The holiday idea was infectious; it spread like a swift contagion. Everybody was shouting for it now.
Some one turned to Brightly, saying, “Here, Bright, you draw the petition; you can do it.”
“Yes,” cried some one else, “let Bright draw it; he’s literary; he can put it in better shape than any other fellow in school.”
Now Brightly was not averse to compliments; and in no way was his vanity more easily flattered than by favorable comment on his literary ability, which, indeed, was not slight.
Moreover, he felt a certain grim pleasure in the fact that although he had been suspended and disgraced by the authorities, yet when anything was to be done requiring peculiar mental skill and art, he was unanimously selected by the boys of the school to do it. So, followed by a score or more of them, he led the way to the vacant schoolroom, intent on the accomplishment of their desires, thoughtless and careless of what the result might be to himself.
Hastily scribbling what he considered a good form for a petition, he read it to the boys.
“’Taint strong enough,” said one.
“We don’t want so much beggarly humility in it,” said another. “We’ve got a right to a holiday, and we’d best let him know’t we know it.”
“Put it to him fair and square, Bright,” said Fryant. “There’s no use mincing matters; he’s bearing down heavy on us, and we’ve got to meet him on his own ground.”
Thus conjured, Brightly made another effort, this time apparently with better success; for when he read what he had written, they all cried, “Good! that’s good! now copy it!”