"Well, then what is the matter with you? Are you sick? Don't you think you would like to go home to your mother?"
"No-o-o-oh m-a-a-an; I ain't sick. I tells you 'scuse."
The repeated imitation of a sorrowful goat was too much for the Honorable Tim.
"Bring that boy to me," he commanded. "I'll show you how to manage refractory and rebellious children."
With much difficulty and many assurances that the gentleman was not going to hurt him, Miss Bailey succeeded in untwining Morris's legs from the supports of the desk and in half carrying, half leading him up to the chair of state. An ominous silence had settled over the room. Eva Gonorowsky was weeping softly, and the redoubtable Isidore Applebaum was stiffened in a frozen calm.
"Morris," began the Associate Superintendent in his most awful tones, "will you tell me why you raised your hand? Come here, sir."
Teacher urged him gently, and like dog to heel, he went. He halted within a pace or two of Mr. O'Shea, and lifted a beseeching face toward him.
"I couldn't to tell nothing out," said he. "I tells you 'scuse. I'm got a fraid."
The Honorable Tim lunged quickly and caught the terrified boy preparatory to shaking him, but Morris escaped and fled to his haven of safety—his Teacher's arms. When Miss Bailey felt the quick clasp of the thin little hands, the heavy beating of the over-tired heart, and the deep convulsive sobs, she turned on the Honorable Timothy O'Shea and spoke:
"I must ask you to leave this room at once," she announced. The Principal started and then sat back. Teacher's eyes were dangerous, and the Honorable Tim might profit by a lesson. "You've frightened the child until he can't breathe. I can do nothing with him while you remain. The examination is ended. You may go."