Mrs. Brumby.

There were no gifts for Irving; indeed, he had never cared or thought
much, one way or the other, about any of these people clustered on the
platform. Only this summer, seeing them so frequently in Mr. Beasley’s
store, he had felt the first stirrings of interest in them; now for the
first time he was aware of a wistfulness because they did not care for
him as they did for Lawrence.

Mr. Beasley came up to him. “So you’re off—both of you. Funny thing—I
guess from the looks of you two, if a stranger was to come along, he’d
pick Lawrence out for the teacher and you for the schoolboy. Lawrence
looks as old as you, and handles himself more grown up, somehow.”

“He’s bigger,” Irving sighed.

“Yes, ’t ain’t only that,” drawled Mr. Beasley. “Though ’t is a pity
you’re so spindling; good thing for a teacher to be able to lay on the
switch good and hard when needed.”

“I don’t believe they punish with the switch at St. Timothy’s.”

“Then I guess they don’t learn the boys much. How you going to keep
order among boys if you don’t use the switch?”

At that moment the train came whistling round the bend. Irving caught up
his bag, turned and grasped Mr. Beasley’s hand, then plunged into the
crowd which had closed about his brother. His aunt turned and flung her
arms about him and kissed him; his uncle gave him a good-natured pat on
the back and then stooped and said in his ear, “Irv, if you ever get