents still more anxious.

Possibly their boy had come to some harm at the hands of those drunken ruffians. Would Philip mind going over to the pasture again and showing just where it all happened?

Philip gladly consented, and getting leave from home accompanied Mr. Blake to the lot where they had gathered their berries.

Roger's basket was found untouched, precisely where he had been seen to hide it. Mr. Blake looked pale and Phil began to feel frightened.

"Let's go down to Mr. Whitmarsh's," said Mr. Blake, "and see Belcher."

It was now about sundown, but as the old house lay not far out of the way it was decided to visit it.

No sooner had they reached it and looked in than Phil exclaimed, "The trap-door is shut. I'm sure 'twas open when we left it."

In a moment more they had uncovered the vault and found poor Roger.

Overjoyed, they helped him out, a good deal the worse for the hunger and fear he had undergone.

The story of Belcher's mean revenge was soon noised abroad. He excused himself by saying he meant to leave Roger only a little while for a joke, but his father made him go to Mr. Blake's and apologize for his wanton trick.

We must do Belcher the justice to say that he performed the duty promptly and with apparent frankness and sincerity. There is no doubt, however, that he meant harm—not such serious harm as might have occurred—but sufficient injury to his playfellow to satisfy his malignant feelings and glut his revenge. The spirit he exhibited was the same in kind, although not in degree, as that which makes a man a murderer.

A true man never allows anger to get the permanent control of his feelings. He knows its mean and dangerous tendencies, and remembers the words of Him who spake as never man spake: "If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses."