Miss Mason frowned.

"I hope that some day you will do as I tell you," she said impatiently.

"Now ready. Robert Blossom, if I go down to Mr. Dryburg's shop and buy two yards of percale at sixteen cents a yard, how much must I pay?"

Bobby hastily counted on his fingers.

"Thirty-two cents," he answered.

"Stand up straight," commanded Miss Mason. "And if I buy three yards of braid at ten cents a yard, how much will that be?"

Meg looked up from her writing lesson to watch Bobby's hands, though she knew that if Miss Mason saw her she would be scolded severely. He held them behind him and his fingers fairly galloped as he used them for an adding machine.

"Thirty cents for braid," stammered Bobby.

"And if I give Mr. Dryburg a dollar bill, how much change shall I have?" asked Miss Mason, switching from multiplication to subtraction so quickly that the startled Bobby lost his count.

"Well?" urged the teacher. "What are you doing with your hands, Robert? Bring them out where I can see them. Now then, how much change is coming to me?"

Bobby was hopelessly bewildered now, and he had forgotten the cost of both percale and braid. He managed to stutter, "I--I--don't know,"

and sat down thankfully.

Tim Roon sc.r.a.ped his feet noisily, intending to annoy Bobby, but unfortunately he drew the attention of Miss Mason to himself.

"Stand up, Tim," she commanded sharply. "How much change should I have from that dollar bill?"

"Don't know," muttered Tim.

"How much did the braid cost?" demanded Miss Mason.

"I've forgotten," said Tim.

"You mean you didn't listen," retorted Miss Mason. "Sit down. If this cla.s.s can't do any better with a simple test like this, I'm afraid you'll make a poor showing with your cards this month. Marion Green, perhaps you can tell me how much change I should have?"

Marion Green was a little girl ordinarily very good in arithmetic. But she was frightened now and plainly showed it. She wouldn't even get out of her seat and try to answer.

Palmer Davis was no better, and Hester Scott frankly burst into tears when called upon. By this time most of the cla.s.s had forgotten what the problem was, but Miss Mason refused to repeat it. She said they should be able to remember it.

"Well, Bertrand?" Miss Mason spoke to Bertrand Ashe, a rather dull boy, and one who habitually made mistakes when sent to the blackboard to work out examples.

Bertrand stood up, his sleepy eyes fixed earnestly on his teacher.

"The percale and the braid came to sixty-two cents altogether," he announced, "so if you gave Mr. Dryburg a dollar, you would have thirty-eight cents in change."

Bertrand sat down.

"Right," said Miss Mason. "I'm glad I have one pupil who knows how to use his brain. Some of those who might have had eight on their cards this month needn't be surprised to find a six. Robert, how much is seven times six?"

"I don't know," muttered Bobby ungraciously.

He did know, but he was miffed to think he had missed a problem that Bertrand Ashe had been able to solve.

"That isn't the kind of spirit to show," said Miss Mason sharply.

"Instead of being resentful, you should resolve to keep your head next time. Nothing in the world but panic made you miss that question, Robert. Now go to the board and take the example I read you."

Bobby sat still, his feet locked rebelliously in the iron framework of his desk.

Miss Mason took no notice of him for a moment, sending several others to the board, among them Tim Roon and Charlie Black. Then she came down the aisle to Bobby's desk, a piece of chalk in her hand.

"Go to the board, Robert," she said quietly, putting the chalk into his unwilling fingers and closing them around it with a warm friendly pressure of her own strong, slim fingers.

Bobby was suddenly ready to go, though not ready yet to show that he was ashamed of the way he had acted. Miss Mason read aloud the problem, and those at the board began their figuring.

"Margaret!" Miss Mason spoke so suddenly that Meg jumped. "Are you interested in this lesson? Have you finished your page?"

Meg blushed brightly and bent over her copy book. She had made only seven letters, but then she had been anxious lest Bobby get one of his "stubborn fits," as Norah called them, when no one but Father Blossom could persuade him to change his mind.

"I think Miss Mason is as mean as can be!" thought Meg to herself, carefully tracing the outline of a graceful "S." "She says cross things all the time. I wonder is she old?"

Old people had a right to be cross, Meg considered. Miss Mason didn't look old--she had hair as yellow as Meg's own, and big brown eyes. And she wore pretty dresses. Meg was so interested in studying Miss Mason that the recess bell rang before she had finished her copy-book page.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SPOILED BOOK

The children put their books away thankfully and trooped out into the yard. Miss Mason, after putting up every window, as was her custom, went across the hall to the teachers' room.

Tim Roon was so busy dusting off the top of his desk and fastening down his papers so that the wind would not blow them away that he was the last pupil left in the room when Miss Mason went out, closing the door behind her. Tim waited till he was sure she was not coming back, then tiptoed hastily up to her desk.

"I'll show her!" he muttered, tumbling books and papers about till he found what he wanted.

It was the ill.u.s.trated and autographed book of verses. And now if any one had been there to see Tim they would have been astonished at what he did next. Reaching down into a kind of cabinet that formed the lower part of Miss Mason's desk, Tim brought up a tall bottle of ink from which the desk inkwells were filled. He took the stopper out and opened the book.

"What you doing?" asked a voice at his elbow.

Tim's conscience was guilty enough, dear knows, so it was no wonder that he jumped. A thick stream of ink spurted out and ran down the crevice of the binding of the book. Tim closed it quickly.

"Gee, Charlie Black! you scared me," Tim said, relieved to find that the voice belonged to his chum. "What am I doing? You just watch me!"

Tim opened the book again and poured out more ink. Then he closed it and pressed down hard on the covers. He did this several times, each inking making an ugly, blurry figure that completely ruined two or three pages of the book.

"What's that for?" demanded Charlie.

"Think I'm going to be nagged every day in the week and never do a thing about it?" growled Tim. "Maybe when she finds her precious book marked up she'll begin to understand that there's some one who won't stand for everything."

"How's she going to know you did it?" asked Charlie Black, watching the ink seep into a fine ill.u.s.tration as Tim slowly poured more out.