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.Mrs.Martin breathed freely, and lessons began.Yet she was nervously conscious, meanwhile, of a more ill-omened occurrence.This was the non-arrival of several of her oldest pupils, notably, the refractory and incorrigible Pike County contingent to whom Sperry had alluded.For the past few days they had hovered on the verge of active insubordination, and had indulged in vague mutterings which she had resolutely determined not to hear.It was, therefore, with some inward trepidations, not entirely relieved by Twing's presence, that she saw the three Mackinnons and the two Hardees slouch into the school a full hour after the lessons had begun.They did not even excuse themselves, but were proceeding with a surly and ostentatious defiance to their seats, when Mrs.Martin was obliged to look up, and—as the eldest Hardee filed before her—to demand an explanation.The culprit addressed—a dull, heavy-looking youth of nineteen—hesitated with an air of mingled doggedness and sheepishness, and then, without replying, nudged his companion.It was evidently a preconcerted signal of rebellion, for the boy nudged stopped, and, turning a more intelligent, but equally dissatisfied, face upon the schoolmistress, began determinedly:—"Wot's our excuse for coming an hour late? Well, we ain't got none.WE don't call it an hour late—WE don't.We call it the right time.We call it the right time for OUR lessons, for we don't allow to come here to sing hymns with babbies.We don't want to know 'where, oh where, are the Hebrew children?' They ain't nothin' to us Americans.And we don't want any more Daniels in the Lions' Den played off on us.We have enough of 'em in Sunday-school.We ain't hankerin' much for grammar and dictionary hogwash, and we don't want no Boston parts o' speech rung in on us the first thing in the mo'nin'.We ain't Boston—we're Pike County—WE are.We reckon to do our sums, and our figgerin', and our sale and barter, and our interest tables and weights and measures when the time comes, and our geograffy when it's on, and our readin' and writin' and the American Constitution in reg'lar hours, and then we calkilate to git up and git afore the po'try and the Boston airs and graces come round.That's our rights and what our fathers pay school taxes for, and we want 'em."He stopped, looking less towards the schoolmistress than to his companions, for whom perhaps, after the schoolboy fashion, this attitude was taken.Mrs.Martin sat, quite white and self-contained, with her eyes fixed on the frayed rim of the rebel's straw hat which he still kept on his head.Then she said quietly:—"Take off your hat, sir."The boy did not move."He can't," said a voice cheerfully.It was the new assistant.The whole school faced rapidly towards him.The rebel leader and his followers, who had not noticed him before, stared at the interrupter, who did not, however, seem to exhibit any of the authority of office, but rather the comment and criticism of one of themselves."Wot you mean?" asked the boy indignantly."I mean you can't take off your hat because you've got some things stowed away in it you don't want seen," said Twing, with an immovable face."Wot things?" exclaimed the boy angrily.Then suddenly recollecting himself, he added, "Go along! You can't fool me! Think you'll make me take off my hat—don't you?""Well," said Twing, advancing to the side of the rebel, "look here then!" With a dexterous movement and a slight struggle from the boy, he lifted the hat.A half-dozen apples, a bird's nest, two birds' eggs, and a fluttering half-fledged bird fell from it.A wave of delight and astonishment ran along the benches, a blank look of hopeless bewilderment settled upon the boy's face, and the gravity of the situation disappeared forever in the irrepressible burst of laughter, in which even his brother rebels joined.The smallest child who had been half-frightened, half-fascinated by the bold, bad, heroic attitude of the mutineer, was quick to see the ridiculousness of that figure crowned with cheap schoolboy plunder.The eloquent protest of his wrongs was lost in the ludicrous appearance of the protester.Even Mrs.Martin felt that nothing she could say at that moment could lift the rebellion into seriousness again.But Twing was evidently not satisfied."Beg Mrs.Martin's pardon, and say you were foolin' with the boys," he said in a low voice.The discomfited rebel hesitated."Say it, or I'll SHOW WHAT YOU'VE GOT IN YOUR POCKETS!" said Twing in a terribly significant aside.The boy mumbled an apology to Mrs.Martin, scrambled in a blank, hopeless way to his seat, and the brief rebellion ignominiously ended.But two things struck Mrs.Martin as peculiar.She overheard the culprit say, with bated breath and evident sincerity, to his comrades: "Hadn't nothing in my hat, anyway!" and one of the infant class was heard to complain, in a deeply-injured way, that the bird's nest was HIS, and had been "stoled" from his desk.And there still remained the fact for which Twing's undoubted fascination over the children had somewhat prepared her—that at recess the malcontents—one and all—seemed to have forgiven the man who had overcome them, and gathered round him with unmistakable interest.All this, however, did not blind her to the serious intent of the rebellion, or of Twing's unaccountable assumption of her prerogative.While he was still romping with the children she called him in."I must remind you," she said, with a slight nervous asperity, "that this outrageous conduct of Tom Hardee was evidently deliberated and prepared by the others, and cannot end in this way."He looked at her with a face so exasperatingly expressionless that she could have slapped it as if it had belonged to one of the older scholars, and said,—"But it HAS ended.It's a dead frost.""I don't know what you mean; and I must remind you also that in this school we neither teach nor learn slang."His immobile face changed for an instant to a look of such decided admiration that she felt her color rise; but he wiped his expression away with his hand as if it had been some artificial make-up, and said awkwardly, but earnestly:—"Excuse me—won't you? But, look here, Mrs.Martin, I found out early this morning, when I was squaring myself with the other children, that there was this row hangin' on—in fact, that there was a sort of idea that Pike County wasn't having a fair show—excuse me—in the running of the school, and that Peaseley and Barstow were a little too much on in every scene.In fact, you see, it was just what Tom said.""This is insufferable," said Mrs.Martin, her eyes growing darker as her cheeks grew red."They shall go home to their parents, and tell them from me"—"That they're all mistaken—excuse me—but that's just what THEY'RE GOIN' TO DO.I tell you, Mrs.Martin, their little game's busted—I beg pardon—but it's all over.You'll have no more trouble with them.""And you think that just because you found Tom had something in his hat, and exposed him?" said Mrs.Martin scornfully."Tom HADN'T anything in his hat," said Twing, wiping his mouth slowly."Nothing?" repeated Mrs.Martin."No.""But I SAW you take the things out.""That was only a TRICK! He had nothing except what I had up my sleeve, and forced on him.He knew it, and that frightened him, and made him look like a fool, and so bursted up his conspiracy.There's nothin' boys are more afraid of than ridicule, or the man or boy that make 'em ridiculous.""I won't ask you if you call this FAIR to the boy, Mr.Twing?" said Mrs [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]