"'Tain't fair 'n' square," said Tom Linley; "not jest eggzac'ly."
"Gosh! B'lieve I'll run away," said Joe, after a pause. "Ain' no fun here for me."
"Better not," said Archer Town; "not if ye know when yer well off."
"Why not?"
"Wal, he'd see ye wherever ye was an' do suthin' to ye," said
Archer. "Prob'ly he's heard all we been sayin' here."
"Wal, I ain't said nuthin' I'm 'shamed of," said Sam Beach, thoughtfully.
A bell rang, and all hurried to the schoolhouse. The afternoon was uneventful. Those rough-edged, brawny fellows had become serious. Hope had died in their breasts, and now they looked as if they had come to its funeral. They began to examine their books as one looks at a bitter draught before drinking it. In every subject the teacher took a new way not likely to be hard upon tender feet. For each lesson he had a method of his own. He angled for the interest of the class and caught it. With some a term of school had been as a long sickness, lengthened by the medicine of books and the surgery of the beech rod. They had resented it with ingenious deviltry. The confusion of the teacher and some incidental fun were its only compensations. The young man gave his best thought to the correction of this mental attitude. Four o'clock came at last—the work of the day was over. Weary with its tension all sat waiting the teacher's word. For a little he stood facing them.
"Tom Linley and Joe Beach," said he, in a low voice, "will you wait a moment after the others have gone? School's dismissed."
There was a rush of feet and a rattle of dinner pails. All were eager to get home with the story of that day—save the two it had brought to shame. They sat quietly as the others went away. A deep silence fell in that little room. Of a sudden it had become a lonely place.
The teacher damped the fire and put on his overshoes.