THE CRISIS
The first days of that week were days of strife. Murdie Cameron and
Bob Fraser and the other big boys succeeded in keeping in line with the
master's rules and regulations. They were careful never to be late,
and so saved themselves the degradation of bringing an excuse. But the
smaller boys set themselves to make the master's life a burden, and
succeeded beyond their highest expectations, for the master was quick
of temper, and was determined at all costs to exact full and prompt
obedience. There was more flogging done those first six days than during
any six months of Archie Munro's rule. Sometimes the floggings amounted
to little, but sometimes they were serious, and when those fell upon the
smaller boys, the girls would weep and the bigger boys would grind their
teeth and swear.
The situation became so acute that Murdie Cameron and the big boys
decided that they would quit the school. They were afraid the temptation
to throw the master out would some day be more than they could bear,
and for men who had played their part, not without credit, in the Scotch
River fights, to carry out the master would have been an exploit hardly
worthy of them. So, in dignified contempt of the master and his rules,
they left the school after the third day.
Their absence did not help matters much; indeed, the master appeared to
be relieved, and proceeded to tame the school into submission. It was
little Jimmie Cameron who precipitated the crisis. Jimmie's nose, upon
which he relied when struggling with his snickers, had an unpleasant
trick of failing him at critical moments, and of letting out explosive
snorts of the most disturbing kind. He had finally been warned that upon
his next outburst punishment would fall.
It was Friday afternoon, the drowsy hour just before recess, while the
master was explaining to the listless Euclid class the mysteries of the
forty-seventh proposition, that suddenly a snort of unusual violence
burst upon the school. Immediately every eye was upon the master, for
all had heard and had noted his threat to Jimmie.
“James, was that you, sir?”
There was no answer, except such as could be gathered from Jimmie's very
red and very shamed face.
“James, stand up!”
Jimmie wriggled to his feet, and stood a heap of various angles.
“Now, James, you remember what I promised you? Come here, sir!”
Jimmie came slowly to the front, growing paler at each step, and stood
with a dazed look on his face, before the master. He had never been
thrashed in all his life. At home the big brothers might cuff him
good-naturedly, or his mother thump him on the head with her thimble,
but a serious whipping was to him an unknown horror.
The master drew forth his heavy black strap with impressive deliberation
and ominous silence. The preparations for punishment were so elaborate
and imposing that the big boys guessed that the punishment itself would
not amount to much. Not so Jimmie. He stood numb with fear and horrible
expectation. The master lifted up the strap.
“James, hold out your hand!”
Jimmie promptly clutched his hand behind his back.
“Hold out your hand, sir, at once!” No answer.
“James, you must do as you are told. Your punishment for disobedience
will be much severer than for laughing.” But Jimmie stood pale, silent,
with his hands tight clasped behind his back.
The master stepped forward, and grasping the little boy's arm, tried to
pull his hand to the front; but Jimmie, with a roar like that of a young
bull, threw himself flat on his face on the floor and put his hands
under him. The school burst into a laugh of triumph, which increased the
master's embarrassment and rage.
“Silence!” he said, “or it will be a worse matter for some of you than
for James.”
Then turning his attention to Jimmie, be lifted him from the floor and
tried to pull out his hand. But Jimmie kept his arms folded tight across
his breast, roaring vigorously the while, and saying over and over, “Go
away from me! Go away from me, I tell you! I'm not taking anything to do
with you.”
The big boys were enjoying the thing immensely. The master's rage was
deepening in proportion. He felt it would never do to be beaten. His
whole authority was at stake.
“Now, James,” he reasoned, “you see you are only making it worse for
yourself. I cannot allow any disobedience in the school. You must hold
out your hand.”
But Jimmie, realizing that he had come off best in the first round,
stood doggedly sniffing, his arms still folded tight.
“Now, James, I shall give you one more chance. Hold out your hand.”
Jimmie remained like a statue.
Whack! came the heavy strap over his shoulders. At once Jimmie set up
his refrain, “Go away from me, I tell you! I'm not taking anything to do
with you!”
Whack! whack! whack! fell the strap with successive blows, each heavier
than the last. There was no longer any laughing in the school. The
affair was growing serious. The girls were beginning to sob, and the
bigger boys to grow pale.
“Now, James, will you hold out your hand? You see how much worse you are
making it for yourself,” said the master, who was heartily sick of the
struggle, which he felt to be undignified, and the result of which he
feared was dubious.
But Jimmie only kept up his cry, now punctuated with sobs,
“I'm--not--taking--anything--to do--with--you.”
“Jimmie, listen to me,” said the master. “You must hold out your hand. I
cannot have boys refusing to obey me in this school.” But Jimmie caught
the entreaty in the tone, and knowing that the battle was nearly over,
kept obstinately silent.
“Well, then,” said the master, suddenly, “you must take it,” and lifting
the strap, he laid it with such sharp emphasis over Jimmie's shoulders
that Jimmie's voice rose in a wilder roar than usual, and the girls
burst into audible weeping.
Suddenly, above all the hubbub, rose a voice, clear and sharp.
“Stop!” It was Thomas Finch, of all people, standing with face white and
tense, and regarding the master with steady eyes.
The school gazed thunderstruck at the usually slow and stolid Thomas.
