the worst kid in the United Kingdom. One evening Rose Jenvie--her real
name was Leighton, she was my glory, you know--had been visiting my
foster-sister, and remaining until after dark, I walked home with her.
It was a starlit night in summer, and we talked as we walked as young
people do. The gate to the path leading up to her house was open, and I
continued to walk by her side until we were almost at the door, when the
'Governor' sprang up from a bench on the little lawn, where he had been
sitting, and, rudely seizing his step-daughter by the arm, broke out with
a torrent of insulting reproaches that she should dare to be walking
alone at night by the side of the most worthless scapegrace in all
England.

"The dear girl tried to explain that my part of the affair was merely an
act of courtesy, but the old chap was hot, and that only made him rave
the worse.

"I stood it a minute, and then said, 'Never mind, Miss Rose! You go
within doors, please, and your governor will feel better when he has time
to think.'

"At this he turned upon me, ordered me off the grounds, and added that if
I did not go at once he would kick me over the hedge. Then I laughed and
said: 'Oh, no, Mr. Jenvie, you certainly would not do that.'

"Something in my voice, I guess, vexed him, for he sprang at me like a
Siberian wolf. He was a big, hearty fellow, about forty years old, and
the blow he aimed at me would have felled a shorthorn. But I knocked it
aside, as he made the rush, which swerved him a little to one side, and
the opportunity was too good. Bless my soul! Before I thought, I planted
him a stinger on the neck, and he went down like a felled ox. And he lay