in her class, there should be no emulation of good and obedient behavior. However, there was, Miss Smith told him, one exception to this rule. regarded the class impressively. Harrington glanced triumphantly in the direction of Sammy. This boy, continued the superintendent, had not at once showed a spirit of reform, but by degrees he had seemed to struggle away from the bad influences of his companions, and though his deportment had been far from exemplary, Miss Smith was convinced he had tried very, very hard, indeed. Miss Smith beamed, and Harrington grunted with disgust. He longed to tell Miss Smith that the only person who had tried "very, very hard” in Sammy's case was Harrington Symms.

"I am sure," said the superintendent, nipping the good-ticket between his fat thumb and forefinger, "that it will be a pleasant surprise to you all to see the boy whose name I am about to call receive this little reward of merit. Harrington Symms!" said the superintendent.

MayWilson Preston 05:

The class sat astounded, appalled. "Harrington Symms?" said the superintendent, impatiently tapping a desk with his forefinger and blinking at large upon the class. "If there is a boy of that name present let him come up and receive this ticket."

"Yes, Harrington," said the pretty principal encouragingly, "it is really yours."

Then Harrington went from white to pale purple. He rose slowly. Slowly, in a deadly breathholding silence, he clattered down the aisle. His eyes were fixed on the second button of the superintendent's waistcoat. He breathed audibly through his short nose.

He

on the ground and Harrington knelt upon him. He pounded him; he punched him in the wind. He rubbed Teddy's face in the dirt of the yard with inarticulate whoops of frenzy. There were shouts of "Fair play!" The howls of the little boys augmented Teddy's. But Harrington had forgotten there was such a thing as fair play. He was no longer a boy fighting. He was fury rending the world. He hurled his roaring enemy aside and leaped to his feet, panting, crimson, unassuaged.

heard the sound of the pretty principal's voice, but did not know what she said. He looked down and saw the good-ticket. It was in his hand. He held it-he, Harrington! Something large and hot seemed to swell inside his head. Things and sounds drew a long way off. Vaguely he heard the sharp "ping" of the bell; then endless shuffling of feet; then a snicker. It brought him back to himself. He wheeled. He saw Teddy. The class was filing out. The tail of the line was passing him, and, walking dizzily, Harrington trod on its heels.

Through the outer door he could see them, his friends, hanging in irregular ranks on either side the steps, and the expressions of their successive faces became in his vision one long derisive grin. Then from the foot of the line peered Teddy Cavannagh's face. He heard Teddy's voice.

"Aw," said Teddy, "teacher's pet!" Harrington gasped. He saw red. Every vein in his body felt bursting. He gave an inarticulate howl. He took the steps in a plunge and landed on Teddy. Teddy was

Across the school fence swung a clothesline, and straight before his eyes flapped and flew the red flannel drawers of Patsy

O'Halloran. With a yell Harrington flung himself upon them. He tore them from the line. He trampled them in an ecstasy of rage. He ground them under his heels into the dirt. White sheets came into his range of vision. They were high. He couldn't reach them. He snatched handfuls of mud and hurled them with mad strength, with deadly accuracy. Then, frantically brandishing his hands, with an insupportable desire to choke the life out of the atmosphere, he fled across the yard. The boys fell back before him in horror and respect. Not once looking at the ruin behind him, and still clutching in his hand the pink symbol of his depravity, he started down the street.

It was a peaceful street, falling asleep in the yellow afternoon light, a street full of sleepy sounds and deliberate progression when Harrington burst into it, butting a leisurely citizen into the gutter. The man made a futile pass at the fleeing form, as with a clatter and a wild flourish of heels it shot past him. Snatching frantically hand

fuls of rose heads as he sped, Harrington bore down upon the startled traffic. Like a cyclone he went, unswerving, smiting what came in his path. A child's head entered his line of vision, and he smacked it. The terrier rushing joyously to meet him with a kick he sent flying. Commotion spread behind him-howls, yelps, and the heavy galloping of cows startled from grazing, the clatter of the milkman's horse abruptly departing the curb at the whirlwind of Harrington's passing. Straight before him six great cans of milk waited on the sidewalk. The sight of these harmless inanimate objects seemed to drive Harrington delirious. With a whoop and a swoop of his arm he sent them spinning in six white.

to the other side. The frail basket stands of the green-grocer tottered. Eggs and oranges flew like leaves before the storm. A nurse-maid fled squawking across the street with a perambulator as with a final shout Harrington burst into the door of a selfcontained house on the main street and cast himself, headforemost, into the lap of a quiet woman with her hands full of crocheting. His sobs shook the chair she sat in.

She put her work down with matterof-fact serenity and smoothed his hair with unruffled solicitude. "Well, what's the matter with Harry? What

is the matter with my dear boy?" she murmured.

His confession came out between sobs and heaves and snorts. "They-they gave me a good-ticket!" He went off into a low

roar.

