“Well, I think I prefer Smythe,” replied Mr. Boniface.
“You’re welcome to him; I don’t want him,” answered Lieutenant Wilde. “Life is something besides committing schoolbooks to memory; put the two boys into the same emergency, and balance the selfish conceit of Smythe against the quick, impetuous generosity of Eliot, and tell me which will do more to help on his fellow-men. Smythe is just the boy to put behind a counter, to sell ribbons and tape and spools of thread; Eliot, if he keeps straight, will be a man from whom we shall hear, sometime or other. In the meantime, he’s neither saint nor sinner, but a genuine, healthy American boy, and taken at its best, there’s no better race in the world.”
The door closed behind him, and Luke Boniface sat down to read, feeling unusually at peace with the boys, even to Max himself. Fortunately he knew nothing of the mischief which was just then being plotted by the boy, who was restless with the concentrated impishness developed by his four days’ holiday. Had he suspected, his quiet, restful mood might have been rudely disturbed; now, as it was, he could enjoy it to the utmost.
Next morning, the lessons were under full headway. In the large school-room, left in the charge of Mr. Boniface, the seniors were having a recitation, while the members of the junior and second classes were deep in their work. Over in a sunny corner by the window, sat Max, in his favorite position, with his bent head held firmly between his hands, covering his ears from disturbing sounds. All at once, two or three of the boys near him raised their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously. A faint sickening odor began to be noticeable, and rapidly increased, filling the air and penetrating even to the teacher’s desk, at the far side of the room. In his turn, Mr. Boniface raised his head and looked wonderingly about, as if seeking the source of this fragrance, whose mystery was only equalled by its pungency. Nothing was to be seen to account for the phenomenon. Although some of the boys were beginning to choke, and Louis sat with his nose buried in his daintily-scented handkerchief, Max alone seemed undisturbed in his work, and paid no heed to the sensation in the room. At length it could be endured no longer, and Mr. Boniface said,—
“Please open a window, Campbell.”
Stanley rose to do his bidding. As he moved across the floor, he glanced at Max, surprised at his unusual interest in his lesson; then, for the first time in his whole school life, Stanley Campbell lost all consciousness of where he was, and burst into an irrepressible laugh. Carefully arranged on the knee of Max, in the full glare of the sunshine, lay a smoldering lump of india-rubber, mounted on a bit of iron, and above it, just where it would focus the rays of light upon it, was a powerful lens, for the moment converted from a magnifier into a burning-glass.
In a moment, too soon for Max to remove his apparatus, Mr. Boniface stood beside him. Silently he stretched out his hand; silently Max put into it the glass and bit of rubber, noting, with a naughty satisfaction, that his teacher winced as the hot mass dropped into his palm. Then Mr. Boniface said quietly,—
“Come to my room at three this afternoon, Eliot.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Max, with unwonted meekness.
That was all. Mr. Boniface returned to his class and Max fell to studying with a will, though pausing now and then, while he turned over a leaf, to speculate as to what direful punishment was in store for him. There seemed something ominous in the calm, collected manner of the teacher, and Max wondered if he were aware of the doctor’s strong prejudice against corporal punishment. Like most boys, Max disliked the idea of being whipped, not only on account of the hurt, but also because he had a vague idea that it took from his manliness, and put him on a level with dogs and horses and very small babies. Still, he would pay the penalty for his fun, and take the consequences as easily as he could.