But Mr. Boniface was wily. He had watched Irving Wilde’s methods with the boys, and had come to the conclusion that they were worth imitating. He was gradually schooling himself until he had lost something of his old excitable manner, and could more easily meet the little annoyances that came to him, day after day. Now at length he was to attempt his master-stroke and see if he could win over his arch-enemy, for so he regarded Max. Directly after dinner, he went out for a long, rapid walk in the clear, cold air, and came in with every sense so quickened and refreshed from the hour of active exercise, that he felt himself ready for the coming interview.
Punctually at three, there came a knock at his door. For a moment the teacher’s courage failed. He could more easily face the whole examining board of a missionary association, than one solitary, mischievous schoolboy. But it was too late to draw back, so, as cordially as he could, he told Max to enter.
Max strolled into the room, with his hands stuck into his trousers pockets, and stood leaning against the table with a carelessness which somehow failed to agree with the little troubled look in the blue eyes. Not only was Master Max rather anxious to know what was in store for him, but his conscience, too, was beginning to be uncomfortably active. His burning the rubber seemed not quite so funny to him as it had done in the time of it, or as it would have done if Mr. Boniface had been very angry, instead of so quiet about it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, while he listened to hear his teacher come to the subject in hand.
“Sit down, Eliot,” said Mr. Boniface, motioning him to a chair.
Max obeyed, with an unhappy feeling that this lessened his chance of flight. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and carefully fitted the tips of his fingers together, bestowing a little extra attention on the thumbs. Suddenly Mr. Boniface turned to him.
“Eliot, what am I going to do with you?” he asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” answered Max, half-defiantly, half-meekly.
“I don’t know as I do, either,” said. Mr. Boniface, with a smile. Then he went on quite seriously. “Eliot, suppose we forget for a while that we are teacher and pupil, and have a little talk, as one man would to another.”
Mr. Boniface had struck the right chord. At this appeal to his manhood, Max straightened up suddenly and looked his teacher squarely in the eyes as he went on,—
“You’ll admit, won’t you, Eliot, that you were guilty of a great rudeness this morning? I was doing my best to carry on the work for which I am here, and you deliberately and purposely tried to break up my class. Isn’t it so?”