throbbing, a wild scurry for freedom and--
"John!" Miss Brown's voice brought him rudely back to present day
surroundings. He rose uncertainly, dimly conscious that his name had
been called.
"Yes, 'm," he stammered.
"What was I telling the class just now?"
He strove to collect his scattered faculties. Then his glance, roaming the
room, caught at the newly written problems on the blackboard. He
ventured an uncertain smile.
"You--w-was telling--" he began.
"'Were,' John."
"Yes, 'm," nervously. "Were telling the class to be sure and write plain,
and not to use pen and ink if we couldn't get along without blots
and--and--" What else did Miss Brown usually say to the class on such
an occasion?
Over in the far corner of the room, Sid DuPree snickered maliciously.
The boy two seats ahead of him turned with an exultant grin on his
freckled face. Several little girls seemed on the verge of foolish,
discipline-dispelling giggles, and he felt that something had gone
wrong. Teacher, herself, ended the suspense.
"Very good, John. Your inventive faculties do you credit. But it
happens that as yet, I haven't said anything."
The class broke into uproarious laughter while he stood in the aisle, to
all appearances, a submissive, conscience-stricken little mortal.
Inwardly he seethed with anger. What right had Miss Brown to trick a
fellow that way? It was mean, it was cowardly, worse than stealing.
"Now, John," she continued, looking sternly down from the raised
platform, "I spoke just six times to you last week. Finally you promised
me that you would pay strict attention. What have you to say for
yourself?"
He shot her a half-frightened glance and found her face seemingly stern
and remorseless. He had been tempted to explain how the great
out-of-doors called to him with an insistence which was irresistible, but
shucks, she wouldn't understand. How was he to know that under the
surface of it all, she sympathized with the culprit daydreamer
exceedingly? So he hung his head in silence.
There was a knock at the door. Miss Brown dismissed him with a curt
nod. He sank thankfully into his desk as Sid DuPree sprang forward to
admit the newcomer--a new girl and her mother. From the shelter of his
big geography, John surveyed the couple with that calmly critical stare
which only a ten-year-old is master of.
The mother was nice, he decided. Fat ones always were. It was your
long, thin woman who made trouble. Look at old lady Meeker, who
lived next the vacant lot on Southern Avenue, where the boys gathered
occasionally on their way from school for a game of marbles or to play
split-top on one of the loose, decayed fence planks. Never did a glassy
go spinning from the big dirt ring through a dexterous shot, or a soft,
evenly grained top split cleanly to the spear head amid the proper
shouts of approval than her fretful, piercing voice put an end to further
fun. Such goings-on made her head ache, she averred time and again. If
they didn't leave immediately, she'd telephone the police station. Once
she had said it was a "wonder some parents wouldn't keep their
children in their own back yards." She forgot that half the gang lived in
apartment buildings with back yards only designed for clothes-drying
apparatus, and that the other half lived in houses built upon so cramped
an acreage that the yards were no fun to play in. But grown-ups were in
the habit of committing such oversights--especially the skinny, cranky
ones.
As for the little girl--ah! she was good to look upon.
Her chestnut hair hung in curly ringlets below her shoulders, almost to
the waist of her little white frock. Her face held a slight pallor which
was strangely fascinating to the sun-tanned urchin, and her eyes were a
deep, rich brown. As the conversation ended between teacher and
parent, she left the platform and walked to the front seat assigned her in
a timid, shrinking way which stamped her as just the sort of a girl the
fellows would make miserable on the slightest provocation. John's face
set in an expression of heroic determination until he looked as if he'd
swallowed a dose of castor oil!
[Illustration: He imagines himself a hero.]
He'd like to catch Sid DuPree dancing around her in maddening circles,
some afternoon, while she shrank piteously from each cry of "'Fraid cat!
'Fraid cat!" Or that bully might throw pieces of chalk at her or pelt her
with snowballs in the winter time until she broke into incoherent sobs.
Then he, John Fletcher, would show that Sid where he got off at. He'd
punch his face in, he would!
The school room door closed upon the mother's broad back, and the
hum of excitement at the departure
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