Part 13 (1/2)

Pen heard it all, as they had intended he should. He stopped in the aisle and faced them. The grief and despair that he had felt outside when his own comrades had ignored him, gave place now to a sudden blazing up of the old wrath. He did not raise his voice; but every word he spoke was alive with anger.

”You cowardly puppies! You talk about the flag! The only flag you're fit to live under is the black flag, with skull and cross-bones on it.”

Then he turned on his heel and marched up the aisle to where Miss Grey was seated at her desk. He took Colonel Butler's letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

”My grandfather,” he said, ”wishes me to give you this letter.”

She looked up at him with a grieved and troubled face.

”Oh, Pen!” she exclaimed, despairingly, ”what have you done, and why did you do it?”

She was fond of the boy. He was her brightest and most gentlemanly pupil. On only one or two other occasions, during the years of her authority, had she found it necessary to reprimand him for giving way to sudden fits of pa.s.sion leading to infraction of her rules. So that it was with deep and real sorrow that she deplored his recent conduct and his present position.

”I don't know,” he answered her. ”I guess my temper got the best of me, that's all.”

”But, Pen, I don't know what to do. I'm simply at my wit's end.”

”I'm sorry to have given you so much trouble, Miss Grey,” he replied.

”But when it comes to punis.h.i.+ng me, I think the letter will help you out.”

The bell had stopped ringing. The boys and girls had crowded in and were already seated, awaiting the opening of school. Pen turned away from his teacher and started down the aisle toward his seat, facing his fellow-pupils as he went.

And then something happened; something unusual and terrible; something so terrible that Pen's face went pale, he paused a moment and looked ahead of him as though in doubt whether his ears had deceived him, and then he dropped weakly into his seat. They had hissed him. From a far corner of the room came the first sibilant sound, followed at once by a chorus of hisses that struck straight to the boy's heart, and echoed through his mind for years.

Miss Grey sprang to her feet. For the first time in all the years she had taught them her pupils saw her fired with anger. She brought her gavel down on the table with a bang.

”This is disgraceful!” she exclaimed. ”We are in a school-room, not in a goose-pond, nor in a den of snakes. I want every one who has hissed to remain here when school closes at noon.”

But it was not until after the opening exercises had been concluded, and the younger children had gone out to the room of the a.s.sistant teacher, that she found an opportunity to read Colonel Butler's letter. It did help her out, as Pen had said it would. She resolved to act immediately upon the request contained in it, before calling any cla.s.ses. She rose in her place.

”I have an unpleasant duty to perform,” she said. ”I hoped, when I gave you boys permission to have the s...o...b..ll fight, that it would result in permanent peace among you. It has, apparently, served only to embitter you more deeply against each other. The school colors have been removed from the building without authority. With those guilty of this offense I shall deal hereafter. The flag has been abused and thrown into the slush of the street. As to this I shall not now decide whose was the greater fault. But one, at least, of those concerned in such treatment of our colors has realized the seriousness of his misconduct, and desires to apologize for it, to his teacher, to his country, to his flag, and to the one who was carrying it at the time of the a.s.sault. Penfield, you may come to the platform.”

But Pen did not stir. He sat there as though made of stone, that awful hiss still sounding in his ears. Miss Grey's voice came to him as from some great distance. He did not seem to realize what she was saying to him. She saw his white face, and the vacant look in his eyes, and she pitied him; but she had her duty to perform.

”Penfield,” she repeated, ”will you please come to the platform? We are waiting for your apology.”

This time Pen heard her and roused himself. He rose slowly to his feet; but he did not move from his place. He spoke from where he stood.

”Miss Grey,” he said, ”after what has occurred here this morning, I have decided--not--to--apologize.”

He bent over, picked up his books from the desk in front of him, stepped out into the aisle, walked deliberately down between rows of astounded schoolmates to the vestibule, put on his cap and coat, and went out into the street.

No one called him back. He would not have gone if any one had. He turned his face toward home. Whether or not people looked at him curiously as he pa.s.sed, he neither knew nor cared. He had been hissed in public by his schoolfellows. No condemnation could be more severe than this, or lead to deeper humiliation. Strong men have quailed under this repulsive and terrible form of public disapproval. It is little wonder that a mere schoolboy should be crushed by it. That he could never go back to Miss Grey's school was perfectly plain to him.

That, having refused to apologize, he could not remain at Bannerhall, was equally certain. One path only remained open to him, and that was the snow-filled, country road leading to his grandfather Walker's humble abode at Cobb's Corners.

When he reached home he found that his grandfather and his Aunt Millicent had gone down the river road for a sleigh-ride. He did not wait to consider anything, for there was really nothing to consider.

He went up to his room, packed his suit-case with some clothing and a few personal belongings, and came down stairs and left his baggage in the hall while he went into the library and wrote a letter to his grandfather. When it was finished he read it over to himself, aloud:

”_Dear Grandfather:_