"You'd better let us hear what he has to say, Miss Bailey; make him understand that you are master here." And Teacher, with a heart-sick laugh at the irony of this advice in the presence of the Associate Superintendent, turned to obey.
But Morris would utter no words but these, dozens of times repeated: "I have a fraid." Miss Bailey coaxed, bribed, threatened and cajoled; shook him surreptitiously, petted him openly. The result was always the same: "It's polite I tells you something out, on'y I had a fraid."
"But, Morris, dear, of what?" cried Teacher. "Are you afraid of me?
Stop crying now and answer. Are you afraid of Miss Bailey?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Are you afraid of the Principal?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Are you afraid"—with a slight pause, during which a native hue of honesty was foully done to death—"of the kind gentleman we are all so glad to see?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an."
"Well, then, what is the matter with you? Are you sick? Don't you think you would like to go home to your mother?"
"N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an; I ain't sick. I tells you 'scuse."