FullReads

It was nearly three o’clock when at last he found his voice. In an idle inspection of his new desk he came upon one of those combinations of a pen, a pencil, and an eraser, which gladden the young and aggravate the old. It was one of Patrick’s greatest treasures and had long been Eva’s envious desire, and now Patrick, chained to the side of his indignant Teacher, saw this precious, delicate, and stubborn mechanism at the mercy of his clumsy successor. Isaac wrenched and twisted without avail; Patrick’s wrath grew dark; Eva shyly proffered assistance; Patrick’s jealousy flamed hot. And then, before Patrick’s enraged eyes, Eva and Isaac tore the combination of writing implements to fragments, in their endeavour to make it yield a point. Patrick darted upon the surprised Isaac like an avenging whirlwind, and drove a knotty little fist into the centre of the Fauntleroy costume. And then, quite suddenly, Isaac lifted up his voice:

“Don’t you dast to touch me,” he yelled, “you–Krisht fool.”

Miss Bailey sprang to her feet, but before she could reach the offender he had warmed to his work and was rolling off excerpts from remarks which he had heard at his father’s club-rooms. These were, of course, in Hebrew, but after much hissing and many gutturals, he arrived, breathless, at the phrase as Anglo-Saxon as his hair:

“You be–! Go to–!”

Of all Miss Bailey’s rules for the government of her kingdom the most stringent were against blasphemy. Never had her subjects seen their gentle lady so instinct with wrath as she was when holding the wriggling arm of Patrick with one hand and the red plush shoulder of Isaac with the other, she resumed her place in the chair of authority. She leaned forward until her eyes, angry and determined, were looking close into Patrick’s, and began:

“You first. You commenced this thing. Now listen. If you ever touch that boy again–I don’t care for what reason–I will whip you. Here, before the whole class, I shall spank you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Patrick.

“And now you,” turning quickly to Isaac. “If you ever again dare to say bad words in this room I shall wash out the mouth you soil in saying them. Do you understand?”

Isaac was silent.

“Do you understand?” repeated Miss Bailey. Isaac spoke no word; gave no sign of comprehension.

“Morris,” called Teacher, “come and tell him that in Jewish for me,” and Morris, with many halts and shy recoilings, whispered a few words into the ear of Isaac, who remonstrated volubly.

“He says he ain’t said no bad word,” the interpreter explained. “His papa says like that on his mamma, and his mamma says like that on his papa. Fer him, that ain’t no bad word.”

“It is a bad word here,” said Teacher inexorably. “Tell him I’ll wash out his mouth if he says it again.”

Miss Bailey was so ruffled and disgusted by the course of events that she allowed only the Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl to stay with her after school that afternoon. When readers were counted and put upon shelves, charts furled, paint brushes washed, pencils sharpened, and blackboards cleaned, Morris pressed close to his lady and whispered:

“Say, Teacher, I should tell you somethings.”

“Well, then, old man, tell it.”

“Teacher, it’s like this; I ain’t tell Ikey, out of Jewish, how you says you should wash out his mouth.”

“You didn’t tell him? And why not, pray?”

“Well,” and Morris’s tone, though apologetic, was self-righteous, “I guess you don’t know about Ikey Borrachsohn.”

“I know he said two very bad things. Of course, I did not understand the Jewish part. What did he say? Did you know?”

“Sure did I, on’y I wouldn’t to tell it out. It ain’t fer you. It ain’t no fer-ladies word.”

Miss Bailey patted her small knight’s hand. “Thank you, Morris,” she said simply. “And so it was bad?”

“Fierce.”

“Very well; I shall ask some other boy to tell him that I shall wash out his mouth.”