Miss Pike could not but observe the sparkle of satisfaction in some faces, and the gloom of disappointment in others; and she rejoiced with the good spellers and grieved with the poor ones, like the dear, kind woman she was.
Out of courtesy, Mary Gray and Fanny Townsend were chosen among the first. James Hunnicut supposed it would be ungallant to neglect visitors, though he did wince a little as he called Mary Gray’s name, thinking, “What do I want of a baby like that? Of course she’ll miss every word.”
Mary answered James’s call with a throbbing heart, proud, delighted, yet afraid. Next Grace Mallon called Fred Allen, and thought, when he walked over to her side with his well-bred air, that she had secured a prize. How could she suspect that a distinguished-looking lad like that was not a “natural speller,” and did not always do as well as he knew, on account of his habit of speaking before he thought? In fact, he missed the very first word, exactly, making the first syllable eggs in his ruinous haste. Of course he knew better, but no allowance was made for mistakes, and like a flash the word was passed across the room to Mary, who spelled it correctly.
Fred felt disgraced, lost all confidence, and, if he had dared, would have asked to be excused from duty. Captain Grace would have excused him gladly, but such a thing was never heard of; he must stand at his post, and blunder all the evening.
It was the custom, when a word was missed on one side and corrected on the other, for the successful captain to swell his own numbers by “choosing off” one from the enemy’s ranks. Captain James now “chose off” one of Captain Grace’s best soldiers, and the game went on.
Next time it was one of Captain James’s men—Fanny Townsend—who blundered, and it was Captain Grace’s turn to choose off.
For some time the numbers were about even; but as Fred Allen invariably missed, and there were Jack Townsend and other poor spellers below him to keep him company, Captain James began to have a decided advantage. He kept choosing off again and again,—Mary Gray, among the rest,—while Captain Grace bit her lips in silence.
But the moment she had it in her power she called a name in a ringing voice, and it was “Mary Gray.” Mary had spelled all her words promptly,—they had usually been hard ones, too,—and her blue eyes danced as she tripped across the room in answer to the call. Was there a ray of triumph in her glance as it fell on cousin Fred, who was propping his head against the wall, trying to look easy and unconcerned? Fred, who was so much older than herself, and ciphering at the very end of the arithmetic? Fred, who had always looked down on little Flaxie as rather light-minded?
There he stood, and there he was likely to stand, and Jack Townsend, too, while the favorite spellers with ill-concealed satisfaction were walking back and forth conquering and to conquer.
Mary Gray was called for as often as the oldest scholar in the room, and, as she flitted from east to west, her head grew as light with vanity as the “blowball” of a dandelion. She threw it back airily, and smiled in a superior way when poor Fred missed a word, as if she would like to say to the scholars, “I came here with that dunce, it’s true, but please don’t blame me because he can’t spell.”