Now! That's it. Now! Death to the Bible school!"

"Death to the Bible school!" shouted they in unison.

The little Indian heard their words. He knew that insult and, possibly, injury threatened his teacher, and, stepping up to Pete Tompkins, he kicked his shins with all his childish strength, uttering oaths that drew forth hilarious laughter from the men.

"Y're a good un," said one.

"Give 'im a trounce in the air," added another.

[Pg 17] In a moment, the child was tossed from one to another, his passionate cries and curses mingling with their ribald laughter. At last he was caught by John Harding, who held him in his arms.

[Pg 17]

"Never mind, Wathemah," he said soothingly.

Hoarse with rage, the child shrieked, "You blankety blanked devils! You blankety blanked devils!"

A ruffian cursed him.

He was wild. He struggled to free himself, to return to the fray, but Jack Harding held him fast.

"You devils, devils, devils!" he shrieked again. His little frame trembled with anger, and he burst into tears.

"Never mind, little chap," said his captor, drawing him closer, "ye go with me."

For once John Harding left the saloon without touching liquor. The Indian child was clasped in his arms. When he reached a place beyond the sound of the men's voices, he set the little lad on his feet. He patted him on the head, and looked down compassionately into the tear-stained face.

"Poor little chap," he said, "poor little chap. Y're like me, ain't ye? Ye ain't got nobody in the world. Let's be pards, Wathemah!"

"Pards?" repeated the child between sobs.

"Yes, pards, sonny. That's what I said."

Wathemah clasped his arms about Jack's knees.

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