he averted his eyes as he went by the house where Dora lived. She was
out in the yard, eating a doughnut, and he knew it; but he had passed
the age when it is just as permissible to throw a rock at a girl as at a
boy; and stifling his normal inclinations, he walked sturdily on, though
he indulged himself so far as to engage in a murmured conversation with
one of the familiar spirits dwelling somewhere within him. "Pfa!" said
Ramsey to himself--or himself to Ramsey, since it is difficult to say
which was which. "Pfa! Thinks she's smart, don't she?"... "Well, I guess
she does, but she ain't!" ... "I hate her, don't you?"... "You bet
your life I hate her!"... "Teacher's Pet, that's what _I_ call her!"...
"Well, that's what _I_ call her, too, don't I?" "Well, _I_ do; that's
all she is, anyway--dirty ole Teacher's Pet!"





Chapter III

He had not forgiven her four years later when he entered high school
in her company, for somehow Ramsey managed to shovel his way through
examinations and stayed with the class. By this time he had a long
accumulation of reasons for hating her: Dora's persistent and increasing
competency was not short of flamboyant, and teachers naturally got the
habit of flinging their quickest pupil in the face of their slowest and
"dumbest." Nevertheless, Ramsey was unable to deny that she had become
less awful lookin' than she used to be. At least, he was honest enough
to make a partial retraction when his friend and classmate, Fred
Mitchell, insisted that an amelioration of Dora's appearance could be
actually proven.