The fellows in Mr. Crane’s room were in their seats when Kid arrived at the swinging doors with their oval windows and glanced in. The instructor’s voice died away, there was a rustling as of a newspaper being folded and a hum and shuffling of feet from the boys. It was at that dramatic moment that Kid entered. As the green doors swung to behind him there commenced a clapping of hands that increased in volume as he strolled leisurely across the floor toward his seat. Kid was hoping that Mr. Crane would rebuke him for being tardy so that he might explain that he had been detained by Doctor Merton and so “have one on the instructor.” But Mr. Crane didn’t do anything of the sort. Instead he smiled at Kid and clapped his hands quite as loudly as anyone there. Now, hand clapping in class room was indulged in only when a visitor appeared or when, after a baseball or football game, some athletic hero entered. So, naturally, Kid, wondering, turned to see who had followed him in. Seeing no one, he looked the surprise he felt, and laughter began to creep into the pat, pat of hands. And then Kid realized that Mr. Crane had seen the morning paper, had acquainted the class, and that the applause was for him, Kid!
All his sang-froid left him and he scuttled for his seat with blushing cheeks. As he sank into it with all eyes upon him, Small, who was his neighbor on the right, leaned over, grinning, and clapped his hands almost under Kid’s nose.
“Aw, cut it out!” muttered Kid with a scowl.
Then, as Small declined to “cut it out,” Kid reached over quickly and deftly with his foot and kicked Small’s shin. Fortunately, the ensuing expression of grief from Small was drowned in the diminishing applause.
XVII
A DONATION TO THE FUND
After school Kid had to tell all about it. By that time he had grown used to being a hero and every time he narrated his adventure the story improved in interest. Mr. Folsom and Mr. Crane had shaken hands with him, Nan had become his admiring and willing slave and Mrs. Merton had beamed upon him. No wonder that his head had become a little bit turned, then. And no wonder—considering Kid’s healthy imagination—that by the time he got to the fifth or sixth rendition of the story his heroism had attained marvelous proportions.
“You said you only ran about a quarter of a mile,” objected Small.
Kid viewed him untroubledly. “Only about a quarter of a mile to the end of the cut,” explained Kid. “After that it was a good quarter of a mile to where the train stopped.”
“Shut up, Small,” censured Ben Holden. “Don’t you suppose Kid knows how far he had to run?”