“Look a-here, Miss Bayley,” he blurted out, “my wife and me aren’t at all satisfied with your actions. It’s us chiefly that supports this school and pays your salary.”
The teacher’s eyebrows lifted questioningly. “Indeed?” she said. “I thought this was a public school in the Genoa district.”
Mr. Archer was obliged to confess that, in one way, it was. “But it’s my taxes, mostly, that pays your salary,” he contended.
“When taxes are paid into the county treasury, the money is no longer yours,” Miss Bayley told him. “It belongs to the people to be spent for the best interest of the entire community.”
The young teacher’s manner was quiet, but she spoke as one who knew.
Mrs. Archer, unable to longer remain silent, burst forth with: “You might as well understand, once for all, that Mr. Sethibald Archer is boss of this here school, and what he says goes. Mr. Samuel Clayburn, the banker, he as is head of the board of education over in Genoa, told Mr. Archer that as long as everything went along all right, he’d not interfere with my husband’s management of this here school district.”
The ponderous woman rose, and her expression was one of triumph. Mr. Archer nodded his agreement. “That’s just what the Honorable Clayburn said, and so, if you’re wanting to remain in this here school, you’d better not be setting those no-account Martin children up over our Jessica. Now, are you coming with us, Miss Bayley?”
To their unconcealed amazement, the young teacher mutinied.
“No,” she said quietly, “I am not. I consider my free time my own to do with as I wish, and I do not wish to go anywhere this evening.”
A dull red suffused the face of Mr. Sethibald Archer. “Miss Bayley,” he sputtered, “this here term ends the middle of December. You can pack up your baggage and be ready to leave the day after.”