The fact that he was studious and diligently obeyed the rules and regulations of the school brought him a T-and-H medal at the first meeting of the board of directors after his commitment, and T and H meant Truth and Honor. But the medal brought him more trouble than satisfaction, for it placed him above his fellow-inmates in the Juvenile Department and filled their young hearts with scorn and rancor. From the presentation day onward Joshua’s lot was a hard one. He was “framed” repeatedly—dark plots were laid for his undoing. Time and again he was inveigled into compromising situations, skillfully designed to get him into trouble and to break his record. But the word of a T-and-H boy was accepted until he himself had proved that he was unworthy to wear the medal. Joshua was shoved, slapped, pinched, kicked stealthily, and twice a ruffianly youth much older than himself deliberately spat in his face in an effort to madden him to the point of resentment with his fists.

But for the sake of his promise to his benefactor Beaver Clegg, and for the sake of the scientific knowledge that he longed to have, he endured and suffered. Joshua was a fiery tempered lad—a fighter—to which many an old schoolmate in the bygone days of Silvanus Madmallet could attest. Never before had he allowed himself to be bullied and browbeaten, but so great was his love for the mystic nights on the roof with Clegg that he willingly made the sacrifice. He was being tempered in the fire of life and, though he did not realize it, was building up a character which was to become proof against the pettishness of human nature in after years. When the second meeting of the board of directors was called, Joshua was sent for. In the superintendent’s office he stood before a body of grave-faced wiseacres, and, to his surprise, he found that he knew several of them. They asked him many questions, inquired into his record, and in the end informed him that he would be paroled when his first year was over. They sent him back during the play hour; and then it was that Joshua Cole performed one of the most extraordinary feats of his boyhood.

A ball game was in progress in the playgrounds. Joshua looked eagerly about as he drew near the players, and presently his glance alighted on Number Twenty-three forty-four, a boy older and larger than himself, the one who had spat in his face, willing to suffer punishment himself if he could induce Joshua to fight. Straight toward him walked Number Fifty-six thirty-five, and when he reached him he stood before him and regarded him with his grave, gray-blue eyes, in which an intense fire now flashed.

“Kid,” he said, “I’m goin’ to whip you for spittin’ in my face three months ago. Get ready—I’m comin’!”

CHAPTER X
PARDONED

IT was one of the most memorable fights that ever had taken place on that field. For some reason no official was about at the time to interrupt the battle, and the monitors took a chance in order to see the sport. The big boy fought like a young tiger, but Joshua’s enduring qualities won for him in the end, and he beat his enemy unmercifully before it was over, gouged at his eyes and bit his thumb, and pounded him until he was a squalling, sobbing, whimpering thing, pleading only that the fight might end.

Beaver Clegg finally arrived and pulled Joshua off the prostrate boy. He led him by the arm with quick steps toward the Juvenile Department, where they faced each other in the little office.

Clegg’s face had been red and mottled until then, but now it became pallid as he slowly shook his head and brushed nervously at his canted nose.

“At last, Joshua—at last,” he said morosely. “I thought you could hold out.”

Joshua’s nose was bleeding, and one eye was almost closed. His face was covered with dust, and the blood mixed with it made him a disreputable-looking figure indeed. But his lips were straight and untrembling, and his one good eye looked steadily at his mentor.