“We’ll let up on him, for a few days,” Tom explained to some of his friends, “so as to give him time to get acquainted.  I b’lieve in letting every fellow have a show, but he’s got to walk mighty straight between now and the end of this week,” added the youth impressively; “I ain’t in favor of standing any nonsense.”

A nodding of heads by Dick and Fred showed that Tom had voiced their sentiments.

But, somehow or other, Mr. Lathrop was different from the teachers that had preceded him.  He never spoke angrily or shouted, and his first act on entering the schoolroom was to break up the long tough hickory “gad” lying on his desk and to fling it out of the window.  The next thing he did, after calling the school to order, was to tell the gaping, open-eyed children the most entertaining story to which they had ever listened.  The anecdote had its moral too, for woven in and out and through its charming meshes was the woof of a life of heroic suffering, of trial and reward.

At its conclusion, the teacher said to the pupils that if they were studious and transgressed no rules, he would be glad to tell them another story the next day, if they would remain a few minutes after the hour of dismissal.  The treat was such a rare one that all the girls and most of the boys resolved to earn the right to enjoy it.

“I’m going to hear the yarn, too,” muttered Tom Britt, “for he knows how to tell ’em, but as for behaving myself that depends.”

On the following afternoon, when five o’clock arrived (in those days most of the country schools opened at eight and closed at five, with an hour at noon, and not more than two weeks vacation in summer.  I have attended school on more than one Saturday, Fourth of July and Christmas), the school was all expectation.  When Mr. Lathrop saw the bright eyes turned eagerly toward him, a thrill of pleasure stirred his heart, for he felt that his was the hand to sow good seed, or this was the soil where it could be made to spring up and bear fruit a hundred fold.

“I am glad,” said he, in his winning voice, “to know that you have done well and earned the right to hear the best story that I can tell.  You have been studious, obedient and careful to break no rules, and I am sure that as we become better acquainted, we shall like each other and get on well together.

“I wish I could say you had all done well, but it grieves me to tell you, what you know, that one boy has neglected his lessons, been tardy or so indifferent to my wishes that it would not be right that he should be allowed to sit with the rest of you and listen to the incident I am about to relate.  I refer to Thomas Britt.  Thomas, you will please take your books and hat and go home.”

The words came like a thunderclap.  No one expected it, least of all the youth himself.  Every eye was turned toward him and his face flushed scarlet.  He quickly rallied from the daze into which he was thrown at first, and with his old swagger, looked at the teacher and replied with an insolence that was defiance itself: