The caressing clasp of Teacher's hands grew into a grip of anger. The countenance of Mr. O'Shea took on the beatified expression of the prophet who has found honour and verification in his own country.
"The best of boys has his off days and this is one of them," he remarked.
"Morris," said Teacher, "did you stop a reading lesson to tell me that?
Do you think I don't know what the year is? I'm ashamed of you."
Never had she spoken thus. If the telling had been difficult to Morris when she was "glad on him," it was impossible now that she was a prey to such evident "mad feelings." And yet he must make some explanation. So he murmured: "Teacher, I tells you 'scuse. I know you knows what year stands, on'y it's polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid."
"And so you bothered your Teacher with that nonsense," said Tim. "You're a nice boy!"
Morris's eyes were hardly more appealing than Teacher's as the two culprits, for so they felt themselves, turned to their judge.
"Morris is a strange boy," Miss Bailey explained. "He can't be managed by ordinary methods—"
"And extraordinary methods don't seem to work to-day," Mr. O'Shea interjected.
"—and I think," Teacher continued, "that it might be better not to press the point."
"Oh, if you have no control over him—" Mr. O'Shea was beginning pleasantly, when the Principal suggested: