Part 9 (1/2)

Mun scoffed at such notions. He pointed out that Duckfoot was still a puppy who, as far as anyone knew, had never been on a c.o.o.n's trail. So what could he know about running c.o.o.ns, especially Old Joe? Harky was indulging in another pipe dream even to think that a puppy, any puppy, would tree a c.o.o.n and stay at the tree for a week. Precious Sue herself wouldn't have stayed that long.

Harky knew only that Duckfoot was lean as a blackberry cane when he finally came home and that he kept looking off into the forest. If he hadn't treed a c.o.o.n, he certainly acted as though he had.

In sudden panic Harky realized that he had a scant four minutes left. He began to run, and he burst into Miss Cathby's school just as the last bell was tolling laggards to their desks.

The school was a one-room affair flanked by a woodshed half as big as the school proper. Inside were the regulation potbellied stove, six rows of five desks each, a desk for Miss Cathby, and a plain wooden bench upon which the various cla.s.ses seated themselves when called to recite.

Behind Miss Cathby's desk was the blackboard. If it was not the ultimate in educational facilities, it was a vast improvement over the no school at all that had been at the Crossroads until three years ago.

When Harky ran in, his fellow pupils were seated.

The first grade, consisting of the younger daughters of Mellie Garson and Raw Stanfield, and the youngest sons of b.u.t.t Johnson and Mule Domster, was the largest. Thereafter the grades decreased numerically but with an increasing feminine contingent. Boys old enough to help out at home could hardly be expected to waste time in school. Melinda and Mary Garson were the fifth grade, Harky the sixth, and Mildred and Minnie Garson the seventh and eighth.

Miss Cathby smiled pleasantly when Harky came in.

”Good morning, Harold,” she greeted.

”Good morning, ma'am,” Harky mumbled.

”Is your father's harvest in, Harold?”

”Yes, ma'am.”

Harky, who knew his name was Harold but wished Miss Cathby didn't know, squirmed and longed to drop through the floor. With the only other male who even approached his age being Mule Domster's ten-year-old son, he was indeed surrounded.

Miss Cathby, who knew several things not written in textbooks, understood and let him alone. Harky fixed his eyes on the back of twelve-year-old Melinda Garson's slender neck. He calculated the exact spot where a spitball would have the ultimate effect, then decided that it wasn't worth his while to throw one.

The first grade was called for recitation. Solacing himself with the thought that Mun's enthusiasm for booklore seldom endured more than three weeks, Harky escaped in a dream. He had his shotgun, Duckfoot was hot on a c.o.o.n's trail, and presently they heard his tree bark. Mun and Harky made their way to the tree.

”Harky,” said Mun, ”git your light beam on that c.o.o.n.”

Harky made ready to s.h.i.+ne the treed c.o.o.n. The words were repeated and he came rudely awake to discover that Miss Cathby was speaking.

”Harold,” she said, ”are you dreaming so soon?”

”Yes, ma'am,” Harky said meekly.

”Well come down here. The sixth grade is called to recite.”

Harky rose and shuffled unhappily to the recitation bench. He slumped down, head bent, shoulders hunched, fists in pockets. Never again, he thought, would he have any part in caging a c.o.o.n. Not even to train Duckfoot. He knew now what cages are like.

”Have you been keeping up with your studies?” Miss Cathby asked.

”Yes, ma'am,” said Harky.

”Which books have you been using?” queried Miss Cathby.

”Same ones I used last year,” Harky mumbled.

Miss Cathby frowned prettily. Harky's last year's books were for the fifth grade; Harky had started in the fourth solely because he'd been too old to begin in the first. Miss Cathby's frown deepened.