The Grammar School Boys of Gridley | Page 2

I know your
rare quality of humor, Master Prescott, and I had promised myself a

treat. My own disappointment in the matter may be cured, but what
about the boys and girls of this class? I know that they are all still eager
to hear a really funny story."
Old Dut paused, glancing impressively about the room. Dick, shifting
first to one foot and then to the other, had not yet succeeded in parting
with much of the fiery color that had flamed up to his cheeks, temples
and forehead.
"Master Prescott," announced the principal, "the class shall not be
deprived of its expected treat. I will tell a story, and I think you will
find some of the elements of humor in it. Will you kindly step this
way?"
Dick went forward, head up and chest thrown out, a look almost of
defiance in his clear, blue eyes as a titter ran around the room.
"Stand right here beside me," coaxed Old Dut. "Now, let me see if I can
remember the story. Yes; I believe I can. It runs something like this."
Then Old Dut began his story. It was a very ordinary one that had to do
with a boy's disobedience of his father's commands. But it had a
"woodshed" end to it.
"So," continued Old Dut, "Johnson took his boy out to the shed. There,
with a sigh as though his heart were breaking, the old man seated
himself on the chopping block. He gathered his son across his
knee--about like this."
Here Principal Jones suddenly caught Dick Prescott and brought that
lad across his own knee. The expectant class now tittered loudly.
"I can't tell this story unless I have quiet," announced Old Dut, glancing
up and around the room with a reproachful look.
Then, after clearing his throat, the principal resumed:
"'Johnny,' said the old man huskily, 'I know what my duty in the matter

really is. I ought to give you a good spanking, like this (whack!). But I
haven't the heart to give you such a blow as you deserve. (Whack!) But
the next time (whack!), I'm going to give you (whack!) just such a good
one (whack! whack!) as you deserve. (Whack! whack!) So, remember,
Johnny (whack!), and don't let me catch you (whack!) disobeying me
again. (Whack! whack!)."
Each "whack" Old Dut emphasized by bringing down his own broad
right hand on Dick's unprotected body.
A few flashing eyes there were in the young audience, and a few
sympathetic glances from the girls, but, for the most part, the class was
now in a loud roar of laughter.
"That's the story," announced Old Dut, gently restoring Dick Prescott to
his feet. "I think you all see the point to it. Perhaps there's a moral to it,
also. I really don't know."
Pallor due to a sense of outraged dignity now struggled for a place in
the red that covered Dick Prescott's face.
"You may go to your seat, Master Prescott."
Dick marched there, without a glance backward.
"Now, that we've had our little indulgence in humor," announced Old
Dut dryly, "we will all return to our studies."
There was silence again in the room, during which the rain outside
began to come down in a flood.
"I'll get the fellows to-night--for that--and we'll carry Old Dut's front
gate off and throw it in the river!" ran vengefully through Dave Darrin's
mind.
"Old Dut needn't look for his late posies to bloom until the frost comes
this year," reflected Greg Holmes, while he pored, apparently, over the
many-colored map of Asia. "I'll get some of the fellows out to-night,

and we'll make a wreck scene in Old Dut's flower beds."
Dick said nothing, even to himself, as he picked up his much-thumbed
book on physiology and turned the pages. He was smarting not only
from the indignity to which he had been treated, but quite as much from
the masterful way in which Old Dut had punctuated that "funny story"
with his broad right hand.
Once in a while Old Dut cast a sly glance in Dick's direction.
"That young man will bear watching," mused the principal, as he
caught a sudden flash in Prescott's eye, as the latter glanced up.
The recitation in arithmetic soon came along. This was one of Dick's
favorite studies, and, wholly forgetting his late experience, so it seemed,
he covered himself with glory in his blackboard demonstration of an
intricate problem in interest and discount.
Then the class settled down to twenty minutes' more study.
"Master Prescott," broke in Old Dut's voice, at last, "did you think my
story a funny one?"
"Pretty fair, sir," answered Dick, looking up and straight into the eyes
of the principal.
"Only 'pretty fair,' eh? Could you tell me a funnier story?"