Introverted, repressed, feeling of inferiority—these were the tags she applied to him.

She arranged games during the gymnasium hour, and attempted to arouse Edmond to compete. She paired him with one or another of the children in races, jumping contests, competitions of various sorts.

She appointed him to drop the handkerchief when that game was in progress, and in various ways tried to direct him in paths she thought proper from her three-months study of the subject.

Edmond realized the situation with some disfavor. He promptly and coolly obtained an excuse from physical training, displaying his curious hands as a reason. In some ways he paid for his privilege; the excuse drew the attention of his classmates to his manual deformity. They commented on it in the blunt manner of ten-year-olds, and were continually asking to see the questionable fingers. Edmond obligingly wriggled them for their amusement; he saw in this the easiest attainment of the privacy he desired. And after a while interest did fade; he was permitted again to come and go alone.

He was not, of course, spared entirely in the fierce savagery of childhood. Often enough he was the butt of gibes, the recipient of challenges to fight, or the bearer of a derisive, though usually short-lived, sobriquet. He faced all of these ordeals with a stony indifference. He came and went as he had always done alone. If he held any resentment, he never showed it, with but possibly one exception.

He was in the sixth grade, and just twelve years old. In every grade, as he had noticed, there had been one leader, one boy who assumed mastery, and whom the others obeyed with a sort of loose discipline. For two years this leader had been Paul—Paul Varney, son of an English professor at nearby Northwestern University, a fine blond youngster, clean-featured, large for his age, intelligent, and imaginative. Very grown up was Paul; he dated with little Evanne Marten in the fifth grade in Platonic imitation of his elders. It was his custom and his privilege to walk home each afternoon with Vanny, who had the blackest hair in school. And it was Paul who coined the sobriquet “Snake-fingers,” which pursued Edmond most of a week. At the beginning the name gave Edmond a day of torment—not that he minded the epithet, but he hated with a fierce intensity the attention it centered on him. He stalked icily out of the door that afternoon. The nick-name followed him, taken up by others in the cruel hunting-pack of children. A group trailed him, headed by Paul.

At the sidewalk he encountered little black-haired Vanny of the fifth; she took in the situation instantly, and seized his arm.

“Walk with me; Edmond.”

There was a cessation of sound from behind him; this situation was up to Paul. And Paul strode up to Edmond; he was a head taller than his slight opponent.

“Vanny’s walking with me!” he said.

“I’ll walk with whom I please, Paul Varney!” Vanny cut in.

“This guy won’t be able to walk in a minute!” He advanced toward Edmond.

“All right,” said the latter coldly, with a curious intense light in his amber eyes. He doubled the troublesome fingers into curious fists.

“Sure, you’re bigger’n Edmond. Bully!” Vanny taunted Paul. He stopped; whether Vanny’s gibe or Edmond’s defiance had halted him was not evident.

“Can’t fight with girls around,” was his comment, as he swung on his heel. The pack, leaderless, watched the quarry depart.

“Why do they call you Evanne?” asked Edmond as they walked on.

“One grandma’s name was Eva and the other’s name was Anne,” sang Vanny. She had answered the same question numerous times. Her mind reverted to the scene of a moment before. “Why don’t you get mad at Paul once in a while? He rides you too much.”

“Perhaps,” said Edmond. “Sometimes.” He fell silent, and they walked on until they reached Vanny’s home.

“Goodbye, Edmond.” She took the books he had carried for her and skipped into the house. Edmond trudged on alone.

In the morning the quarrel had been forgotten; at least, Paul did not refer to it, and Edmond saw no reason to revive it.