Mr. Bright took a small piece of blank paper from his table, a
rectangular slip about four inches long by two inches wide, cut
expressly for the purpose for which he proceeded to use it, and went
down to the desk where "Dodd" sat sulking and defiant.
"Please write your name and age on this slip of paper," he said to the
boy.
"I can't write!" grumbled "Dodd," with a surly sneer and a wag of his
head.
"I see! You have no pencil," returned Mr. Bright. "You can use mine,"
and he slipped that article into "Dodd's" hand as he spoke.
As soon as he had done this, he went to the rear part of the room and
began looking over some work upon the blackboard. He did not look
toward the boy to see if he obeyed, but his ears were on the alert.
For a little while "Dodd" sat unmoved, and made no sign that he
intended to write at all, but as Mr. Bright kept working at the board,
the boy gradually relaxed his unyielding mood, and after a few minutes
wrote his name in a very neat hand. He even added a little flourish in
one corner of the paper.
Mr. Bright heard the pencil moving on the desk and his blood ran
quicker in his veins, though he showed no outward sign of the fact. He
felt that in the first crossing of swords he had won. That was all.
He heard the pencil drop upon the floor, where "Dodd" let it lie. But
he still devoted himself to his work on the board. He knew that the
name was written. It was all he had asked.
As for "Dodd," he almost wondered how he happened to write at all. He
had made up his mind to be as mean and outrageous as possible when he
came to school, and here he had done the very first thing he had been
asked to do! When he replied to Mr. Bright that he could not write, he
fully intended to have a knock-down with the gentleman rather than put
pencil to paper. He even thought over hastily, how quickly he could
"put a head on the light weight" who had brought him the bit of paper.
For "Dodd" was strong now and prided himself on his skill with his
fists.
But the pencil was in his hand, and, before he was aware, his fingers
clasped it. His hand instinctively took the position for writing, and
somehow or other, there came to his mind, just at that instant, the
memory of Amy Kelly, and of how she had held her soft, plump hand over
his, as she taught him to hold a pen.
If he had observed closely, he would have seen that this was where the
first break came in his rebellion. It was the sunshine of Amy's
character shining down through the dark clouds that had closed in about
"Dodd" Weaver's soul, that first tempted his timid, shrinking, almost
forgotten real self out into the light again. Habit completed what
memory began, and his hand moved, though almost against his will, as if
guided by an impulse beyond himself. Perhaps it was so guided!
He wrote the name; but he did no more. When the pencil dropped to the
floor he would not touch it again. Nothing could have induced him to
do so. He would have fought a duel sooner than have picked it up. His
real self, so weak and so nearly dead, shrank back, exhausted by its
single effort, and his bad nature took control of him again.
But Mr. Bright finished the work at the board, and then went up the
aisle. He stooped and picked up the pencil, took the slip from the
desk, with a courteous "Thank you," and moved on to his own table. He
had tallied one point.
I wonder if he did this all by himself, or if there was another hand
behind it all. Certain it is this man did not plan all this campaign
that ended so successfully. He had not counted on the boy's refusing
to write his name. It was like a flash, that it came to him to answer
"Dodd's" refusal as he did. Nor did he really intend to put the pencil
into the boy's hand when he offered it to him. But, somehow, he did
just that, and it was the saving fact in the case. Had he laid the
pencil on the table, "Dodd" would never have picked it up. Much less
would he have reached for it, or taken it from Mr. Bright's hand. But,
with the pencil in his hand, he wrote.
We say Mr. Bright did as he did "instinctively." That may be a good
word for it. But I wonder if such "instinct" as this doesn't reach
away over to the other side, even into the realm of inspiration, whose
fountain head is the spirit of the great "I AM."
Be this as it may, though, Mr. Bright had won. He was thankful for his
victory--thankful, but not proud. Perhaps this is another thing that
goes to show that there was help from without that made for him in the
fight.
