'Yes, ma’am. Good-bye.—Teacher.'
'Yes, Bennie?'
'Do you think you can do something—something—about his record? David feels dreadful because he’s broke his record. He never missed school before, you know. It’s—it’s too bad to see him cry. He’s always so quiet, you know, kind of like grown people. He don’t fight or tease or anything. Do you think you can, teacher?'
Miss Ralston was touched by this tribute to her pupil, but she could not promise to mend the broken record.
'Tell David not to worry. He has the best record in the school, for attendance and everything. Tell him I said he must hurry and get well, as we must rehearse our pieces for Washington’s Birthday.'
The next morning Bennie reeled off a longer story than ever. He described the doctor’s visit in great detail, and Miss Ralston was relieved to gather that David’s ailment was nothing worse than grippe; unless, as the doctor warned, his run-down condition caused complications. He would be in bed a week or more, in any case, 'and he ought to sleep most of the time, the doctor said.'
'I guess the doctor don’t know our David!' Bennie scoffed. 'He never wants at all to go to sleep. He reads and reads when everybody goes to bed. One time he was reading all night, and the lamp went out, and he was afraid to go downstairs for oil, because he’d wake somebody, so he lighted matches and read little bits. There was a heap of burned matches in the morning.'
'Dear me!' exclaimed Miss Ralston. 'He ought not to do that. Your father ought not—Does your father allow him to stay up nights?'
'Sure. My father’s proud because he’s going to be a great man; a doctor, maybe.' He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, 'What may not a David become?'
'David is funny, don’t you think, teacher?' the boy went on. 'He asks such funny questions. What do you think he said to the doctor?'