"Yes, sir," I answered, as I took the knife. I knew every kind of tree growing around the school, and I had a suspicion that Gray-beard did not know the difference between a hickory sapling and some others. I cut two formidable-looking switches of linden, closely resembling hickory. I had time to fully doctor only one of the switches, by driving the knife-blade deep into the wood every two or three inches. When I entered the school-room, Gray-beard took a glance at the switches, then said:
"Alexander and Brush will step to my desk and take off their coats."
The two boys stood in their shirt sleeves; I kept watch of Gray-beard's eyes, and saw that he was going to take Brush first; so when he was ready I handed him the fully doctored switch.
"Is that hickory?" he asked, trying it on the air; "I suspect it isn't."
I made no reply.
"Stand in the middle of the floor," said Gray-beard to Brush.
He did so. Gray-beard brought down the stick heavily on Brush's shoulders, an inch of the sapling broke; then he struck faster and faster, and at each stroke a piece flew off. Brush stood with clenched fists, determined not to show any flinching; but we could see that he felt keenly the blows. He went to his desk, and buried his face in his arms.
"I am afraid this isn't hickory," said Gray-beard, throwing on the floor the stump of the switch. "I know this one is," and he dealt blow after blow on the broad shoulders of Alexander, who gave no sign of pain. The boy stood unmoved, every muscle relaxed, even his hands were open, showing no emotion whatever. The stick was worn out, and Gray-beard threw the stump on the floor.
Aleck put on his coat, then, with head uplifted and unfaltering steps, went to his desk, took his pen, and completed the unfinished word of the motto.