“Please, ma'am,” squeals a little girl, “that is Harold Watson's dog, Spot.”
“Harold Watson,” says she to Freckles, “don't you know it's strictly against the rules to bring dogs to school?”
“Yes'm,” says Freckles, getting red in the face.
“Then why did you do it?”
“I didn't, ma'am,” says he. “He's just come visitin' like.”
“Harold,” says she, “don't be impudent. Step forward.”
He stepped toward her desk, and she put her hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from her, and she grabbed him by the collar. No dog likes to see a grown-up use his boy rough, so I moved a little nearer and growled at her.
“Answer me,” she says, “why did you allow this beast to come into the schoolroom?”
“Spot ain't a beast,” says Freckles. “He's my dog.” She stepped to the stove and picked up a poker, and come toward me. I dodged, and ran to the other side of her desk, and all the scholars laughed. That made her mad, and she made a swipe at me with that poker, and she was so sudden that she caught me right in the ribs, and I let out a yelp and ran over behind Freckles.
“You can't hit my dog like that!” yelled Freckles, mad as a hornet. “No teacher that ever lived could lick my dog!” And he burst out crying, and ran out of the room, with me after him.