"That is it, exactly, dear," replied Miss Judkins, smiling. "And be sure you don't lose your medal."
She said that just for fun, and it was such a capital joke that Willy's eyes twinkled. Lose the quarter of a dollar dangling from his neck by a red string!—the medal which told as plainly as words can speak, that he had left off that day at the head of his class!
As it was Saturday, he was to keep the medal till Monday morning—a great privilege, and one he had enjoyed two or three times before. But there was this drawback; he had to slip the medal under his jacket, out of sight, on Sunday. It was the more to be regretted, as he sat in one of the "amen pews," not far from the pulpit; and if the medal might only hang outside his jacket, where it ought, Elder Lovejoy would certainly catch sight of it when he turned round, and looked through his spectacles, saying, "And now, seventhly, my dear hearers."
Willy would sit, to-morrow, swelling with secret pride, and wishing Elder Lovejoy's eyes were sharp enough to pierce through his jacket. But then, as he told his mother, he "liked the feeling of the medal, even if it was covered up." I suppose there was some satisfaction in knowing he was more of a boy than people took him to be.
"Wonder what it is that Mrs. Lyman says is too true," thought Willy, taking a piece of chalk out of his pocket, and drawing a profile of Miss Judkins on the door-sill, while that young lady tripped along the road, brushing the golden-rod and sweet-fern with the skirt of her dress.
"Now stop that, Gid Noonin," said he, as a large boy came up behind him, and tickled him under the arms. "Stop that!" repeated he, making chalk figures, as he spoke, in the ample nose of Miss Judkins.
"7ber 18001," scrawled he, slowly and carefully. "7ber" was short for September; and Gideon could find no fault with that, for people often wrote it so; but he could not help laughing at the extra cipher in the year 1801.
"Give me that chalk," chuckled he; and then he wrote, in bold characters, "7ber the 15th, 1801."
Willy dropped his head. He had not learned to write; but did he want to be taught by that great Gid Noonin, the stupidest boy in school? Why, he had gone above Gid long ago, just by spelling "exact." Gideon spelt it e, g, z! Did you ever hear of anything so silly? And he a fellow twelve years old! Willy was just eight, but he hoped he could spell! If you doubted it, there was the medal!
Gideon was not only a poor scholar,—he was regarded as a bad boy, and many mothers warned their little sons not to play with him.