TWO YOUNG ENEMIES.
"Oliver, bring me that ball!" said Roland Kenyon, in a tone of command.
The speaker, a boy of sixteen, stood on the lawn before a handsome country mansion. He had a bat in his hand, and had sent the ball far down the street. He was fashionably dressed, and evidently felt himself a personage of no small consequence.
The boy he addressed, Oliver Conrad, was his junior by a year--not so tall, but broader and more thick-set, with a frank, manly face, and an air of independence and self-reliance.
He was returning home from school, and carried two books in his hand.
Oliver was naturally obliging, but there was something he did not like in the other's imperious tone, and his pride was touched.
"Are you speaking to me?" he demanded quietly.
"Of course I am. Is there any other Oliver about?"
"When you ask a favor, you had better be polite about it."
"Bother politeness! Go after that ball! Do you hear?" exclaimed Roland angrily.
Oliver eyed him calmly.
"Go for it yourself," he retorted. "I don't intend to run on your errands."
"You don't?" exclaimed Roland furiously.
"Didn't I speak plainly enough? I meant what I said."
"Go after that ball this instant!" shrieked Roland, stamping his foot; "or I'll make you!"
"Suppose you make me do it," said Oliver contemptuously, opening the gate, and entering the yard.
Roland had worked himself into a passion, and this made him reckless of consequences. He threw the bat in his hand at Oliver, and if the latter had not dodged quickly it would have seriously injured him. At the same time Roland rushed impetuously upon the boy who had offended him by his independence.
To say that Oliver kept calm under this aggravated attack would be incorrect. His eyes flashed with anger. He threw his books upon the lawn, and put himself in an instant on guard. A moment, and the two boys were engaged in a close struggle.
Roland was taller, and this gave him an advantage; but Oliver was the more sturdy and agile. He clasped Roland around the waist, lifted him off his feet, and laid him, after a brief resistance, on the lawn.
"You'd better not attack me again!" he said, looking with flushed face at his fallen foe.
Roland was furious. He sprang to his feet and flung himself upon Oliver, but with so little discretion that the latter, by a well-planted blow, immediately felled him to the ground, and, warned by the second attack, planted his knee on Roland's breast, thus preventing him from rising.
"Let me up!" shrieked Roland furiously, struggling desperately but ineffectually.
"Will you let me alone, then?"
"No, I won't!" returned Roland, who in his anger lost sight of prudence.
"Then you may lie there till you promise," said Oliver composedly.
"Get up, you bully!" screamed Roland.
"You are the bully. You attacked me, or I should never have touched you," said Oliver.
"I'll tell my father," said Roland.
"Tell, if you want to," said Oliver, his lip curling.
"He'll have you well beaten."
"I don't think he will."
"So you defy him, then?"
"No; I defy nobody. But I mean to defend myself from violence."
"What's the matter with you two boys? Oliver, what are you doing?"
The speaker was Mr. Kenyon's gardener, John Bradford, a sensible man and usually intelligent. Oliver often talked with him, and treated him respectfully, as he deserved. Roland was foolish enough to look down upon him because he was a poor man and occupied a subordinate position.
Oliver rose from the ground and let up his adversary.
"We have had a little difficulty, Mr. Bradford," he said. "Roland may tell you if he likes."
"What is the trouble, Roland?" enquired the gardener.
"None of your business!" answered Roland insolently.
"You are very polite," said the gardener.
