Up into the quiet air went his timid hand. Teacher, knowing him in his
more garrulous moods, ignored the threatened interruption of Bertha's
spirited résumé, but the windmill action of the little arm attracted the
Honorable Tim's attention.

"The best of boys wants you," he suggested, and Teacher perforce asked:

"Well, Morris, what is it?"

Not until he was on his feet did the Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl
appreciate the enormity of the mission he had undertaken. The other
children began to understand, and watched his struggle for words and
breath with sympathy or derision, as their natures prompted. But there
are no words in which one may politely mention ineffective safety-pins
to one's glass of fashion. Morris's knees trembled queerly, his
breathing grew difficult, and Teacher seemed a very great way off as she
asked again:

"Well, what is it, dear?"

Morris panted a little, smiled weakly, and then sat down. Teacher was
evidently puzzled, the "comp'ny" alert, the Principal uneasy.

"Now, Morris," Teacher remonstrated, "you must tell me what you want."

But Morris had deserted his etiquette and his veracity, and murmured
only:

"Nothings."