Even the teacher glanced at his new breeches. Willie paused in his sum and looked at them with satisfaction himself. Then he walked back to his bench, and the corduroy spoke again—“Whist—whist—whist.” It was as musical as the clumping of a new pair of red topped boots.
As he slid into his place on his bench, Red Head turned his face and made a mouth.
“Don't you think you're smart, Whistle Breeches?” he whispered.
“Whist—whist,” said the breeches in reply, as Willie moved, and every eye in the school seemed to gaze on him, not enviously as before, but sneeringly. Who'd want whistle breeches?
When the recess bell rang, Willie walked to the playground with short steps, but still the corduroy whistled. Two boys behind him laughed, and Willie burned with shame. They must be laughing at his new breeches. Bessie Clayton passed him, and he stood motionless, crowded against the wall, until she was out of hearing.
He paused in the doorway timidly. Red Head was standing just outside, one shoulder turned toward Freckles Redmond. It was the signal for a fight, and the small boys were crowded about them.
“Aw, you're one yourself,” Red Head was saying, “an' you dassan't say it agin. I dare you to say it,” he cried, but he caught sight of Willie. “Huh!” he shouted. “Look here, fellers! Here's Whistle Breeches. Let's spit on 'em!”