“Well, Boy McTavish, is it you?”
Young McTavish half crouched, then quickly drew himself up again.
“Yes, it’s me, teacher,” he said. “What I want to know is, did you tell her?”
“Yes, I told her.”
“All right, get out of my way, then.”
“Wait a moment, Boy,” returned the man. “You understand, don’t you, that it is my duty to report all pupils who do not attend school regularly?”
The boy changed his position so that the moonlight would fall full upon the face of the man before him.
“Do you suppose I care for your reportin’ me?”
The tone was wondering, contemptuous.
“Why, teacher, you can’t hurt me, and you know it. Do you suppose I was thinkin’ of myself when I asked you not to tell her? And do you suppose any man would have done what you’ve done?”