But Jimmie only kept up his cry, now punctuated with sobs,
"I'm--not--taking--anything--to do--with--you."

"Jimmie, listen to me," said the master. "You must hold out your hand. I
cannot have boys refusing to obey me in this school." But Jimmie caught
the entreaty in the tone, and knowing that the battle was nearly over,
kept obstinately silent.

"Well, then," said the master, suddenly, "you must take it," and lifting
the strap, he laid it with such sharp emphasis over Jimmie's shoulders
that Jimmie's voice rose in a wilder roar than usual, and the girls
burst into audible weeping.

Suddenly, above all the hubbub, rose a voice, clear and sharp.

"Stop!" It was Thomas Finch, of all people, standing with face white and
tense, and regarding the master with steady eyes.

The school gazed thunderstruck at the usually slow and stolid Thomas.

"What do you mean, sir?" said the master, gladly turning from Jimmie.
But Thomas stood silent, as much surprised as the master at his sudden
exclamation.

He stood hesitating for a moment, and then said, "You can thrash me in
his place. He's a little chap, and has never been thrashed."

The master misunderstood his hesitation for fear, pushed Jimmie aside,
threw down his strap, and seized a birch rod.