“Sign it, master! You got to sign it! H-i-l-l-e-l H-e-m-p-s-t-e-a-d, Hillel Hempstead. Sign it!” still yelled the dissonant chorus within.
“Ingrates! Thankless cubs! Good instruction has been wasted on ye! Open the door, that I may flog it out of ye!”
“No—no—no, master, you can’t come in!” retorted the young rebels. “You have got to sign that, and promise not to whip us!”
“Compacts with a mob! Truces with rebels! Never!” shouted the wordy old schoolmaster.
“Parley is at an end. Prepare to suffer. You shall have your deserts.”
Master Hempstead hurled the walnut chip back in at the window—where it caused lively dodging of youthful heads—and made ready for active operations.
At the wood-pile hard by lay a small hickory log, some ten feet in length and four or five inches in diameter. Heaving this up in his arms, he ran with it full tilt against the door, delivering a blow which made the whole house tremble and started the latch-bar in its socket.
“Hear that, ungrateful hearts!” he vociferated. “I am now illustrating to ye the principle of the battering-ram, which played so noble a part in the wars of antiquity. Vespasian and Titus employed it against the gates of stiff-necked Jerusalem. And thus do I batter in the gate of this stronghold of young deviltry!”
He came bang! against the door again, this time with such effect that the latch gave way and the benches were pushed back.
Yet again the doughty pedagogue drew back, and panting hard, made another staggering rush with his improvised ram. This time the shock was so forceful that everything gave way, so suddenly that both master and “ram” fell in headlong at the doorway.