"That's a nice smile you wear," said Mr. Johnston scathingly as he gazed down at Billy, his bony fingers caressing the long, supple pointer.
"Glad you like it," said Billy.
"Eh? What's that?" Mr. Johnston fairly recoiled in surprise and indignation at the affront to his dignity. "Silence! boys and girls," he shouted, as a titter ran through the schoolroom.
"Now young man," he said grimly, grasping one of Billy's hands and pulling it forward and out, "I'm going to drive that happy smile from your face."
"You're a'goin' to find that some job," said Billy quietly.
"Well, we'll see, young Mr. Impudence." The long pointer rose and fell. Billy caught the stroke full on his palm. His face whitened with pain, but the smile did not leave his lips.
"Your other hand," commanded Mr. Johnston.
He bent forward to grasp the hand which Billy raised slowly, thereby dodging a stone ink-bottle hurled by Maurice Keeler. At it was the bottle struck the blackboard and broke, deluging the teacher's face with a sable spray.
Billy turned quickly. "No more of that," he said. "This is my funeral—and the teacher's. Everybody else keep out of it."
He squared his shoulders and held out his hand. The pointer came down with all the strength that the man dared put behind it. Johnston peered closely into the boy's face. It was white and quivering but it still wore a smile.