She took the slip of pink pasteboard from his muddy hand, smoothed it out, and read it with a sweet little flattered smile.

"Why, that's very nice! It's beautiful, Harry! What's the matter? Did they say you shouldn't have it ?"

And Harrington howled afresh. If his mother did not understand he was alone, indeed.

He knew his father never would. That silent man so seldom gave you an idea of what he thought. To Harrington he was a very remote person. When at dinner his mother exhibited the badge of Harrington's disgrace the boy dipped down his head and stared sceptically at his father through his straw-colored lashes.

"He seemed so distressed over it, dear," his mother was saying, "but it looks perfectly all right to me; doesn't it to you?"

Harrington's father looked at his mother for a moment without moving a muscle of his face; then at his son, and Harrington thought his left eyebrow twitched.

The bell rang violently. In the outer hall a female voice was lifted. It proceeded in an ascending scale. There was something dimly familiar in its tone that sent a creepy thrill of apprehension down Harrington's spine. The bell rang a second imperious peal. Harrington found himself harking to a combat of voices that reminded him of the time he listened outside a Fenian meeting. There was another reminder in it. And out of the rankle of his wrongs, the wreck of his prestige, the wanton injustice of the vice-principal, arose before his mind the sequence of events that had followed the presentation of the good-ticket.

The maid appeared dubiously in the door.

"Please, Mr. Symms, there are some people they want to see you."

"People?" said Harrington's father perplexedly. "Well, can't they wait?"

"Please," Agnes faltered, "the woman says she'll come in here if you don't go out."

The irascible scrape of his father's backthrust chair, the emphatic closing of the dining-room door upon his father's hasty stride, struck Harrington as an unhappy portent for what would probably follow. He ceased to absorb lemon pie, and for a moment gazed bitterly into the future.

He was expecting the reappearance of Agnes with his summons. He rose to it, dauntless. Well, let them do their worst! He strode past his mother's interrogations, his nose in the air; he shut the door with a fine unconscious imitation of his father. And then he hesitated; he listened, his head hunched in his shoulders. Slowly, reluctantly, he dragged his feet along the hall toward the living-room, whence proceeded babel. The world was too foolish, too oppressive a place for a boy to inhabit!

From the threshold he surveyed the aggregation, a little surprised, a little dazed by its numbers. He thought he recognized the milkman. He was sure of Jim Cavannagh, the saloon-keeper; and the enormous red-shawled, blue-calico back immediately in front of him was the same salient figure that dominated the O'Halloran yard on a Monday morning.

From the midst of this singular concourse Harrington's father penetratingly regarded his son through his pince-nez. "Harrington," he said, and the blue-calico back turned and an ascending voice proclaimed: "That's him!"

"These people," said Harrington's father ignoring the interruption, and, with a movement of his hand indicating the aggregation that glared at his son, "are under the impression that it is you who have destroyed certain property of theirs-wantonly destroyed it. In fact, they seem to think you upset the whole street. How's that?"

"Yes, sir," said Harrington, sullenly digging his toe into the carpet. "Guess I did."

"You did?" his father repeated with an intonation that sent Harrington's soul into his boots. "And what did you do that for?"

"I-I got a good-ticket!" muttered Harrington, his breast heaving at the memory of his wrongs.

His father dropped the pince-nez and stared. A twinkle came in his eye. "Ah, I see; you got a good-ticket! And what did you do then?"

"I licked the Cavannagh kid," said Harrington, with faint relish in the memory of that moment. "I hadn't done a thing to get the old good-ticket; they just went and gave it to me! And that Cavannagh kid he said I-I wanted it—and I licked him!"

His father slapped his knee, leaning eagerly forward. "And then?"

"And then," Harrington rushed on, “her old clothes-line got in the way, and I was runnin'-and I-I just smashed it, and then I came home-straight home, only— only-" his eye lingered malevolently on the milkman-"things kept getting in my way."

"I see!" his father said, and exploded in a shout of immoral laughter. He shook, speechless, while Harrington stared at him in stupefaction.

"What's the value of your property, Mrs. O'Halloran ?" he heard his father saying. He brought some bills out of his pocket and handed one to the "Red Shawl." "Oh, keep it, keep it!" he said, warding off her protestations. "It's worth it," he addedchuckling, presenting a second to the greengrocer. 'How much was it you lost, Hennesy? Six gallons! O Lord! Wish I'd seen 'em go!" He took off his pince-nez, wiped his eyes, and turned to meet the lowering regard of Jim Cavannagh.

"An' what's the worth of me kid's broken head to you, Mister Symms, I want to know?" he demanded. "An' can money pay for that? An' if you won't beat yer divil of a kid for murderin' my boy, I will.”

Harrington's father stuck his glass back in his eye and regarded the saloon-keeper with an indulgent smile.

"Well, why come to me about that‍?” he inquired. "Better go to the school. They're responsible. Why they gave the boy a good-ticket!"