Jim Phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered fellow who had never distinguished himself in any other pursuit than spelling.  Except in this one art of spelling he was of no account.  He could not catch well or bat well in ball.  He could not throw well enough to make his mark in that famous West ern game of bull-pen.  He did not succeed well in any study but that of Webster’s Elementary.  But in that he was—­to use the usual Flat Creek locution—­in that he was “a boss.”  This genius for spelling is in some people a sixth sense, a matter of intuition.  Some spellers are born, and not made, and their facility reminds one of the mathematical prodigies that crop out every now and then to bewilder the world.  Bud Means, foreseeing that Ralph would be pitted against Jim Phillips, had warned his friend that Jim could “spell like thunder and lightning,” and that it “took a powerful smart speller” to beat him, for he knew “a heap of spelling-book.”  To have “spelled down the master” is next thing to having whipped the biggest bully in Hoopole County, and Jim had “spelled down” the last three masters.  He divided the hero-worship of the district with Bud Means.

For half an hour the Squire gave out hard words.  What a blessed thing our crooked orthography is!  Without it there could be no spelling-schools.  As Ralph discovered his opponent’s mettle he became more and more cautious.  He was now satisfied that Jim would eventually beat him.  The fellow evidently knew more about the spelling-book than old Noah Webster himself.  As he stood there, with his dull face and long sharp nose, his hands behind his back, and his voice spelling infallibly, it seemed to Hartsook that his superiority must lie in his nose.  Ralph’s cautiousness answered a double purpose; it enabled him to tread surely, and it was mistaken by Jim for weakness.  Phillips was now confident that he should carry off the scalp of the fourth school-master before the evening was over.  He spelled eagerly, confidently, brilliantly.  Stoop-shouldered as he was, he began to straighten up.  In the minds of all the company the odds were in his favor.  He saw this, and became ambitious to distinguish himself by spelling without giving the matter any thought.

Ralph always believed that he would have been speedily defeated by Phillips had it not been for two thoughts which braced him.  The sinister shadow of young Dr. Small sitting in the dark corner by the water-bucket nerved him.  A victory over Phillips was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young school-master.  The other thought that kept his pluck alive was the recollection of Bull.  He approached a word as Bull approached the raccoon.  He did not take hold until he was sure of his game.  When he took hold, it was with a quiet assurance of success.  As Ralph spelled in this dogged way for half an hour the hardest words the Squire could find, the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, and Ralph’s friends even ventured to whisper that “maybe Jim had cotched his match, after all!”