That always told me it was one o'clock. And one o'clock meant books
again--three long hours of wrangling with dull wits, of fencing with
sharper ones; three long hours of a-b-abs, of two-times-twos and
three-times-threes; hours of spelling and of parsing, hours of bounding
and describing. With it all, woven through it, now swelling, now dying
away, now broken by a shrill cry of pain or anger, was the ceaseless
buzzing of the school. There was no rest for the eye, even. The walls
were white, their glare was baneful, and through the chalk-dust mist the
rustling field of young heads suggested anything but peace and repose to
one of my calling. That was the field I worked in.

I had been with Tim. His letter from New York was in my hands, and over
and over I had read it, until I knew every twist in the writing. In the
reading I had been carried away from myself, and seemed to be beside him
in his battle in the world, laying about with him right lustily. Then by
force of habit I had looked up and had seen the shadow of the
juniper-tree. I was back in my prison. And it was books!

[Illustration: I was back in my prison.]

"Brace up there, Daniel Arker, and quit your blubbering!" I cried.

Daniel was a snuffler. Whenever I had a companion in the schoolhouse at
the noon recess, it was generally this lad, and when he was there he was
nursing a wound and snuffling. If there was any trouble to be got into,
if there was a flying ball to come in contact with, ice to break through
or a limb to snap, Daniel never failed to be on hand. Then he would
burst rudely into my solitude and while I sopped cold water over his
injured members, he would blubber. When I turned from him to my own
corner by the window, the blubber would die away into a snuffle, and