Let us return to him, the precept-giving sage, the gifted declaimer. As soon as he recovered himself, and found an opportunity to do so, he made good his escape—without even making his adieux to Teacher Meadows! He reached the depot without molestation; but instead of taking the train for the next seminary, to rant on his darling themes, he took the first train for his home, in Boston.
There he lamented the degeneracy of American youth, and trembled for the integrity of the Union if those boys should ever usurp the right of running the machinery of government.
Now, our wondrous-wise philosopher firmly believed the heart to be the seat of courage. Being aware that he had played the poltroon on the occasion of the struggle with the “mad dog,” he became alarmed about the state of that organ, and consulted one of the most eminent physicians of Boston, who gravely informed him that the left ventricle was affected.
Hence you perceive, gentle reader, that the professor must not be censured for deserting his post as he did; for had his heart been in its normal condition, he would have proved a far more formidable antagonist to Tip than the pugnacious grimalkin.
But Teacher Meadows probably suffered most acutely, and he should be pitied most. Let us return to him. After mustering the remaining school children, he demanded threateningly. “Can any of you throw any light on this mysterious affair?”
There was silence—unbroken, except occasionally, by an hysterical “Ah!” or “Oh!” from some tender and cream-faced child, who still quaked with fear.
Soon Will spoke. “The dog is dead, Mr. Meadows,” he said. “I killed him,” with boyish pride, “and I don’t believe he was mad at all; for he was Stephen Goodfellow’s dog.”
“Oh, the dog is dead? Well, let me see it; where is it?” Mr. Meadows said eagerly.
Will led the way to the place where Tip lay dead, and good Mr. Meadows vainly tried to determine whether the dog had been mad or not. Poor man! he was better versed in Latin verbs than in “lycanthropy.”