Mr. Slocum was terribly annoyed by what had happened. It seemed impossible to explain his flight in any way that would reflect credit upon himself. He could not pretend that it was all a joke, for he had shown himself too much in earnest in the village store, where he had taken refuge, for this to be believed. Though not remarkable for sense, Mr. Slocum knew that if he should undertake to punish Julius and John for their agency in the affair, he would only give it greater publicity. He felt a strong desire to do this, however, and would have derived great comfort from flogging them both. Finally he decided not to refer to the matter in school, and in this decision he was unusually discreet.

Of course Julius and John did not keep the matter secret. When Mr. Slocum came up the school-house hill, the next morning, there was not a scholar in the school who had not heard of his adventure, and the teacher, in his hurried glance at his pupils, detected a look of sly meaning, which revealed to him the fact that all was known. Julius and John were among the rest, looking very demure and innocent. Mr. Slocum saw them, too, out of the corner of his eye, and he determined{155} to seize the first chance that presented itself of flogging each.

The school opened. Julius was doubtful whether any reference would be made to the bear. He rather expected a speech, but Mr. Slocum disappointed him. He heard the classes as usual, but refrained from making any remarks of a biographical character. His self-complacency had been severely disturbed, and he looked severe and gloomy.

He watched Julius and John, hoping to detect something in their conduct which would justify him in punishing them; but they, too, were unusually quiet, as rogues are apt to be just after a successful trick.

At length, however, something happened which led to an explosion.

Tom Allen, who has been described as the oldest and largest boy in school, sat directly behind Julius. He was not a brilliant scholar, but he had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and had been very much amused by the account of the teacher’s narrow escape from Mr. Sandford’s bear. He had a little taste for drawing, of which he occasionally made use. After finishing his sums, having a few idle moments, he occupied himself with drawing on his slate a caricature of Mr. Slocum pursued by the bear. There was enough resemblance in the portraits, both of the man and the animal, to make the subject{156} of the picture unmistakable. It was, as was natural, slightly caricatured, so that the effect was ludicrous.

Desiring his effort to be appreciated, he passed the slate to Julius, who sat in front of him. Our hero was easy to make laugh, and he no sooner cast his eyes over the picture than he burst into audible laughter. This was the occasion that Mr. Slocum had been waiting for. Laughter was against the rules of the school—it was disorderly—and would give him an excuse for the punishment he was so strongly desirous of inflicting. He strode to the desk of Julius while the latter was still looking at the slate. Mr. Slocum, too, saw it, and his fury was increased, for he recognized the subject only too well.

Seizing Julius by the collar, he jerked him out upon the floor, saying, in a voice of concentrated passion: “So, sir, you are drawing pictures instead of studying. I’ll give you a lesson.”

“I didn’t draw it,” said Julius.

“I’ll flog you for telling a lie,” exclaimed the excited teacher.

Julius was about to repeat his disclaimer, but it was made unnecessary. Tom Allen arose quietly in his seat, and said: “Julius is perfectly right, Mr. Slocum; he didn’t draw the picture.”

“Who did, then?” asked the teacher, pausing in his contemplated punishment.{157}

“I did,” said Tom, coolly. “If you want to punish anybody for doing it, you’ll have to punish me.”

This was very disagreeable intelligence for Mr. Slocum. Tom Allen was a stout, broad-shouldered, immensely powerful young fellow, standing five feet ten inches in his stockings. There are few teachers who would not have fought shy of punishing, or attempting to punish, such a formidable scholar. Mr. Slocum was disconcerted at the interruption, and did not care about undertaking such a doubtful job. Neither did he want to release Julius from his clutches. He knew that he could punish him, and he meant to do it. A lucky thought came to him.

“I do not punish him for drawing the picture,” he said, “but for disturbing the order of the school by laughing at it.”

“I couldn’t help laughing at it,” exclaimed our hero.

“Nor could any of the other scholars,” said Tom Allen; and taking the slate from the desk before him, he held it up, and exhibited it to the other scholars. It was recognized at once, and there was a general shout of laughter.

