“My, I’ll bet he’s mad!” said Bobby. Tim was standing in the mud, trying to scrape some of it off his clothes. His cap was gone and great patches of mud clung to his face and hair. He was a distressed looking object indeed. While they watched, he glanced up and saw them standing there. He shook a fist at Bobby, and began to limp slowly off down the road.

“Do you suppose he is hurt?” asked Meg anxiously. “Maybe he ought to go to see Doctor Maynard.”

“He isn’t hurt,” Bobby assured her confidently. “That mud is as soft as––as anything! Wasn’t Philip fine to think of scaring him like that?”

Indeed, Philip had an extra good supper that night, after Bobby and Meg had told Mother and Norah all about the help he had given them, and the twins, when they came in from their 65 drive, were filled with admiration for such an intelligent dog.

“My practicing’s all done,” announced Meg happily. “I don’t mind it so much now, ’cause I want to be ready to play assembly marches when I’m in the third grade.”

“If you want to see how rabbit pens ought to look,” Bobby told Twaddles confidentially, “just go out and see those I fixed this afternoon.”

“Huh,” sniffed Twaddles with withering indifference, “I guess the rabbits don’t know they’re any better off!”

The first week of school went very smoothly, and both Bobby and Meg began to look forward to their reports at the end of the month. These reports were immensely important, according to Bobby, who was, of course, experienced in such matters.

“If Bert Figger gets eight in spelling, his father’s going to give him fifty cents,” Bobby told Meg.

“You’ll get nine in ’rithmetic, I know you will,” said Meg admiringly. “You’re awfully good in that, Bobby.” 66

“Yes, I think I am,” agreed Bobby. “I haven’t missed one so far. Every answer I’ve worked out has been right.”

He repeated this assertion at the supper table that night, and Father Blossom shook his head.

“Don’t be too sure of that nine,” he said warningly. “The work is going to get harder the further you go, you know. Trying for a nine is all right, but I don’t like to hear you speak as though you didn’t have to make any effort to reach it.”

The next morning in school Miss Mason had something interesting to show her first grade pupils. It was a very beautifully illustrated book of verses for children. The poems were written by famous poets, and each poet had signed his name to his own verse. The pictures were in colors and had been painted by well-known artists, who had signed their work with a pen after the pictures had been printed. So it was really a picture book, a poem book, and an autograph album all in one.

“There are only three like it in the world,” explained Miss Mason. “They were raffled off 67 at a fair for a children’s hospital, and a friend of mine, one of the artists, won a copy. She sent it to me.”

Miss Mason said the second grade might examine the book at recess or at noon, because they had been busy with their writing lesson while she was showing it to the younger children. Then, while the first grade was set to work to make a page of “S’s,” Miss Mason called the second grade to order for their arithmetic lesson.

“You will not need pencils and paper this morning,” she announced. “We are going to have a little mental arithmetic.”

Charlie Black groaned.

“That will do,” said the teacher sharply. “Tim Roon, are you chewing gum again? Come and put it in the waste basket.”

Tim gulped hastily.

“I’ve swallowed it,” he declared.

Miss Mason frowned.

“I hope that some day you will do as I tell you,” she said impatiently. “Now ready. Robert Blossom, if I go down to Mr. Dryburg’s shop 68 and buy two yards of percale at sixteen cents a yard, how much must I pay?”

Bobby hastily counted on his fingers.

“Thirty-two cents,” he answered.

“Stand up straight,” commanded Miss Mason. “And if I buy three yards of braid at ten cents a yard, how much will that be?”

Meg looked up from her writing lesson to watch Bobby’s hands, though she knew that if Miss Mason saw her she would be scolded severely. He held them behind him and his fingers fairly galloped as he used them for an adding machine.

“Thirty cents for braid,” stammered Bobby.

“And if I give Mr. Dryburg a dollar bill, how much change shall I have?” asked Miss Mason, switching from multiplication to subtraction so quickly that the startled Bobby lost his count.

“Well?” urged the teacher. “What are you doing with your hands, Robert? Bring them out where I can see them. Now then, how much change is coming to me?”

Bobby was hopelessly bewildered now, and he had forgotten the cost of both percale and braid. 69 He managed to stutter, “I––I––don’t know,” and sat down thankfully.

Tim Roon scraped his feet noisily, intending to annoy Bobby, but unfortunately he drew the attention of Miss Mason to himself.

“Stand up, Tim,” she commanded sharply. “How much change should I have from that dollar bill?”

“Don’t know,” muttered Tim.

“How much did the braid cost?” demanded Miss Mason.

“I’ve forgotten,” said Tim.

“You mean you didn’t listen,” retorted Miss Mason. “Sit down. If this class can’t do any better with a simple test like this, I’m afraid you’ll make a poor showing with your cards this month. Marion Green, perhaps you can tell me how much change I should have?”

Marion Green was a little girl ordinarily very good in arithmetic. But she was frightened now and plainly showed it. She wouldn’t even get out of her seat and try to answer.

Palmer Davis was no better, and Hester Scott frankly burst into tears when called upon. By 70 this time most of the class had forgotten what the problem was, but Miss Mason refused to repeat it. She said they should be able to remember it.

“Well, Bertrand?” Miss Mason spoke to Bertrand Ashe, a rather dull boy, and one who habitually made mistakes when sent to the blackboard to work out examples.

Bertrand stood up, his sleepy eyes fixed earnestly on his teacher.

“The percale and the braid came to sixty-two cents altogether,” he announced, “so if you gave Mr. Dryburg a dollar, you would have thirty-eight cents in change.”

Bertrand sat down.

“Right,” said Miss Mason. “I’m glad I have one pupil who knows how to use his brain. Some of those who might have had eight on their cards this month needn’t be surprised to find a six. Robert, how much is seven times six?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Bobby ungraciously.

He did know, but he was miffed to think he had missed a problem that Bertrand Ashe had been able to solve. 71

“That isn’t the kind of spirit to show,” said Miss Mason sharply. “Instead of being resentful, you should resolve to keep your head next time. Nothing in the world but panic made you miss that question, Robert. Now go to the board and take the example I read you.”

Bobby sat still, his feet locked rebelliously in the iron framework of his desk.

Miss Mason took no notice of him for a moment, sending several others to the board, among them Tim Roon and Charlie Black. Then she came down the aisle to Bobby’s desk, a piece of chalk in her hand.

“Go to the board, Robert,” she said quietly, putting the chalk into his unwilling fingers and closing them around it with a warm friendly pressure of her own strong, slim fingers.

Bobby was suddenly ready to go, though not ready yet to show that he was ashamed of the way he had acted. Miss Mason read aloud the problem, and those at the board began their figuring.

“Margaret!” Miss Mason spoke so suddenly 72 that Meg jumped. “Are you interested in this lesson? Have you finished your page?”

Meg blushed brightly and bent over her copy book. She had made only seven letters, but then she had been anxious lest Bobby get one of his “stubborn fits,” as Norah called them, when no one but Father Blossom could persuade him to change his mind.

“I think Miss Mason is as mean as can be!” thought Meg to herself, carefully tracing the outline of a graceful “S.” “She says cross things all the time. I wonder is she old?”

Old people had a right to be cross, Meg considered. Miss Mason didn’t look old––she had hair as yellow as Meg’s own, and big brown eyes. And she wore pretty dresses. Meg was so interested in studying Miss Mason that the recess bell rang before she had finished her copy-book page.