A PITCHED BATTLE Has my youthful reader ever seen a dog slinking home with downcast look and tall between his legs?
It was with very much the same air that Pietro in the evening entered the presence of the padrone.

He had received a mortifying defeat, and now he had before him the difficult task of acknowledging it.
"Well, Pietro," said the padrone, harshly, "where is Filippo ?" "He is not with me," answered Pietro, in an embarrassed manner.
"Didn't you see him then ?" demanded his uncle, hastily.
For an instant Pietro was inclined to reply in the negative, knowing that the censure he would incur would be less.

But Phil might yet be taken--he probably would be, sooner or later, Pietro thought--and then his falsehood would be found out, and he would in consequence lose the confidence of the padrone.

So, difficult though it was, he thought it politic to tell the truth.
"Si, signore, I saw him," said he.
"Then why didn't you drag him home ?" demanded his uncle, with contracted brow.

"Didn't I tell you to bring him home ?" "Si, signore, but I could not." "Are you not so strong as he, then ?" asked the padrone, with a sneer.
"Is a boy of twelve more than a match for you, who are six years older ?" "I could kill him with my little finger," said Pietro, stung by this taunt, and for the moment he looked as if he would like to do it.
"Then you didn't want to bring him?
Come, you are not too old for the stick yet." Pietro glowed beneath his dark skin with anger and shame when these words were addressed to him.