His manner and the circumstances were such that every one laughed. The
principal was nettled to fury. He forgot his manhood; he seized Yan
by the collar. He was considered a timid boy; his face was white; his
lips set. The principal beat him with the rawhide till the school
cried "Shame," but he got no cry from Yan.

That night, on undressing for bed, his brother Rad saw the long black
wales from head to foot, and an explanation was necessary. He was
incapable of lying; his parents learned of his wickedness, and new and
harsh punishments were added. Next day was Saturday. He cut his usual
double or Saturday's share of wood for the house, and, bruised and
smarting, set out for the one happy spot he knew. The shadow lifted
from his spirit as he drew near. He was already forming a plan for
adding a fireplace and chimney to his house. He followed the secret
path he had made with aim to magnify its secrets. He crossed the open
glade, was, nearly at the shanty, when he heard voices--loud, coarse
voices--_coming from his shanty_. He crawled up close. The door
was open. There in his dear cabin were three tramps playing cards and
drinking out of a bottle. On the ground beside them were his shell
necklaces broken up to furnish poker chips. In a smouldering fire
outside were the remains of his bow and arrows.

Poor Yan! His determination to be like an Indian under torture
had sustained him in the teacher's cruel beating and in his home
punishments, but this was too much. He fled to a far and quiet corner
and there flung himself down and sobbed in grief and rage--he would
have killed them if he could. After an hour or two he came trembling
back to see the tramps finish their game and their liquor; then they
defiled the shanty and left it in ruins.