[Sidenote: Laughing at Nothing]
Hen. Rutgers couldn’t help having plenty of fun. If no one made it for
him he took a turn and produced it himself. He could have plenty and not
laugh. Then he could laugh like the falling water on a cataract when
there was very little fun in sight.
Hen. laughed. He laughed out loud. Miss Gresham went speedily to his
desk, looked him straight in the face, and said:
“Henry, why did you laugh just now?”
Hen. lifted his head slowly and just as slowly rolled his eyes over
until he looked her squarely in the eyes. With their glances mutually
fixed Henry said very deliberately:
“I—don’t—know,” without a smile.
“Henry, you surely know what caused you to laugh. What was it?” Then
glibly but without a smile came Henry’s reply.
“O yes, I remember. I was just thinking what would happen if Mr. Finley
(superintendent, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds) should back off
the platform there sometime when he’s walking around so fast.”
“You should be at work, Henry,” was all that Miss Gresham could utter at
the time. The chief reason for her weak response was she had drawn the
attention of half the pupils and a general titter arose at Henry’s reply
chiefly because of his absolute composure of countenance.
Henry did not care so much for mischief for its own sake. His chief
sport was attracting the attention of other pupils and getting the
teacher into a mild predicament by setting a sort of disciplinary trap
for her.