Mr. Slocum looked about him with an angry scowl, and his temper was fairly aroused, so that he became, to a certain extent, regardless of consequences.

“I won’t let you off,” he said to Julius, tightening his grasp on the boy’s collar.{158}

“What are you punishing him for?” asked Tom Allen, quietly.

“For laughing out in school.”

“The rest of the scholars have done the same. Are you going to punish them, too?”

“I shall punish some of them,” said the teacher, with a smile of complacent malice. “John Sandford laughed loudest. His turn will come next.”

By this time it was very clear to all present what the two boys were to be punished for. The laughing was only a pretext. They were to be flogged for their participation in the practical joke of the day before.

“Mr. Slocum,” said Tom Allen, “I am the greatest offender. The boys only laughed, but I drew the picture.”

“You did not laugh,” said Mr. Slocum, uneasily.

“Still, if anybody is to be punished, I am the one. Here is my hand. You may ferule me, if you like.”

Tom Allen’s hand was hardened by labor, and he would not have minded the feruling in the least. But Mr. Slocum had no desire to ferule Tom. His animosity was not excited against him, but against Julius and John. He wanted to punish them, and so wipe out the grudge he had against them.

“I don’t choose to punish you,” said Theophilus, “though you have been guilty of inciting disorder.”{159}

“Why not?” asked Tom. “I shall not resist; that is, if you only ferule me.”

“There is no need of giving my reasons,” said Mr. Slocum, stubbornly. “I have on more than one occasion noticed the insubordinate spirit of Julius Taylor and John Sandford; and it is due to myself that I should punish them, and I intend to do it now.”

He was preparing to punish Julius, and evidently would not have spared the rod to spoil the child, when Tom Allen interfered again.

“Mr. Slocum,” said he, stepping out from behind the desk, “I’ve got a word to say in this matter. You shall not punish Julius!”

“What!” roared Theophilus, almost foaming at the mouth. “Do you know whom you are talking to?”

“I know that I am talking to a man in a passion, who wants to do an injustice,” said Tom. “I am willing to do what’s right, and I have offered to let you ferule me; but I won’t stand by and see an innocent boy suffer for what he couldn’t help.”

“You are a rebel! I will expel you from school!” exclaimed Mr. Slocum.

“I won’t go,” said Tom, “as long as there are boys here who need my protection. I have got Julius into a scrape, and I won’t let him be punished for my fault. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“And this is what I’ve got to say,” retorted the furious{160} teacher, bringing down the rod on the shoulders of Julius, who was struggling in his grasp.

Then Tom Allen thought it was time to act. He tore the rod from Mr. Slocum’s grasp, and flung it to the other side of the room. The astonished teacher loosened his grasp, and Tom, forcibly drawing him away, told him to take his seat. Then Mr. Slocum lost all prudence. His face fiery with rage, he pitched into Tom Allen, and there was a rough-and-tumble fight, in which Tom had the best of it. At this most unlucky time one of the trustees, the Rev. Mr. Brandon, entered the schoolroom on a visit of inspection, and stood appalled at the spectacle before him.

“Good heavens! Mr. Slocum, what does this mean?” he ejaculated.

Mr. Slocum started as if he had been shot, and turned his perturbed countenance toward the trustee.

“It means that there is a rebellion in school,” he said.

An immediate inquiry was instituted, and Mr. Brandon was at last made acquainted with the circumstances.

“I think, Mr. Slocum,” he said, “you had better dismiss the school, and I will call a meeting of the trustees for this evening at my house. I will ask you to be present; also four of your scholars, including Thomas Allen, Julius Taylor, and any two others whom you may select.”

It needs only to be said that, it being made clear to{161} the trustees that Mr. Slocum was incompetent to teach the school, taking into consideration his literary qualifications alone, he was recommended to resign; and next week, to the joy of the scholars, Dexter Fairbanks, the former popular teacher, was installed in his place.

Mr. Slocum did not remain long in Brookville. Whether he went farther West, or returned to Maine, was not ascertained, and few of his pupils cared to inquire.{162}