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 mark, or which at worst could but blacken eye or blood the nose. Of such a fight the one notable thing to be observed is if courage shows its face or cowardice is forced to confession—yet it was a battle important in the career of one of the combatants as Marengo was important in the history of Bonaparte, for it marked in letters of red the turning point in Angus Burke’s life, his moment of emergence from the torpor which had lain like a frog concealing the Angus Burke who should have been.

Angus fought as he had challenged, phlegmatically, determinedly, one might almost say stolidly as a man goes about the uncongenial task of shingling a roof—and he won. Young Crane, presently, the worse by bruises and an eye which would have its story to tell, was crying the tears of the defeated.

A hand rested upon Angus Burke’s shoulder, and Alvin Trueman, who had emerged from the post office in time to be a spectator of the complete episode, turned the boy about firmly. “That’s enough,” said Trueman kindly. “Now shake hands and be friends.”

Angus stood without movement, uncertain, unequipped to meet this demand. Deep within him he felt dimly that it was not for him to take the initiative. Young Crane glared through his tears, muttered sullenly under his breath, and