"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.
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