"Take your seat, sir!" he ordered Andy severely, marching back to his
own desk.

"Yes, sir," said Andy humbly.

"Pack up your books."

Andy looked up in dismay. The fixed glint in the schoolmaster's eye told
him that this new move meant no fooling.

"Now you may go home," resumed Mr. Darrow, as Andy had obeyed his first
mandate.

Andy kept a stiff upper lip, though he felt that the world was slipping
away from him.

A picture of an unloving home, a stern, hard mistress who would make use
of this, his final disgrace, as a continual club and menace to all his
future peace of mind, fairly appalled him.

He arose to his feet, swinging his strapped up books to and fro airily,
but there was a dismal catch in his voice as he turned to the teacher's
desk, and said:

"Mr. Darrow, I guess I would rather take the whipping."

"Too late," pronounced the relentless schoolmaster in icy tones.

And then, as Andy reached the door amid the gruesome silence and awe of