“Very well, then,” said the visitor with much kindness of tone; “I will ask the little boy at this end”—
“At the foot—but—still, ’tis well. Only—ah, Crébiche! every thing depend! Be prepared, Crébiche!”
“Yes,” said the stranger; “I will ask him to spell hoss.”
The child drew himself up rigidly, pointed his stiffened fingers down his thighs, rounded his pretty red mouth, and said slowly, in a low, melodious, distinct voice:—
“’O-double eth, awth.”
Bonaventure leapt from the platform and ran to the child.
“Ah! mon p’tit garçon—ah! my lil boy! ’O-double eth, listten, my chile. O, sir, he did not hear the word precisely. Listten, my chile, to yo’ teacher! remember that his honor and the school’s honor is in yo’ spelling!” He drew back a step, poised himself, and gave the word. It came like an anchor-chain crashing through a hawse-hole.
“Or-r-r-r-rus-seh!” And the child, winking at vacancy in the intensity of his attention, spelled:—
“Haich-o-r-eth-e, ’Orthe.”
The breathless audience, leaning forward, read the visitor’s commendation in his face. Bonaventure, beaming upon him, extended one arm, the other turned toward the child, and cried, shaking both hands tremulously:—