The Loafer rolled slowly over on one side and eyed the pedagogue.
“Ben readin’ the almanick lately, hain’t ye?” he drawled.
“If you devoted less time to the almanac and more to physical geography,” retorted the Teacher, “you’d know that the Aurora Borealis hain’t a light made on terra firma but that it is a peculiar magnetic condition of the atmosphere. And the manner in which you pronounce it is exceedingly ludicrous. It’s not a roarinborinallus. It is spelled A-u-r-o-r-a B-o-r-e-a-l-i-s.”
The Loafer sat up, crossed his legs and embraced his knee, thus forming a natural fortification behind which he could collect his thoughts before hurling them at his glib and smiling foe. He gazed dully at his rival a moment; then said suddenly, “My pap was a cute man.”
“He hasn’t left any living monument to his good sense,” said the Teacher.
The Loafer looked at the Storekeeper, who was sitting beneath him on an empty egg-crate. “Do you mind how he use to say that Solerman meant ‘teacher’ ’hen he sayd ‘wine’; how Solerman meant, ‘Look not upon the teacher ’hen he is read,’ fer a leetle learnin’ leaveneth the whole lump an’ puffs him up so——”
The pedagogue’s chair came down on all four legs with a crash. His right thumb left the seclusion of his waistcoat, his right arm shot out straight, and a trembling forefinger pointed at the eyes that were just visible over the top of the white-patched knee.
“See here!” he shouted. “I’m ready for an argyment, but no callin’ names. This is no place for abuse.”
The Loafer resumed his reclining attitude and fixed his gaze on the dim recesses of the ceiling.
“I hain’t callin’ no one names,” he said slowly, “I was jest tellin’ what my pap use to say.”