His miserable eyes escaped from hers and wandered to the wall in
desperate search for conversation. There was no help in the pictures, no
inspiration in the plaster casts, but on the blackboard he read,
"Tuesday, January twenty-first, 1902." Only the date, but he must make
it serve. With teacher close beside him, with the hostile eye of the
Honorable Tim upon him, hedged round about by the frightened or admiring
regard of the First-Reader Class, Morris blinked rapidly, swallowed
resolutely, and remarked:

"Teacher, this year's Nineteen-hundred-and-two," and knew that all was
over.

The caressing clasp of Teacher's hands grew into a grip of anger. The
countenance of Mr. O'Shea took on the beautiful expression of the
prophet who has found honor and verification in his own country.

"The best of boys has his off days and this is one of them," he
remarked.

"Morris," said Teacher, "did you stop a reading lesson to tell me that?
Do you think I don't know what the year is? I'm ashamed of you."

Never had she spoken thus. If the telling had been difficult to Morris
when she was "glad on him," it was impossible now that she was a prey to
such evident "mad feelings." And yet he must make some explanation. So
he murmured: "Teacher, I tells you 'scuse. I know you knows what year
stands, on'y it's polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid."

"And so you bothered your Teacher with that nonsense," said Tim. "You're