that I was badly outclassed. There was only one thing in my favor. I hated Babe Durgon with a bitter loathing that I had been suppressing for years. It all went back to the summer of 1884 when I was eleven years old. Times were hard, and the mill was "down." Father had gone to Pittsburgh to look for work. I was scouring the town of Sharon to pick up any odd job that would earn me a nickel. There were no telephones and I used to carry notes between sweethearts, pass show bills for the "opry," and ring a hand-bell for auctions. An organized charity had opened headquarters on Main Street to collect clothing and money for the destitute families of the workers. I went up there to see if they needed an errand boy. A Miss Foraker—now Mrs. F. H. Buhl—was in charge. She was a sweet and gracious young woman and she explained that they had no pay-roll.

"Everybody works for nothing here," she said. "I get no pay, and the landlord gives us the use of the rooms free. This is a public charity and everybody contributes his services free."

I saw a blue serge boy's suit among the piles of garments. It was about my size and had seen little wear. I thought it was the prettiest suit I had ever seen. I asked Miss Foraker how much money it would take to buy the suit. She said nothing was for sale. She wrapped up the suit and placed the package in my arms, saying, "That's for you, Jimmy."

I raced home and climbed into the attic of our little four-dollar-a-month cottage, and in the stifling heat under the low roof I changed my clothes. Then I proudly climbed down to show my blue suit to my mother. "Where did you get those clothes, James?" she asked gravely.

I told her about Miss Foraker.

"Did you work for them?"

"No; everything is free," I said.

Mother told me to take the suit off. I went to the attic, blinking a tear out of my eyes, and changed into my old rags again. Then mother took the blue suit, wrapped it up carefully and putting it in my hands told me to take it back to Miss Foraker.

"You don't understand, James," she said. "But these clothes are not for people like us. These are to be given to the poor."

I have often smiled as I looked back on it. I'll bet there wasn't a dime in the house. The patches on my best pants were three deep and if laid side by side would have covered more territory than the new blue suit. To take those clothes back was the bitterest sacrifice my heart has ever known.

A few days later there was a fire sale by one of the merchants, and I got the job of ringing the auction bell. Late in the afternoon the auctioneer held up a brown overcoat. "Here is a fine piece of goods, only slightly damaged," he said. He showed the back of the coat where a hole was burned in it. "How much am I offered?"

I knew that I would get fifty cents for my day's work, so I bid ten cents—all that I could spare.

"Sold," said the auctioneer, "for ten cents to the kid who rang the bell all day."

I took the garment home and told my mother how I had bought it for cash in open competition with all the world. My mother and my aunt set to work with shears and needles and built me a suit of clothes out of the brown overcoat. It took a lot of ingenuity to make the pieces come out right. The trousers were neither long nor short. They dwindled down and stopped at my calves, half-way above my ankles. What I hated most was that the seams were not in the right places. It was a patchwork, and there were seams down the front of the legs where the crease ought to be. I didn't want to wear the suit, but mother said it looked fine on me, and if she said so I knew it must be true. I wore it all fall and half the winter.

The first time I went to Sunday-school, I met Babe Durgon. He set up the cry:

This was the first time that my spirit had been hurt. His words were a torment that left a scar upon my very soul. Even to this day when I awake from some bad dream, it is a dream that I am wearing crazy breeches and all the world is jeering at me. It has made me tender toward poor children who have to wear hand-me-downs.

To-day psychologists talk much of the "inferiority complex" which spurs a man forward to outdo himself. But Babe Durgon and I didn't go into these matters as we trudged along through the dark on our way to do battle "over the line." At the foot of the hill, Babe exclaimed:

"What's the use of going any farther? Let's fight here." It was in front of a new building—a church-school half completed. We took off our coats and made belts of our suspenders. Then we squared off and the fight began. Babe rushed me like a wild boar and tried to thrust his deadly thumb into my eye. I threw up my head and his thumb gashed my lips and went into my mouth. The impact almost knocked me over, but my teeth had closed on his thumb and when he jerked back he put me on my balance again. I clouted him on the jaw and knocked him down. He landed in the lime box. The school had not yet been plastered, and the quicklime was in an open pit. I started in after the bully, but stopped to save my pants from the lime. There was a hose near by, and I turned the water on Babe in the lime bath. The lime completely covered him. He was whipped and in fear of his life. Choking and weeping he hollered, "Nuff." We got him out, too weak to stand, and gently leaned him up in a corner of the school building. There we left the crushed bully and returned to town. But before I went I gave him this parting shot:

"Do you know why I licked you, Babe? It wasn't what you said in the tavern that made me mad. I didn't want a glass of beer, and you were right in saying I was a minor. Where you made your mistake was when you made fun of my breeches, seven years ago. And do you remember that blue suit you had on at the time? I know where you got that blue suit of clothes, and I know who had it before you got it. If you still think that a bully in charity clothes can make fun of a boy in clothes that he earned with his own labor, just say so, and I'll give you another clout that will finish you."

All bullies, whether nations, parties or individuals, get licked in the same way. They outrage some one's self-respect, and then the old primordial cyclone hits them.

CHAPTER II. A TRAIT OF THE WELSH PEOPLE

My family is Welsh, and I was born in Tredegar, Wales. David and Davies are favorite names among the Welsh, probably because David whipped Goliath, and mothers named their babies after the champion. The Welsh are a small nation that has always had to fight against a big nation. The idea that David stopped Goliath seemed to reflect their own national glory. The ancient invasions that poured across Britain were stopped in Wales, and they never could push the Welshmen into the sea.

The Welsh pride themselves on hanging on. They are a nation that has never been whipped. Every people has its characteristics. "You can't beat the Irish" is one slogan, "You can't kill a Swede" is another, and "You can't crowd out a Welshman" is a motto among the mill people.

I didn't want to leave Wales when my parents were emigrating. Though I was not quite eight years old I decided I would let them go without me. The last act of my mother was to reach under the bed, take hold of my heels and drag me out of the house feet first. I tried to hang on to the cracks in the floor, and tore off a few splinters to remember the old homestead by. I never was quite satisfied with that leave-taking, and nearly forty years later when I had car fare, I went back to that town. I never like to go out of a place feet first, and I cleared my record this time by walking out of my native village, head up and of my own free will.

On that