“Do you mean to tell me, Ollie Baxter, that you don’t know what that boy’s been up to to-day?”
Oliver’s parent regarded Mr. Sikes coldly. “Yes, I do know,” he snapped.
“Well, what has he been up to, if you know so much about it?”
“None of your derned business. I’m not obliged to consult you or anybody—”
“Calm yourself, Brother Baxter,” admonished the parson gently. “As I was saying before, I do not agree with Joe and Silas. They are making a mountain out of a mole hill. The boy is all right. He is high-spirited, he is mischievous—as all boys are if they’re any good at all—and he is not a coward. Of course, it would be most reprehensible—er—and quite unpardonable in me if I were to say that I approve of fighting, but when I look back upon my own boyhood and recall the—er—rather barbarous joy I took in bloodying some other boy’s nose, I—ahem!—well, I believe I can understand why Oliver October preferred to stand up and fight rather than run away. Ahem! Yes, in spite of my calling, I think I can understand that in any real boy.”
Mr. Baxter’s face lengthened. “Oh, Lordy! Has Oliver been fighting?”
“Like a wildcat,” said Mr. Sikes sententiously. “Everybody in town knows about it. Everybody but you, I mean.”
The father groaned. “I thought he looked as if he’d done something he’d oughtn’t—Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell me he used a knife or—”
“Nothing but his fists, my dear Baxter—from all reports. I did not witness the—”
“How about the hide he peeled off of Arthur Elwell’s shin?” demanded Mr. Sikes. “He didn’t do that with his fists, did he? Why, I’ve knowed blood poisoning to set in on a feller’s shin bone from a scratch you couldn’t hardly see. It’s almost sure to happen if you wear green socks like Arthur does. The dye or something gets into the—”