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for Sid. Consound it! sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews
it with black. I wish to geeminy she’d stick to one or t’other-I can’t keep the run
of ‘em. But I bet you I’ll lam Sid for that. I’ll learn him!” He was not the Model
Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very well though-and loathed him.
Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because
his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man’s are to a
man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them
out of his mind for the time-just as men’s misfortunes are forgotten in the
excitement of new enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in
whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to
practice it undisturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid
warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short
intervals in the midst of the music-the reader probably remembers how to do it,
if he has ever been a boy.

Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the
street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much
as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet. No doubt, as far as
strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy,
not the astronomer.

The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom checked
his whistle. A stranger was before him-a boy a shade larger than himself. A new
comer of any age or either sex was an impressive curiosity in the poor little
shabby village of St. Peterburg. This boy was well dressed, too-well dressed on
a week-day. This was simply astounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-
buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons.
He had shoes on-and yet it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit
of ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom’s vitals. The more
Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his
finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow.
Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved-but only sidewise, in a circle;
they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time. Finally Tom said: “I can lick
you!” “I’d like to see you try it.” “Well, I can do it.” “No you can’t, either.” “Yes
I can.” “No you can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “Can.” “Can’t.”

An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said: “What’s your name?” “’Tisn’t any of
your business, maybe.” “Well I ‘low I’ll make it my business.” “Well why don’t
you?” “If you say much I will.” “Much-much-much. There now.” “O, you think
you’re mighty smart, don’t you? I could lick you with one hand tied behind me,
if I wanted to.” “Well why don’t you do it? You say you can do it.” “Well I will,
if you fool with me.” “O yes-I’ve seen whole families in the same fix.” “Smarty!
You think you’re some, now, don’t you? O what a hat!” “You can lump that hat
if you don’t like it. I dare you to knock it off-and anybody that’ll take a dare will
suck eggs.” “You’re a liar!” “You’re another.” “You’re a fighting liar and dasn’t
take it up.” “Aw-take a walk!”