"Dodd" was disappointed that Mr. Bright did not compliment him on his
writing, for he had written very well and knew that he had. But this,
Mr. Bright took as a matter of course, and gave no word of commendation
for it. It was not time for that yet. "Dodd's" starved real self, if
fed with what might once have been wholesome food for it, would have
been choked, perhaps to death, by a bit of praise, just then, and a
wholesome sense of merit would have been changed into a detestable
conceit.
A teacher has to be so careful about these things.
Mr. Bright seated himself at the table, transferred the name to his
register, then took another bit of paper and began writing on it,
remarking as he did so:
"You will please occupy the seat in front of you this afternoon, and
hereafter. I have written a list of the books you will need," he
added, picking up the strip he had just been writing on, "and you will
please procure them this afternoon. You will recite with the entering
class in this room, according to the programme that is on the board
behind my desk."
But "Dodd" did not move a muscle while Mr. Bright spoke. He did not
look up, even when reference was made to the programme. He made no
response when assigned his seat, or to his place in school. He sulked
and frowned and stood out against everything, and was sullen and
malicious to the last degree.
To all this, however, Mr. Bright paid no heed. He stepped down to the
boy's desk again, put the list of books upon it, then turned and left
the room abruptly, without a word.
The act was so sudden, so unlike what "Dodd" had expected, that it left
him, for a moment, utterly nonplussed.
He was vexed that he had not been able to get into a fight with a man
who had left him alone; and yet, as he raised his eyes cautiously, to
make sure that Mr. Bright was really gone, he smiled in spite of
himself, at the absurdity of the situation! He felt his cheeks wrinkle
up, good-naturedly, as the smile crept over his face from above (I
think smiles do come from above), and was angrier than ever. He
checked his rising good nature with an oath, and raising his arm, he
struck the desk a tremendous blow, that made the cover bound again, and
the room echo with the thud. Then he rose, grinding his teeth as he
got up, and slowly and noisily banged his way out of the room.
Not till three days after this did he appear again in the school room.
During this time he loafed about the town and took particular pains to
be where Mr. Bright could see him and have a chance to reprove him.
But though his teacher met him several times, he gave "Dodd" no other
word than such greeting as true politeness dictated. This was worse
than ever, for the boy, who was really "spoiling for a row" by this
time. The machine, or the machine man, would have had a row with him.
Mr. Bright was not a machine man.
Did you ever hook a big fish, when angling with a light rod and line?
If you ever did, and have succeeded in landing your game, then you know
something about the situation which I am now noting. You see, when the
odds are so much against you, you have to do as you can, and not as you
would like to, with the wily fellow at the other end of your weak
tackle. That is, if you accomplish what you ought to wish to
accomplish, if you fish at all!
Of course, there is a quick way of deciding who shall win, you or the
fish, and that is to pull away, with might and main, straight for
shore, and undertake to drag your captive to you by sheer muscle,
brutally matching your strength against his. But if you try this, you
know that the chances are a thousand to one that you will part your
line and lose the best end of it, and your game along with it.
You can do this, if you choose, of course--this is a free country; but
if that is your way of fishing, you had better give up any little pet
idea that may be lurking about you, that heaven made you for a
fisherman. Perhaps you might make a fair superintendent of school
machines, but you ought not to fish!
Or, you may despise the fish, if you choose, and when he has left you,
you may gloat over the fact that "anyhow you have stuck something into
his gullet that will stay there, and that he can't get away from." You
may hope that the trailing line will tangle to a bush and hang the
creature. All this you may do, and yet, of what avail is it all? It
benefits neither you nor the fish!
But if you know your business you can give your game his own way,
suiting your motion to his, till you wear him out, and then he is
yours. That is good fishing, and the good thing about it is that it
gets the game!
"Dodd" was hooked. His staying away from school was the first tug that
he gave the line that caught him. Mr. Bright let him run. He ran for
three days, and then gave up on that tack. The fisher reeled in the
line and watched for the next break.