All the time, Jim Irwin, awkward and uncouth, clad in his none-too-good Sunday suit and trying to hide behind his Lincolnian smile the fact that he was pretty badly frightened and much embarrassed, passed among them, getting them enrolled, setting them to work, wasting much time and laboring like a heavy-laden barge in a seaway.
“That feller’ll never do,” said Bonner to Bronson next day. “Looks like a tramp in the schoolroom.”
“Wearin’ his best, I guess,” said Bronson.
“Half the kids call him ‘Jim,’” said Bonner.
“That’s all right with me,” replied Bronson.
“The room was as noisy as a caucus,” was Bonner’s next indictment, “and the flure was all over corn like a hog-pin.”
“Oh! I don’t suppose he can get away with it,” assented Bronson disgustedly, “but that boy of mine is as tickled as a colt with the whole thing. Says he’s goin’ reg’lar this winter.”
“That’s because Jim don’t keep no order,” said Bonner. “He lets Newt do as he dam pleases.”
“First time he’s ever pleased to do anything but deviltry,” protested Bronson. “Oh, I suppose Jim’ll fall down, and we’ll have to fire him—but I wish we could git a good teacher that would git hold of Newt the way he seems to!”