“I said—I wished you wouldn’t; resign, you know.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other. “Do you want to have me discharged, or——”
“No, sir, I don’t,” answered the boy, getting his voice back. “I—I’m not going to tell at all, sir—ever!”
“How’s that?” asked the submaster, in puzzled tones. “You don’t like me the least bit in the world, my boy; in fact, I’m not sure you don’t hate me heartily. Doesn’t it strike you that you’ve got your chance now? Get rid of me, Pierson, and there’ll be no mathematics—for a while.”
“I don’t want to get rid of you,” muttered Tom, shamefacedly. “I—I didn’t like you: you’d never let me; you’ve always been as hard on me as you could be. I can get those lessons—I know I can!—if you’ll only not be down on me. I did hate you, sir”—he looked up with a gleam of the old defiance—“but I don’t any longer.”
“Why?” asked “Old Crusty,” after a moment, very quietly and kindly. Tom shook his head.
“I don’t know—exactly. I guess because you’re a good trout fisher, and you begged my pardon, and—and you treated me like—like—” He faltered and came to a pause, at a loss for words. But the other nodded his head as though he understood.
“I see,” he muttered. Then, “Look here, Pierson,” he said, “I see that I’ve been mistaken about you; I’ve been greatly at fault. I tell you so frankly; and—I’m sorry. If I were going to remain I think you and I would get on a lot better together.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, eagerly. “And—and couldn’t you stay, sir?”
The other was silent a moment, looking smilingly at the boy’s bent head. At length, “If I should accept of your—ah—mercy, Pierson, it would have to be understood that there was no bargain between us. I think we’d get on better, you and I, but I wouldn’t buy your silence. If you ever needed a wigging or any other punishment I’d give it to you. Would you agree to that?”