FullReads

But Teacher had no ears for his soothing. She could only watch with fascinated eyes as the Honourable Timothy reclaimed the note and wrote across it’s damning face: “Miss Greene may come to. She is not fired.–T.O’S.”

“Here, boy,” he called; “take this to your teacher.” The puzzled messenger turned to obey, and the Associate Superintendent saw that though his dignity had suffered his power had increased. To the list of those whom he might, if so disposed, devour, he had now added the name of the Principal, who was quick to understand that an unpleasant investigation lay before him. If Miss Bailey could not be held responsible for this system of inter-classroom communication, it was clear that the Principal could.

Every trace of interest had left Mr. O’Shea’s voice as he asked:

“Can they read?”

“Oh, yes, they read,” responded Teacher, but her spirit was crushed and the children reflected her depression. Still, they were marvellously good and that blundering note had said, “Discipline is his lay.” Well, here he had it.

There was one spectator of this drama, who, understanding no word nor incident therein, yet missed no shade of the many emotions which had stirred the light face of his lady. Towards the front of the room sat Morris Mogilewsky, with every nerve tuned to Teacher’s, and with an appreciation of the situation in which the other children had no share. On the afternoon of one of those dreary days of waiting for the evil which had now come, Teacher had endeavoured to explain the nature and possible result of this ordeal to her favourite. It was clear to him now that she was troubled, and he held the large and unaccustomed presence of the comp’ny mit whiskers responsible. Countless generations of ancestors had followed and fostered the instinct which now led Morris to propitiate an angry power. Luckily, he was prepared with an offering of a suitable nature. He had meant to enjoy it for yet a few days, and then to give it to Teacher. She was such a sensible person about presents. One might give her one’s most cherished possession with a brave and cordial heart, for on each Friday afternoon she returned the gifts she had received during the week. And this with no abatement of gratitude.

Morris rose stealthily, crept forward, and placed a bright blue bromo-seltzer bottle in the fat hand which hung over the back of the chair of state. The hand closed instinctively as, with dawning curiosity, the Honourable Timothy studied the small figure at his side. It began in a wealth of loosely curling hair which shaded a delicate face, very pointed as to chin and monopolized by a pair of dark eyes, sad and deep and beautiful. A faded blue “jumper” was buttoned tightly across the narrow chest; frayed trousers were precariously attached to the “jumper,” and impossible shoes and stockings supplemented the trousers. Glancing from boy to bottle, the “comp’ny mit whiskers” asked:

“What’s this for?”

“For you.”

“What’s in it?”

“A present.”

Mr. O’Shea removed the cork and proceeded to draw out incredible quantities of absorbent cotton. When there was no more to come, a faint tinkle sounded within the blue depths, and Mr. O’Shea, reversing the bottle, found himself possessed of a trampled and disfigured sleeve link of most palpable brass.

“It’s from gold,” Morris assured him. “You puts it in your–‘scuse me–shirt. Wish you health to wear it.”

“Thank you,” said the Honourable Tim, and there was a tiny break in the gloom which had enveloped him. And then, with a quick memory of the note and of his anger:

“Miss Bailey, who is this young man?”

And Teacher, of whose hobbies Morris was one, answered warmly: “That is Morris Mogilewsky, the best of boys. He takes care of the gold-fish, and does all sorts of things for me. Don’t you, dear?”

“Teacher, yiss ma’an,” Morris answered.

“I’m lovin’ much mit you. I gives presents on the company over you.”