It was easy to see why the generous,
good-tempered and pleasant lad failed to satisfy the town boys. John had
been sedulously educated into the belief that he was of a class to which
these fellows did not belong, and of this the Squire had soon some
suspicion when, obedient as always, John accepted his uncle's choice of
his friend the doctor's son as a playmate.
He was having his hair cut when Tom McGregor came into the shop of
Josiah, the barber. "Wait a minute," said John. "Are you through, Mr.
Josiah?"
Tom grinned, "Got a handle to your name?"
"Yes, because Master John is a gentleman."
"Then I'll call you Mister too."
"It won't ever make you Mister," said the barber, "that kind's born so."
John disliked this outspoken expression of an opinion he shared.
"Nonsense," he said. "Come up, Tom, this afternoon. Don't forget the
muskrat traps, Mr. Josiah."
"No, sir. Too early yet."
"All right," returned Tom. "I'll come."
March had come and the last snow still lay on the land when thus invited
Tom joined John and Leila in the stable-yard. "Let's play tag," cried
Leila. Tom was ready.
"Here's a stick." They took hold of it in turn. Tom's hand came out on
top. "I'm tagger. Look out!" he cried.
They played the game. At last he caught Leila, and crying out, "You're
tagged," seized her boy-cap and threw it up on to the steep slope of the
stable roof.
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