That noon Willie remained in the schoolroom until the boys had gone. Some went home for dinner, and the rest ate their lunches under the oak tree at the side of the school. When the room was clear, Willie stole out by the back way and ran rapidly up the alley. He knew he was branded for life; The shame of the name of Whistle Breeches bore him down. He meditated wild plans for getting rid of the offending garment. He would burn it, lose it in the river.
He even considered running away from home.
After dinner he slipped quietly away from the table, crept up to his room under the slanting roof, and put on his old, patched breeches. He came down quietly, but his mother caught him tiptoeing through the hall.
“Why, Willie,” she said, “where are your new trousers, dear?”
“Up-stairs,” he said simply. “I don't want to wear them They—they're too tight.”
His mother saw the prevarication in the droop of his head.
“Nonsense!” she answered lightly. “They fit you perfectly, dear. If they are a little stiff now, they will soon wear soft. Go up and put them on.”