Oscar did not come home that night until after dark. As he entered the sitting-room, Alice, who was seated at the piano-forte, broke short off the piece she was playing, and said, looking at him as sternly as she could,
"You great ugly boy!"
"Why, what's the matter now?" inquired Oscar, who hardly knew whether this rough salutation was designed to be in fun or in earnest; "don't I look as well as usual?"
"You looked well beating little Willie Davenport, don't you think you did?" continued his sister, with the same stern look. "I 'm perfectly ashamed of you—I declare, I did n't know you could do such a mean thing as that."
"I don't care," replied Oscar, "I 'll lick him again, if he does n't mind his own business."
As Oscar did not know that George witnessed the assault, he was at a loss to know how Alice heard of it. She refused to tell him, and he finally concluded that Whistler or his mother must have called there, to enter a complaint against him. Pretty soon Mrs. Preston entered the room, and sat down, to await the arrival of Oscar's father to tea. She at once introduced the topic which was uppermost in her mind, by the inquiry:
"Oscar, what is the trouble between you and Willie Davenport?"
"Why," replied Oscar, "he 's been telling stories about me."
"Do you mean false stories?"
"Yes—no—not exactly false, but it was n't true, neither."