with glittering eyes. “Give it back to him, Dr. Crackenthorpe,” I cried, “or he’ll do you a hurt!” In one moment the doctor dropped on his knees at the instant that the missile spun over him and splashed among the marigolds far in the meadow beyond; in the next Jason was down on his back again, with the tall man’s knuckles at his throat and his bony knee planted on his chest. “Puppy of Satan!” he hissed in grim fury. “D’ye dare to pursue me with murderous hate!” Tooth and nail I fell upon the victor like a wild cat and tore at him. His strength was marvelous. Holding my brother down with his left hand, he swung his right behind his back, clutched me over, and rolled us both together in a struggling heap. “Now,” said he, jumping to his feet and daring us, “move a muscle to rise and I’ll hold your mouths under water for the frogs to dive in.” It was the only sort of argument that appealed to us—the argument of resourceful strength that could strike and baffle at once. When he had recovered his breath sufficiently to laugh, Jason tittered. From the first the fateful charm of my brother was the pleasant music of his voice and the pliant adaptability of his moods. “Keep the fish, doctor,” he said; “we give in.” He always answered for both of us. “Well,” said Dr. Crackenthorpe, “that’s wise.” He stepped back as he spoke to signify that we might get on our feet, which we did. “I keep the trout,” he said, grandly, “in evidence, and shall cast over in my mind the pros and cons of my duty to the authorities in the matter.” At this, despite our discomfiture, we laughed like young hyenas. The trout, we knew, was destined for the doctor’s own table. He was a notorious skinflint, to whom sixpence saved from the cooking pot was a coin redoubled of its face value. He made as if to continue his way, but paused again, and shot a question at Jason. “Dad had any more finds?” “No,” said Jason, “and if he had you wouldn’t get ’em.” Dr. Crackenthorpe looked at the boy a minute, shrugged his shoulders and moved off.
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