ting Josh by the ankles, holding on tightly in spite of
the boy's spasmodic movement, for as he felt the strong hands grasp his
legs, he uttered a yell, and began to perform motions like those of a
swimming frog.

"Be quiet! Don't!" roared Will. "You'll have me down."

"Let go, you dog!" shouted the artist. "I've got him now."

"Let go yourself," cried Will, angrily. "Can't you see you are pulling
me down?"

"Oh, yes, I can see. Let go yourself."

"Shan't!" growled Will, through his set teeth. "Kick out, Josh, and
send him over."

"I can't!" cried Josh.

"He'd better! I'd break his neck."

"Never mind what he says, Josh. Kick! Kick hard!"

"Kick! I've got you tight. I could hold you for a wee--wee--"

He was going to say "week," but Fate proved to him that this was a
slight exaggeration on his part, and instead of finishing the word week
he gave vent to a good loud "oh!" Tor the heather roots had suddenly
given way, and the three contending parties descended the sharp slope
with a sudden rush, to be brought up short amongst the stones that
accompanied them in a contending heap, forming a struggling mass for a
few moments, before the strongest gained the day, the artist rising
first, and seating himself in triumph upon the beaten lads, to begin
dragging out his handkerchief to mop his face, as he panted
breathlessly--

"There, I've got you now!"

CHAPTER THREE.

THE ARTIST'S REVENGE.

It was not manly on Josh's part, but he was weak, beaten, quite in
despair; the artist was a heavy man; and he had his companion Will upon
him as well.

Consequently his tone was very pathetic, as he whimpered out--

"Here, you'd better let me alone!"

"Likely!" said the artist. "I wanted a model, and now you have got to
sit for me."

Will didn't whimper in the least. Pain and anger had put him in what
would have been a towering rage if he had not been prostrate on the
ground.

"Here, you get up," he said, in a bull-dog tone.

"By and by," cried the artist, coolly, as he began to recover his
breath. "I haven't made up my mind what I am going to do yet."

"If you don't get up, I'll bite," cried Will.

"You'd better! It's my turn now; I've got a long score to settle
against you two fellows, and I'm going to pay you out."

As he spoke, the artist took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and began
to fill up.

"Get up!" shouted Will. "You hurt."

"So do you," said the artist, "you nasty, bony,