THE TRUANT.
WHAT’S the matter with Neddy Oram?” I said as a noise outside drew me to the window, and I saw old Mrs. Oram dragging her grandson along the street. She looked angry and determined.
“He’s played truant, I guess,” answered my little girl as she came to my side. “He played truant last week, and Mr. Jonas made him stand on one foot ever so long a time. And when he got tired and put the other one down, he switched him on the leg. Oh dear! I don’t want to go this morning. I wish Neddy wouldn’t play truant, nor be bad in school! He’s such a nice boy, and I can’t bear to see him whipped. Mr. Jonas will cut him dreadfully, I know he will, for he said he’d take the skin off of him if ever he played truant again.”
Neddy was a nice boy, as my little girl said. He was bright and active, kind-hearted and generous. I never saw him do a mean or selfish thing. But he had a free, rather reckless spirit and a will that was stubbornness itself when aroused. Kindness softened, but anger hardened, him.
Neddy’s father and mother were both dead, and the boy lived with his grandmother, who was rather a hard woman, and believed more in the power of force than in the power of kindness.
As soon as I understood the case I put on my bonnet hastily and ran after Mrs. Oram, hoping to come up with her before she reached the school-room. I was a few moments too late for this, but in time to have a word with Mr. Jonas, who stood at the door holding the struggling boy firmly by the arm.
“I want you to promise me one thing,” I said, laying my hand on the schoolmaster’s. I spoke in as quiet a voice as I could assume, but very seriously. My words and manner threw Mr. Jonas off of his guard. His hold on the boy relaxed, and in the next instant Neddy was beyond his reach and running off as fast as his feet could carry him.
“After him!” cried the schoolmaster, greatly excited. “After him, John Wilkins!”