And a minute later the boy under discussion hove in sight, but so changed in appearance that he seemed another boy. Light-hearted and light-headed Steve was now a haggard, woebegone wretch, who looked as if his conscience had goaded him over the verge of frenzy. From a distance he had heard and seen the uproar at the school; and, far from felicitating himself on the “success” of his trick, he had undergone torments. In fact, the thought had been forced home to him that there is a higher purpose in life than that of playing coarse practical jokes, and that he had frightened the children more than even the orator, Mr. Rhadamanthus.
Yet the boy had at least one good quality; he was always ready to shoulder the blame of his misdoings, and he never tried to take refuge by telling a lie or by distorting the truth.
“Stephen Goodfellow,” began Mr. Meadows, severely, “let me hear you in your defence. According to all accounts, you alone are the guilty one; so give me your version of this scandalous affair.”
“Yes, sir; I did it all;” Steve said, meekly. “It was my dog Tip; but he wasn’t no madder than I was.”
“Then he must have been remarkably sane!” commented the teacher.
We need not weary the reader by detailing the trickster’s “version.” When he had rehearsed his story from beginning to end, Teacher Meadows said, in deliberate and awful tones that cut Steve to the quick, and fairly made his hair stand on end: “I have a few remarks to make, but I will not detain you long. Your ‘trick’ may have been strikingly novel and daring, the inspiration of a genius; but that it was dishonorable and brutal, unworthy of a citizen of this glorious republic, I presume no one will attempt to deny. You have created a great sensation in our peaceful little village, but what you have done will not redound to your credit; you have forfeited the esteem and friendship of your school-fellows; you have, I doubt not, mortally wounded the feelings of Professor Rhadamanthus, the great philosopher and able speaker, as well as cast opprobrium upon our school; you have terrorized the children, and even fatal results might have ensued; and by sequestering yourself from the scene of conflict, you have laid yourself open to the stigma of cowardliness. Though great harm has been done, I will not punish you, for the odium of this affair and the prickings of your conscience will be sufficient punishment. Your dog, the sportive Tip, is dead, as I suppose you know. You will acknowledge that no one except yourself is to be blamed for that. But one word more: I advise you all to hasten to your homes, to try to forget this shameful occurrence, and never to practice cowardly tricks.”
Steve did not know that Tip was dead, and he gave a convulsive gasp and then burst into a flood of tears, for he loved his dog. Poor fellow, his heart was so full of grief and remorse that his eyes mechanically pumped the tears cut of their reservoir. And that reproof! His former misdemeanors had generally been overlooked by the kind-hearted teacher, and this oratorical reproof stung him to the quick.
As for the teacher himself, his own eloquence had a wonderfully soothing effect on him. No one, except a few gaping, trembling school-children, was there to hear him, it is true; but for all that, he was pleased with his little speech, and—surprised at it! In fact, it did his headache as much good as an application of hartshorn and alcohol.
Fearing, perhaps, that the teacher might change his mind and re-open school, the juveniles set off for home at a round pace. Steve was not wholly avoided by the boys; on the contrary, several gathered round him, to condole with him or to blame him, as the case might be. Not a few envied him the “notoriety” to which he had attained.
“Well, Steve, are you a ‘citizen of this republic’ or not?” Charles anxiously inquired. “I couldn’t settle that point from what Mr. Meadows said.”