The fiddler might have managed these two boys, but he saw in a moment that he would have trouble coping with what was likely to follow. For generations the neighbors who bore the names of the children within that school had taken sides in the long and dark struggle between the Simms and the Coulters, and now, in a flash, all their old loyalty to the “mean fighters” of their mountain was upon them. They leaped to their feet, got from the floor on to the seats, shrieking and stamping to cheer on their favorites. It was not a “scrap.” It was a war—an old war—in which men of both names had fallen, and for which they all thought it honorable to fight to the finish.
Azalea, sitting stark still at her desk, saw, with wide-stretched eyes, her peaceful schoolroom turned into something resembling a cave of angry wildcats. Moreover, she knew enough about such quarrels to imagine what the outcome might be.
“Carin,” she shrilled to her friend who had turned from the blackboard and stood paralyzed at what she beheld, “we must think—we must think!”
But there was little time for thinking. They could see that in a few moments more every boy in the room would be at the throat of some other boy, all for the glory of the old war cries: “Coulter!” “Simms!”
Just then, as Azalea was discovering how unlikely her “thinking” was to be of any use, an extraordinary sound smote her ears. It rolled out like thunder, it came in volleys like pistol shots, it was so strange, so loud, so mocking, that all save the fight-crazed boys at grips on the floor turned to see what it was.
And what they saw was Haystack Thompson laughing!
He was leaning against the door post and he was laughing as if he were Jove and could find nothing half so amusing as the capers of earth-men. He laughed on and on, more and more mockingly, more and more terribly. His mirth was an insult to those who were engaged in that senseless combat. It held them in contempt; it made nothing of them. The children, amazed, fixed their eyes on him. They did not like that laughter. It raged and roared at their ancient mountain quarrel; it put them among the fools of the world. Their anger turned from each other to the man. They forgot the writhing boys upon the floor, and drew towards Haystack Thompson, resentment in their faces.
Just then, they were given another surprise. Azalea had at last thought to some purpose. No one saw her save Carin, as she took the full water pail from the bench and advanced with it toward these last silly clansmen of the Simms and Coulters; but Carin, quick to catch the idea, seized a second pail, and a moment later a deluge of water descended upon the fighters, and two gasping, strangling boys, their grip relaxed, lay upon the floor.
Haystack Thompson was a quick-witted ally. He bounded forward and grasping Coulter by the shirt collar—a stout shirt it was, made of home-spun—plumped him down in a seat, then seeing him still in the throes of strangulation, proceeded to pound him lustily on the back. Azalea, meantime, had pulled the smaller boy to his feet. He was bleeding at the nose; one eye was closed and he was blubbering and choking. She wiped his face with a firm and determined hand, and led him to the front of the room.
“Go for more water,” she commanded, finding that the blood still spurted from the poor injured nose. The children held back sullenly, but Paralee Panther picked up a pail and went to do her bidding. The fiddler’s fearful laughter having ceased, a strange, shamed quiet hung over the room, broken only by the angry snortings and sobbing of the two fighters. And then the fiddler began to laugh again, but not in the old way. This time he laughed as if at the funniest joke that man ever heard. He began gently, like one amused, he went on to heights of wild and reckless mirth which reduced the children, and Azalea and Carin with them, to helpless, suffering spasms of laughter. There was no resisting such mirth. It spread like fire, and once alight, it seemed as if nothing could ever extinguish it.