He then commenced with the boy nearest him, calling upon them separately to read—first a boy, then a girl, in regular succession. They made their own selections, and with varied success. There were some good readers, none very bad, until they reached Teddy. He stepped upon the platform, and read “Casabianca” somewhat in this style:—
“‘The boy stood on the—b-u-r-n-i-n-g—burning deck,
Whence—whence—whence all butim had sled—no, fled;
The flames that lit the batil wreck
Shine—shown—show—round him o’er the dead;’”
which, of course, excited a laugh. It was now Becky’s turn, and she was called. She did not move. She could read no better than Teddy, and she was determined not to be laughed at.
“Becky Sleeper, take the platform!” said the teacher, in a stern voice.
“I won’t—there! I didn’t come to school to you: Mr. Drinkwater’s my teacher.”
Harry Thompson stepped from his desk. The lower jaw came up with an ominous snap. He went to where Becky sat kicking the form before her, and looked down at her. She appeared so little, that his anger at her sauciness vanished at once.