His voice had risen with every sentence, and on the last it broke. Joshua Cole was near to tears. He was at once angry and frightened at his own audacity. But he had long been at war with his teacher and knew the injustice of the man.
“I won’t stand it!” he cried hotly again. “You just take it out on me by whippin’ Lester. And—and I just won’t stand it, that’s all!”
“Sit down!” thundered from the platform a second time.
Lester’s lagging steps had brought him to the hall door. Reluctantly he laid a hand on the knob.
“Go into the hall, I told you, Lester!” said the teacher, glancing toward him briefly.
Lester opened the door, all hope gone, and closed it behind him.
“Now, Joshua Cole, are you going to obey me? Once more—sit down!”
“I won’t set down!” said Joshua, pale as death, but in his blue-gray eyes that light of unshakable resolve which was later to prove the determining factor in his career.
Just what might be gained by his refusal to sit down Joshua did not know. He was not reasoning at all; he was merely in revolt against a long-standing tyranny. And, boylike, he had resorted to unreasoning obstinacy to show his attitude.
For a silent moment Silvanus Madmallet glared at him, his own face white and rigid. Then he arose briskly, went to the closet, and returned with a leather strap.