In that dilemma he conceived the brilliant idea of making his mother write the compositions for him, and he actually succeeded in persuading her to do so.  He prompted her a little, but she did the main part of the work, and the handwriting was hers.  Finally he got her to bring them up to school with the explanation that he was too sick to sit up and write, but that she had taken down what he dictated.  He did not even look at what she wrote, and it never occurred to him to doubt her ability of doing it far better than he could.  When it was all over, he experienced a tremendous sense of relief, and this was much enhanced by his mother’s willingness to let the father remain in complete ignorance of what had happened.

Nothing was said to him when he showed up at school again.  His first inkling of trouble came with the return of his copy book.  It was full of marks and corrections in red ink.  As he looked at these in a stunned fashion, he realized for the first time that his mother’s spelling and punctuation would have been deemed unsatisfactory in a second grade pupil.  At first he did not even consider the bearing of this discovery on his own fate.  He could think of only one thing, namely that another blow had been dealt to his conception of his mother as a superior being.  He actually felt ashamed on her behalf.  Then came the thought of what the teacher must have thought....

Commencement Day brought the answer.  He got only C in Swedish, which meant that he had failed to pass.  It gave him the choice between spending another year in the same grade or facing special examinations in the fall.

At first he was too dazed to think.  Then his former indifference changed into blazing indignation and resentment.  He felt himself a victim of unpardonable injustice.  In that mood he returned home and reported to his father.

“You talk nonsense, my boy,” said his father in a tone that was new to Keith.  “From some things I have heard, I gather that your escape from the same kind of mark in every subject was little short of miraculous.”

Keith stared open-eyed at his father, puzzled by his manner of speaking and stung to the quick by what he said.

“What are you going to do now,” his father demanded after a while.

A long pause followed during which Keith’s brain worked at lightning speed.  It was as if he had never known until then what really had happened during the weeks preceding commencement.

“I’ll pass the examinations in the fall,” he said at last.

“Will you give me your word of honour to read hard during the summer,” his father asked, and his voice set the boy’s heart throbbing like an engine.

“I will,” replied Keith.  “But I could pass those examinations without looking at the book.”

“The more shame for you, then, to let yourself be plucked,” was his father’s concluding remark, but even that was uttered without a suggestion of bitterness.