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surprised when the largest of the enemy, a boy named David Howell, came up behind them and pulled on the hood of Laurie’s jacket. When Laurie said “Hey!”—and we all agreed he was perfectly justified—David spat at him, pronounced half a dozen forbidden epithets, and finally struck him. Laurie’s two friends took no active part in the battle, partly because David was bigger than any of them and partly because, as they explained at great length, they felt strongly that it was Laurie’s fight and interference would not be sporting. They had come home with Laurie, however, to be his witnesses and to see that justice was done.
    â€œWhat did you do to David?” I asked my husband.
    â€œI said you’d tell his mother,” he said virtuously.
    I have seen David’s mother, have even spoken to her at P.-T.A. meetings. She is one of those impressive women who usually head committees on supervising movies, taking the entire sixth grade on a tour of one of our local factories, or outlawing slingshots, and I daresay she would be the first person everyone would think of if there should arise an occasion for the mothers to lift the school building and carry it bodily to another location. I felt very strongly, as a matter of fact, that bringing David’s mother into this incident was a grave tactical error.
    But there were the four of them looking at me trustingly-five, if you count Jannie, who was saying “Poor, poor Laurie,” and rubbing his head violently.
    â€œI’ll phone her right away,” I said, trying to make it sound resolute and threatening. After some unavoidable fumbling with the telephone book I found the Howells’ number and finally, with everyone sitting around the phone expectantly, cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders, and briskly gave the number to the operator. After a minute, a strong, no-nonsense voice said “Hello?”
    â€œHello,” I said faintly, “is this Mrs. Howell?”
    â€œYes,” she said. She sounded quite civil, so I changed my mind and said as politely as I could, “Mrs. Howell, I don’t know if your boy David has told you about attacking my son Laurie on his way home from school today, but I thought I’d better call you anyway and see if we can’t do something about it.” Realizing that I had ended a little weakly, I added, “Laurie is quite badly hurt.”
    Laurie looked up, gratified, and nodded. “Tell her I’m dead,” he said.
    â€œMrs. Howell,” I said into the phone, scowling at Laurie, “I do think that a boy so much bigger than Laurie —a boy so much bigger, as David is—I mean, David is so much bigger than Laurie that I do think—”
    All this time Mrs. Howell had been silent. Now she said amiably, “I quite agree with you, of course. But I can’t quite believe this of David; David is such a quiet boy. Is your little boy sure it wasn’t David Williams or David Martin?”
    â€œAre you sure it wasn’t David Williams or David Martin?” I asked hopefully of the audience beyond the telephone. They all shook their heads violently, and one of Laurie’s friends—the one who ran—said enthusiastically, “I know David Howell, and it was him all right. Anyway, he’s always doing things like this. Two, three times now, he’s hit Laurie. And me, too. He hits everybody.”
    â€œIt was certainly your David,” I said to Mrs. Howell. “They all agree on that. He picked a fight with Laurie on the way home from school and really hurt Laurie quite badly.”
    â€œWell,” she said. “I’ll certainly speak to David,” she added after a minute.
    â€œThank you,” I said, perfectly content to depart with this empty triumph, but my husband said, “Tell her he was fresh to me, too.”
    â€œHe was fresh to my husband, too,” I said obediently into the