The little boy's thoughts turned the leaf with as much certainty as though he held a printed book in his hand. He began again on page two at the upper left-hand column and went down it; began on column two and finished that; began on column three—how easy it was!
How often and often and often had he and his mother gone over and over these same old words, laughing because he could spell them with the book upside down or with the book shut!
Wouldn't she be happy when he told her how useful a thing her teachings had proved to be! Her love and her pride inspired him to do his best. And wasn't he glad that his father was sitting on the door-step, ready to encourage him if he got scared!
He kept on pronouncing. Page three went blithely for him and so did page four. Then came five—six—seven; word after word column after column.
The boy stood to it bravely, but the spellers were giving out. Three went down on "phthis-icky" and four on "Ticdouloureux."
Those who remained sharpened their wits and went at the words as though they were splitting rails.
Page after page they conquered. But "asafœtida" was too much for them. Even the schoolma'am wanted two f's in it. She found it hard to give one of them up at the command of a little boy. But he was positive on the subject of one f and the crowd stood with him through perfect faith in his ultimatum. She took her seat. At this the match was over. Every one was spelled down.
The sole survivor was the little boy from Kentucky, who stole away with Doby. He did not stay for the praise the spellers wanted to give him.
Doby thought, "I s'pose he will be all puffed up about himself."