“I—I s’pose so,” said Max, glaring down at his folded hands, as if they were in some way to blame for his present position.
“But why did you do it?” went on Mr. Boniface, pursuing his advantage unrelentingly.
“Fun,” answered Max laconically.
“Which was the fun,” inquired Mr. Boniface, “to sicken us all, yourself among the rest, with a disagreeable smell, or to interrupt the class for ten minutes and make the school work so much longer at noon? Whichever way you put it, Eliot, it strikes me that the game isn’t worth the candle, as they say, and the trick reacts on you and the other boys, as much as on myself.”
Max raised his head at this.
“Honestly, Mr. Boniface, the other boys weren’t in it a bit. Nobody else had anything to do with it.”
“Is this your glass?” asked Mr. Boniface, taking it from the table and pointing to the initials H. P. A. cut in the handle.
“That’s Hal Arnold’s,” answered Max. “I borrowed it of him yesterday; but I didn’t tell him what I wanted of it. I knew if I did, he wouldn’t let me take it,” he added, with an artless confession that he knew he was in the wrong.
“That’s as much as to say you knew you were doing something to be ashamed of,” said Mr. Boniface slowly.
“I was; and what’s more, I believe I am a little ashamed,” answered Max honestly. “I did just want to see if that glass would burn rubber, and it was a splendid place to try. The other fellows did look so astonished; didn’t they?” And Max laughed at the memory.