James as well. It was not true, and they would not have
believed it if it had been.

He had not many friends, because he was not a very nice boy. He was not
very brave, except when he was in a rage, which is a poor sort of
courage, anyhow; and when the boys used to call him. 'Cowardy custard'
and other unpleasing names, he used to try to show off to them, and make
them admire him by telling them stories of the wild boars he had killed,
and the Red Indians he had fought, and of how he had been down Niagara
in an open boat, and been shipwrecked on the high seas. They were not
bad stories, and the boys would not have minded listening to them, but
Hildebrand wanted to have his stories not only listened to, but
believed, which is quite another pair of shoes.

He had one friend who always liked his stories, and believed them almost
all. This was his little sister. But he was simply horrid to her. He
never would lend her a any of his toys, and he called her 'Kiddie,'
which she hated, instead of Ethel, which happened to be her name.

All this is rather dull, and exactly like many boys of your
acquaintance, no doubt. But what happened to Hildebrand does not,
fortunately or unfortunately, happen to everybody; I dare say it has
never happened to you. It began on the day when Hildebrand was making a
catapult, and Billson Minor came up to him in the playground and said:

'Much use it'll be to you when you've made it. You can't hit a haystack
a yard off!'

'Can't I?' said Hildebrand. 'You just see! I hit a swallow on the wing
last summer, and when we had a house in Thibet I shot a llama dead with
one bullet. He was twenty-five feet long.'

Billson laughed, and asked a boy who was passing if he'd ever been out
llama-shooting, and, if so, what his bag was. The other boy said:

'Oh, I see--little Hilda gassing again!'

Billson said:

'Gassing! Lying I call it!'

'Liar yourself!' said Hildebrand, who was now so angry that his fingers
trembled too much for him to be able to go on splicing the catapult.

'Oh, run away and play,' said Billson wearily. 'Go home to nurse, Hilda
darling, and tell her to put your hair in curl-papers!'

Then Hildebrand's rage turned into a sort of courage, and he hit out at
Billson, who, of course, hit back, and there was a fight. The other boy
held their coats and saw fair; and Hildebrand was badly beaten, because
Billson was older and bigger and a better fighter, so he went home,
crying with fury