"But Teacher Thomas allus said Doog," exclaimed Chester Holmes.

"I don't care what Teacher Thomas said," I retorted. "You must say
Dug--Dug--Douglas."

"But Teacher Thomas is the best speaker they is," piped in Lulu Ann
Nummler from the end of the bench.

"I don't care if Teacher Thomas can recite better than Demosthenes
himself," I snapped. "In this school we say Douglas." My crutch
emphasized this mandate, but I could not see how it was received, for
every scholar's face was hidden from me by a book.

"Now, Abraham, six lines."

Abraham Lincoln Spiker was two years younger than Ira Snarkle, but he
seemed much taller and correspondingly thinner. In our valley the boys
have a fashion of being born long, and getting shorter and fatter as they
grow older. Abraham's mother in making his clothes had provided against
the day when he would weigh two hundred pounds, and consequently his
garments hung all around him, giving him an exceedingly dispirited look.
His hair relieved this somewhat, for it was white and always stood gaily
on end, defying brush and comb. Daniel Arker, a sturdy black-haired lad,
would have done fuller justice to the passage that fell to Abraham, for
the Spiker boy with his gentle lisp never shone in elocution; but our
reading class is a lottery, as we go from scholar to scholar down the
line. The lot falling to him, Abraham pushed himself up from the bench,
grasped his book fiercely with both hands, and fixed his eyes intently on
the ceiling.