O'Shea bore a sullen grudge against the usurping race.

He resented the caressing air with which Teacher held the little hand
placed so confidently within her own and he welcomed the opportunity of
gratifying his still ruffled temper and his racial antagonism at the
same time. He would take a rise out of this young woman about her
little Jew. She would be comforted later on. Mr. O'Shea rather fancied
himself in the rôle of comforter, when the sufferer was neither old nor
ill-favored. And so he set about creating the distress which he would
later change to gratitude and joy. Assuredly the Honorable Timothy had a
well-developed sense of humor.

"His English is certainly dreadful," remarked the voice of authority,
and it was not an English voice, nor is O'Shea distinctively an English
name. "Dreadful. And, by the way, I hope you are not spoiling these
youngsters. You must remember that you are fitting them for the battle
of life. Don't coddle your soldiers. Can you reconcile your present
attitude with discipline?"

"With Morris--yes," Teacher answered. "He is gentle and tractable beyond
words."

"Well, I hope you're right," grunted Mr. O'Shea, "but don't coddle
them."

And so the incident closed. The sleeve link was tucked, before Morris's
yearning eyes, into the reluctant pocket of the wide white waistcoat,
and Morris returned to his place. He found his reader and the proper
page, and the lesson went on with brisk serenity; real on the children's
part, but bravely assumed on Teacher's. Child after child stood up,