CHAPTER III.
THE GREAT FIGHT "Martin!" said the school-master, in a severe tone, looking up from the book with which he was engaged, "don't look out at the window, sir; turn your back to it." "Please, sir, I can't help it," replied the boy, trembling with eagerness as he stared across the fields.
"Turn your back on it, I say!" reiterated the master in a loud tone, at the same time striking the desk violently with his cane.
"Oh, sir, let me out! There's Bob Croaker with my kitten.

He's going to drown it.

I know he is,--he said he would; and if he does aunty will die, for she loves it next to me; and I _must_ save it, and--and, if you _don't_ let me out--you'll be a murderer!" At this concluding burst, Martin sprang forward and stood before his master with clenched fists and a face blazing with excitement.

The schoolmaster's gaze of astonishment gradually gave place to a dark frown strangely mingled with a smile, and, when the boy concluded, he said quietly--"You may go." No second bidding was needed.

The door flew open with a bang; and the gravel of the play-ground, spurned right and left, dashed against the window panes as Martin flew across it.