Had Bud Wax possessed the will power to struggle, he would have found himself powerless in this girl’s grasp. Nature had endowed her with a magnificent physique. She had neither neglected it nor abused it. Gym, when there was gym, hiking, climbing, rowing, riding, had served to keep her fit for this moment.
As Bud sank weakly to his seat he felt something slide from his pocket.
“My pistol gun,” his paralized mind registered weakly. The next moment he saw the teacher gripping the butt of that magnificent thing of black rubber and blue steel and marching toward the front of the room.
“James Jordon,” she said as she tried to still the wild beating of her heart, “go bring me two sandstones as large as your head.”
“Yes, mam.” James went out trembling.
Florence calmly tilted out the cylinder of the gun and allowed the cartridges to fall out. After that she stood with the weapon dangling in her hand.
When the rocks had been placed on her desk she laid the pistol on the flattest one, then lifted the other for a blow.
She did not look at Bud. She dared not. When a small child she had possessed a doll that was all her own. A ruthless hand had broken the doll’s head. No doll ever meant more to a girl than his first gun meant to a mountain boy.
Without looking, she felt the agony on the boy’s face as the stone descended. Without listening she heard him crumple in his seat as the rubber grip broke, springs flew and the barrel bent.
When there remained only an unrecognizable mass of broken and twisted steel, she walked slowly to the open window and dropped it out. Turning, she looked them all squarely in the eye (all but Bud, whose face was down on his desk) and said in her ordinary tune of voice: