And here was Laurence, our little Laurence, training himself to
overthrow this overgrown Goliath! Well, if the boy could not bring
this Philistine to the earth, he might yet manage to give him a few
manful clumps on the head; perhaps enough to insure a chronic
headache.

So thinking, I went in and watched John Flint finish a mounting-block
from a plan in the book open upon the table, adding, however, certain
improvements of his own.

He laid the block aside and then took a spray of fresh leaves and fed
it to a horned and hungry caterpillar prowling on a bit of bare stem
at the bottom of his cage.

"Get up there on those leaves, you horn-tailed horror! Move on,--you
lepidopterous son of a wigglejoint, or I'll pull your real name on you
in a minute and paralyze you stiff!" He drew a long breath. "You know
how I'm beginning to remember their real names? I swear 'em half an
hour a day. Next time you have trouble with those hickeys of yours,
try swearing caterpillar at 'em, and you'll find out."

I laughed, and he grinned with me.

"Say," said he, abruptly. "I've been listening with both my ears to
what that boy was talking to you about awhile ago. Thinks he can buck
the Boss, does he?"

"Perhaps he may," I admitted.

"Nifty old bird, the Big Un," said Mr. Flint, squinting his eyes.
"And," he went on, reflectively, "he's sure got your number in this
burg. Take you by and large, you lawabiders are a real funny sort,
ain't you? Now, there's Inglesby, handing out the little kids their
diplomas come school-closing, and telling 'em to be real good, and
maybe when they grow up he'll have a job in pickle for 'em--work like
a mule in a treadmill, twelve hours, no unions, _and_ the coroner to
sit on the remains, free and gratis, for to ease the widow's mind.
Inglesby's got seats in all your churches--first-aid to the parson's
pants-pockets.

"Inglesby's right there on the platform at all your spiel-fests,
smirking at the women and telling 'em not to bother their nice little
noddles about anything but holding down their natural jobs of being
perfect ladies--ain't he and other gents just like him always right
there holding down _their_ natural jobs of protecting 'em and being
influenced to do what's right? Sure he is! And nobody howls for the
hook! You let him be It--him with a fist in the state's jeans up to
the armpit!

"Look here, that Mayne kid's dead right. It's you good guys that are
to blame. We little bad ones se