of McKinstry's previous performance, he approached the school from the
thicket in the rear and slipped noiselessly to the open window with the
intention of looking in. But the school-house, far from exhibiting that
"kam" and studious abstraction which had so touched the savage breast
of McKinstry, was filled with the accents of youthful and unrestrained
vituperation. The voice of Rupert Filgee came sharply to the master's
astonished ears.

"You needn't try to play off Dobell or Mitchell on ME--you hear! Much
YOU know of either, don't you? Look at that copy. If Johnny couldn't do
better than that, I'd lick him. Of course it's the pen--it ain't your
stodgy fingers--oh, no! P'r'aps you'd like to hev a few more boxes
o' quills and gold pens and Gillott's best thrown in, for two bits a
lesson? I tell you what! I'll throw up the contract in another minit!
There goes another quill busted! Look here, what YOU want ain't a pen,
but a clothes-pin and a split nail! That'll about jibe with your dilikit
gait."

The master at once stepped to the window and, unobserved, took a
quick survey of the interior. Following some ingenious idea of his own
regarding fitness, the beautiful Filgee had induced Uncle Ben to seat
himself on the floor before one of the smallest desks, presumably
his brother's, in an attitude which, while it certainly gave him
considerable elbow-room for those contortions common to immature
penmanship, offered his youthful instructor a superior eminence, from
which he hovered, occasionally swooping down upon his grown-up pupil
like a mischievous but graceful jay. But Mr. Ford's most distinct
impression was that, far from resenting the derogatory position and the
abuse that accompanied it, Uncle Ben not only beamed upon his persecutor
with unquenchable good humor, but with undisguised admiration, and