On all sides stood boys, little and big, with mud balls ready to fling, till, out of sheer pity, he would be allowed to come forth clean.

Then, when all were dressed, and blue and shivering--for two amphibious hours, even on a July day, make one blue--more games would begin, leap-frog, or tag, or jumping, or climbing trees, till they were warm enough to set out for home.
It was as the little ones were playing tag that Hughie came to grief.
He was easily king of his company and led the game.

Quick as a weasel, swift and wary, he was always the last to be caught.

Around the trees, and out and in among the big boys, he led the chase, much to Tom Finch's disgust, who had not forgotten the spelling-match incident.

Not that he cared for the defeat, but he still felt the bite in the master's final words, and he carried a grudge against the boy who had been the occasion of his humiliation.
"Keep off!" he cried, angrily, as Hughie swung himself round him.
But Hughie paid no heed to Tom's growl, unless, indeed, to repeat his offense, with the result that, as he flew off, Tom caught him a kick that hastened his flight and laid him flat on his back amid the laughter of the boys.
"Tom," said Hughie, gravely and slowly, so that they all stood listening, "do you know what you kick like ?" The boys stood waiting.
"A h-e-i-p-h-e-r." In a moment Tom had him by the neck, and after a cuff or two, sent him flying, with a warning to keep to himself.
But Hughie, with a saucy answer, was off again on his game, circling as near Tom Finch as he dared, and being as exasperating as possible, till Tom looked as if he would like a chance to pay him off.