"Morris," began the Associate Superintendent in his most awful tones,
"will you tell me why you raised your hand? Come here, sir."

Teacher urged him gently, and like dog to heel, he went. He halted
within a pace or two of Mr. O'Shea, and lifted a beseeching face toward
him.

"I couldn't to tell nothing out," said he. "I tells you 'scuse. I'm got
a fraid."

The Honorable Tim lunged quickly and caught the terrified boy
preparatory to shaking him, but Morris escaped and fled to his haven of
safety--his Teacher's arms. When Miss Bailey felt the quick clasp of the
thin little hands, the heavy beating of the over-tired heart, and the
deep convulsive sobs, she turned on the Honorable Timothy O'Shea and
spoke:

"I must ask you to leave this room at once," she announced. The
Principal started and then sat back. Teacher's eyes were dangerous, and
the Honorable Tim might profit by a lesson. "You've frightened the child
until he can't breathe. I can do nothing with him while you remain. The
examination is ended. You may go."

Now Mr. O'Shea saw he had gone a little too far in his effort to create
the proper dramatic setting for his clemency. He had not expected the
young woman to "rise" quite so far and high. His deprecating
half-apology, half-eulogy, gave Morris the opportunity he craved.

"Teacher," he panted; "I wants to whisper mit you in the ear."