fisticuffs with him, not only teaching him how to feint, and guard, and uppercut, and deliver half-arm jabs, but also giving him copious and exhaustive lessons in how to stand punishment as an O'Malley ought. These lessons in time became so trying to the pupil that his frightened mother often hid the willing enough Lonely under the bed, and wept in secret on those unhappy days when he was found and dragged forth. Nor did the boy care for fighting; the only thing that appealed to him was the intoxicating sense of delight and pride which crept through him, like wine, or the very ichor of the gods, when he found himself face to face with success. No sop was too small for his Cerberus of self-glory, so that when he did fight he liked best to fight before a crowd, effecting, if possible, a dramatic dénouement and an even more dazzling finale. And nothing, of course, could be further removed than this from true heroism. Added to this, Lonely was the possessor of a sadly ungovernable temper, when pressed beyond certain bounds, and, what was even worse, he had long fed on the pomp and glory of leadership in his old-time village of Cowansburg.
