hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with businesslike alacrity. The master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom armchair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. The interruption roused him.
“Thomas Sawyer!”
Tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.
“Sir!”
“Come up here. Now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?”
Tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric sympathy of love; and by that form was the only vacant place on the girls’ side of the schoolhouse. He instantly said:
“ I stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn! ”
The master’s pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. The buzz of study ceased. The pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind. The master said:
“You—you did what?”
“Stopped to talk with Huckleberry Finn.”
There was no mistaking the words.
“Thomas Sawyer, this is the most astounding confession I have ever listened to. No mere ferule will answer for this offence. Take off your jacket.”
The master’s arm performed until it was tired and the stock of switches notably diminished. Then the order followed: