"Teacher, Simmy's swallered a slate-pencil! Simmy's swallered a slate-pencil!"
"He's swallered most a whole one!" cried the owner of one pair of protruding orbs.
"It wa'n't!" retorted Simeon, flaming with righteous indignation—"It wa'n't but harf a one!"
"He t-t-told me," cried a young scion of the stammering Vickery race, all breathless with excitement, "that he was going to p-p-put it into his m-m-mouth and t-t-take it out of his n-n-nose, and he did and it t-t-t—and it slip-p-ped!"
"Wall, jest you keep your eyes peeled and your ears cocked," replied the sturdy Simeon, in hoarse and jarring accents; "and see if I don't take it out of my nose, yet."
The signs of that painful struggle slowly faded out of Simeon's face and there was an unusual calm in the school-room.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour elapsed. I was thoughtfully engaged in hearing one of my classes when startled by the sound of a window closed with a sharp bang. At the same time arose the universal voice:
"Simmy B.'s got out o' the winder! Simmy B.'s got out o' the winder!"
I looked out across the snowless fields, and there having already scaled two fences and put many a good rod between himself and the scene of his brief imprisonment, I beheld, borne as on the wings of the wind, the form of the retreating Simeon.
An incident at the close of my first week in Wallencamp was the visit of the "Turkey Mogul." Such was the name given by the Wallencampers to Mr. Baxter, the superintendent of schools.