Carl and the Cotton Gin

by Sara Ware Bassett

"You're not in any scrape?"

"Not that I know of."

"Honestly?"

"I tell you I can't think of any. On my honor I can't."

"Oh, well then, it's probably about your work. Most likely you're behind the class in something and Miss Dewey wants to see you. Why don't you buck up and find out what she has to say?"

"I'm going to in a minute."

"You're afraid to open that letter. You've done something at school you don't want Mother and me to know about."

"I tell you I haven't."

"Then why, for pity's sake, don't you read what Miss Dewey has written instead of looking at the note as if it was a bomb? Maybe she's inviting you to supper. She does ask the boys sometimes."

This possibility was so encouraging that the startled expression in the lad's eyes gave place to a serener light. Perhaps after all the missive did not portend the calamity that a note from school usually did. Maybe his algebra was all right and he had not flunked his Latin. The fates may have graciously intervened.