That noon Willie remained in the schoolroom until the boys had gone. Some went home for dinner, and the rest ate their lunches under the oak tree at the side of the school. When the room was clear, Willie stole out by the back way and ran rapidly up the alley. He knew he was branded for life; The shame of the name of Whistle Breeches bore him down. He meditated wild plans for getting rid of the offending garment. He would burn it, lose it in the river.

He even considered running away from home.

---

After dinner he slipped quietly away from the table, crept up to his room under the slanting roof, and put on his old, patched breeches. He came down quietly, but his mother caught him tiptoeing through the hall.

“Why, Willie,” she said, “where are your new trousers, dear?”

“Up-stairs,” he said simply. “I don't want to wear them They—they're too tight.”

His mother saw the prevarication in the droop of his head.

“Nonsense!” she answered lightly. “They fit you perfectly, dear. If they are a little stiff now, they will soon wear soft. Go up and put them on.”

“I don't want to,” he replied stubbornly. He meant, “I will not,” but he had learned the disadvantage of contradicting his mother flatly.

“William,” said his mother sternly, “go up-stairs and put on those trousers this instant.”

He climbed the stairs slowly. He hoped he would be late to school. He would be so leisurely in donning them that his mother would make him stay at home to avoid the greater disgrace of being tardy. He thought of playing sick, but decided such an illness would be too sudden to excite his mother's sympathy. If only the schoolhouse would burn down, or word come that the teacher was dead! But neither came to pass, and his mother's voice sounded from the hall, bidding him hurry.

With his load of shame, he slunk out of the gate and crept to school, hugging the fences and making himself as insignificant and small as possible, walking with short steps to avoid the endless “whist—whist” of the corduroy. He sniffled as he thought of the wo the day still held for him. Some men, going back to business, glanced at him to see the cause of his whimpering. He imagined they were thinking cruel things of his breeches.

He heard the tardy bell ring, and then he ran in and hurried to his seat. As he hastened down the aisle the corduroy spoke louder than before, but if Red Head heard, he made no sign, and as Willie sidled on to the bench beside him he kept his nose buried in his book.

Willie did not go to the playground at the afternoon recess. He would have died rather, and for once he saw the advantage of the rule that the tardy scholar must lose that half hour of play.

When school ended for the day, Willie hoped the teacher would keep him in. He was willing to be whipped rather than meet Red Head again, but he was dismissed with the rest. He paused in the doorway, gathering his breath to make a run for liberty, as he had often run to escape his persecutors. As he waited, he saw Red Head approaching, and he drew back; but Red Head stepped up to him and took him by the arm.

“You let me alone now!” whimpered Willie.

“Aw, shut up,” said Red Head roughly. “I ain't goin' to hurt you. You shut up an' don't be a cry-baby. Come along an' I won't let 'em hurt you.”

Fighting and scuffling were not allowed in the entry. Willie put his thumb in his mouth and gazed at Red Head doubtfully. Such friendliness was unnatural. It savored of a plot to entice him forth to be slaughtered. It was not easy to believe that the Red Head who had drubbed him a hundred times, and who scorned him as a cry-baby, should seek to defend him.

Red Head waited.

“Come on,” he said at length. “I'll let you help me drive the cow home tonight.”

Still Willie hesitated, although he was almost willing to risk a licking to be allowed to slap the sleek legs of Mrs. Murphy's cow with a limber willow switch.

---

“Come on,” said Red Head. “I'll let you smoke my pipe.”

“Won't you lick me?” asked Willie doubtfully.

“Naw, I won't lick you. What would I want to lick you for?” Willie followed Red Head hesitatingly, with an eye to a safe retreat, if necessary.

One of the boys came forward from the group by the gate.

“Hi, here comes Whistle Breeches!” he shouted gleefully.

“Whistle—Bree-ches—Whistle—Bree-ches—Whistle—Bree-ches—”

Red Head turned and clenched his fists, his blue eyes blazing; “Shut up, Bob Palmer!” he cried fiercely. “Don't you call him that. That ain't no name to call a feller. You jist wisht you had breeches like 'em!”

Bob stopped suddenly. He looked at Red Head in astonishment. Then he turned and ran to the boys by the gate. They listened to what he said, and then began a loud singsong chant: “Whistle—Bree-ches —Whistle—Bree-ches—Whistle—Bree-ches!”

---

Red Head bounded forward, his eyes glowing with anger. He toppled two boys over, and rained his blows right and left.

“Don't youse call him that!” he cried.

It was a surprise. The boys drew back and stood ready to scatter at the next onslaught. Red Head waited, puffing, With clenched fists.

“The next feller that calls him that, I'll break his face!” he threatened. “An' I ain't foolin', neither.”

They saw that he was not, and they waited respectfully as Red Head and Willie walked away.

Willie went with Red Head to drive the cow home, and Red Head taught him how to double up his fist for battle according to the traditions of the school, with the knuckle of the second finger protruded.

“You jist do that,” he explained, “an' you can hurt 'em worse. An' if they fight back, kick 'em in the legs. That's how I do. Why, you're as big as I am, an' I bet you're jist as strong. You jist stand up to 'em. There ain't nothin' in fightin' when you know how. If you jist stand up to 'em, they 'most always back down. You begin on Tom Ament. He's a bigger baby'n you are. Anybody kin lick him I kin lick him with my little finger. An' then you tackle Shorty. He's a baby, too. You're jist afraid.”

It was Red Head who egged Willie on to strike Tom Ament the next day, and Red Head coached him until Tom took to his heels, defeated. Then Red Head made him lick Shorty, and with the lust of victory in his veins Willie worked his way upward, and soon the other mothers began telling Willie's mother that he was a bad boy, always fighting, and Mrs. Gary wept over him. But no one called him Whistle Breeches, and he learned that he was as much of a man as any of them, and more of a man than most.

Then came a battle royal, when Red Head and Willie stood face to face and pounded each other for a good half hour for supremacy, and Willie went down with a bleeding nose and an eye that was dark for days.

But Red Head had taught him self confidence, and self confidence made him the Governor of a great State.

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