"Where's your riot, principal? Is this what you termed a mutiny?"
Mr. Cantwell, who had gone to his post behind the desk, appeared to find difficulty in answering.
"Humph!" muttered the chief, and, turning, strode from the room.
His three policemen followed.
Then there came indeed an awkward silence.
Submaster Drake had abandoned the center of the stage to the principal. Mr. Cantwell found himself at some loss for words. But at last he began:
"Young ladies and young gentlemen, I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret the occurrences of this morning. Discipline is one of my greatest ideals, and this morning's mutiny——-"
He felt obliged to pause there, for an angry murmur started on the boys' side, and traveled over to where the girls were seated:
"This morning's mutiny——-" began the principal again.
The murmur grew louder. Mr. Cantwell looked up, more of fear than of anger in his eyes. Mr. Drake, who stood behind the principal, held up one hand appealingly. It was that gesture which saved the situation at that critical moment. The boys thought that if silence would please Mr. Drake, then he might have it.
"Pardon me, sir," whispered Drake in Cantwell's ear. "I wouldn't harp on the word mutiny, sir. Express your regret for the injury unintentionally done Bristow."