There was a roar from the other boys.
"Quiet!" said Mr. Beaver. "Now, Harrington, as I understand the situation," he continued mildly, "you failed to prepare your lesson because you were ill in consequence of a spread which it was against the rules to indulge in. Is that it?"
"Y—yes, sir."
"Professor is very much opposed to—illicit spreads, as you know"—("Professor" was the Headmaster)—"I am afraid this will mean about thirty demerits, therefore. You have other demerits?"
"Yes, sir."
"How many?"
"Twenty."
Mr. Beaver closed his little book and stood a moment by his desk looking quietly over at Harrington. His face was serious, but even his victim could not help feeling that there was a certain affectionate sympathy behind the quiet sternness.
"Look out, Harrington," he said at last with a return of that curious smile of his. "Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction and the milestones are always spreads—of one sort or another. You may sit down."
The boy sat down and the work of the class proceeded. Two boys, for widely divergent reasons, heard the other boys go through their paces as though it were all a bad dream of wriggling x's and y's like snakes darting in and out of the placid waters of Mr. Beaver's endless questioning.