e other side of the fence would
not believe.

"Are, too," Mitch would say.

Then a startled look, an appealing, hopeless fear suddenly
abashed the little boy in the dainty white dress. As he shook the
ringlets out of his eyes he asked, earnestly:

"Why, then, am I a girl?"

Here, you see, was another case like the bow 'n' arrow. Mitch did
not have to tell all he knew. He only got proud and spat through
his teeth and said, "Why?" right back at David.

Such a question, you must agree, may be illuminating, but is not
satisfying. The meaning of it seems a bit indefinite and
lonesome, but if you are a little boy with ringlets it has
meaning enough. It hurts mightily. But Mitch was still not
satisfied.

"Dear Little Curly Locks," he said with contemptible sweetness,
"oo mustn't get oo dress dirty."

Then did David's fists clench defiantly, and he said an awful
swear.

"Dresses!" he exclaimed derisively; "that's all you know about
it. They're kilts!"

This defense was not convincing, for there is no good way, once
you think of it, to prove that a dress is a dress and that a kilt
is a kilt. The only way, I fear, to settle such a controversy is
to hit the other boy with a brick. Only David did not have a
brick. What he did have was a confused feeling that Mitch was
right. For might it not be true, this horrible thing about being
a girl? What if David was that, and couldn't ever get over it?

Now, Mitch, since you are at last in trouvers, here is the time
to prove to this ignominious comrade of yours that in you are the
instincts of a gentleman. Why don't you show David that there may
be a chance for him after all? It would be proper for you to
remind him that you yourself used to wear dresses, but of course
you will make sure to speak of the disgrace as a thing of many
years ago.

But there is no need, Mitch, in counseling David to go to
extremes. It is quite unnecessary to inform him that the way to
pants is a very simple matter. I dread to think that you are
telling him to tear his kilts "all to splinters." Of course that
can be done. You hook the skirt over a paling in the fence; then
you jump, and sometimes, David, it hurts when you hit the ground.
But what matter? You are fighting in a noble cause. Mother will
be so astonished! She will see how desperately you have outgrown
your kilts.

Only she did not see it. She picked the splinters out of David's
hands--cruel splinters from the fence--and she was ver