“What do you mean, sir?” said the master, gladly turning from Jimmie.
But Thomas stood silent, as much surprised as the master at his sudden
exclamation.
He stood hesitating for a moment, and then said, “You can thrash me in
his place. He's a little chap, and has never been thrashed.”
The master misunderstood his hesitation for fear, pushed Jimmie aside,
threw down his strap, and seized a birch rod.
“Come forward, sir! I'll put an end to your insubordination, at any
rate. Hold out your hand!”
Thomas held out his hand till the master finished one birch rod.
“The other hand, sir!”
Another birch rod was used up, but Thomas neither uttered a sound nor
made a move till the master had done, then he asked, in a strained
voice, “Were you going to give Jimmie all that, sir?”
The master caught the biting sneer in the tone, and lost himself
completely.
“Do you dare to answer me back?” he cried. He opened his desk, took out
a rawhide, and without waiting to ask for his hand, began to lay the
rawhide about Thomas's shoulders and legs, till he was out of breath.
“Now, perhaps you will learn your place, sir,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Thomas, looking him steadily in the eye.
“You are welcome. And I'll give you as much more whenever you show that
you need it.” The slight laugh with which he closed this brutal speech
made Thomas wince as he had not during his whole terrible thrashing, but
still he had not a word to say.
“Now, James, come here!” said the master, turning to Jimmie. “You see
what happens when a boy is insubordinate.” Jimmie came trembling. “Hold
out your hand!” Out came Jimmie's hand at once. Whack! fell the strap.
“The other!”
“Stop it!” roared Thomas. “I took his thrashing.”
“The other!” said the master, ignoring Thomas.
With a curious savage snarl Thomas sprung at him. The master, however,
was on the alert, and swinging round, met him with a straight facer
between the eyes, and Thomas went to the floor.
“Aha! my boy! I'll teach you something you have yet to learn.”
For answer came another cry, “Come on, boys!” It was Ranald Macdonald,
coming over the seats, followed by Don Cameron, Billy Ross, and some
smaller boys. The master turned to meet them.
“Come along!” he said, backing up to his desk. “But I warn you it's not
a strap or a rawhide I shall use.”
Ranald paid no attention to his words, but came straight toward him, and
when at arm's length, sprung at him with the cry, “Horo, boys!”
But before he could lay his hands upon the master, he received a blow
straight on the bridge of the nose that staggered him back, stunned and
bleeding. By this time Thomas was up again, and rushing in was received
in like manner, and fell back over a bench.
“How do you like it, boys?” smiled the master. “Come right along.”
The boys obeyed his invitation, approaching him, but more warily, and
awaiting their chance to rush. Suddenly Thomas, with a savage snarl,
put his head down and rushed in beneath the master's guard, paid no
attention to the heavy blow he received on the head, and locking his
arms round the master's middle, buried his head close into his chest.
At once Ranald and Billy Ross threw themselves upon the struggling pair
and carried them to the floor, the master underneath. There was a few
moments of fierce struggling, and then the master lay still, with the
four boys holding him down for dear life.
It was Thomas who assumed command.
“Don't choke him so, Ranald,” he said. “And clear out of the way, all
you girls and little chaps.”
“What are you going to do, Thomas?” asked Don, acknowledging Thomas's
new-born leadership.
“Tie him up,” said Thomas. “Get me a sash.”
At once two or three little boys rushed to the hooks and brought one or
two of the knitted sashes that hung there, and Thomas proceeded to tie
the master's legs.
While he was thus busily engaged, a shadow darkened the door, and a
voice exclaimed, “What is all this about?” It was the minister, who
had been driving past and had come upon the terrified, weeping children
rushing home.
“Is that you, Thomas? And you, Don?”
The boys let go their hold and stood up, shamed but defiant.
Immediately the master was on his feet, and with a swift, fierce blow,
caught Thomas on the chin. Thomas, taken off his guard, fell with a thud
on the floor.
“Stop that, young man!” said the minister, catching his arm. “That's a
coward's blow.”
“Hands off!” said the master, shaking himself free and squaring up to
him.
“Ye would, would ye?” said the minister, gripping him by the neck and
shaking him as he might a child. “Lift ye're hand to me, would ye?
I'll break you're back to ye, and that I will.” So saying, the minister
seized him by the arms and held him absolutely helpless. The master
ceased to struggle, and put down his hands.
“Ay, ye'd better, my man,” said the minister, giving him a fling
backward.
Meantime Don had been holding snow to Thomas's head, and had brought him
round.
“Now, then,” said the minister to the boys, “what does all this mean?”
The boys were all silent, but the master spoke.
“It is a case of rank and impudent insubordination, sir, and I demand
the expulsion of those impudent rascals.”
“Well, sir,” said the minister, “be sure there will be a thorough
investigation, and I greatly misjudge the case if there are not faults
on both sides. And for one thing, the man who can strike such a cowardly
blow as you did a moment ago would not be unlikely to be guilty of
injustice and cruelty.”
“It is none of your business,” said the master, insolently.
“You will find that I shall make it my business,” said the minister.
“And now, boys, be off to your homes, and be here Monday morning at nine
o'clock, when this matter shall be gone into.”