University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Allen Thigpen was the only one of the pupils who did not entirely
lose his wits while the events of the last few minutes were taking place.
While the contest was even between the combatants, he stood gazing
down upon them with the most intense interest. His body was bent
down slightly, and his arms were extended in a semicircle, as if to
exclude the rest of the world from a scene which he considered all his
own. When Mr. Meadows called for quarter, Allen folded his arms
across his breast, and to a tune which was meant for `Auld Lang Syne,'
and which sounded indeed more like that than any other, he sang as
he turned off,

When Mr. Meadows had taken his seat, he looked at him for a moment
or two as if hesitating what to do. He then walked slowly to him and
delivered the following oration:

“It's come to it at last, jest as I said. I seen it from the fust; you
ought to a seen it yourself, but you wouldn't, ur you couldn't, and I don't
know which, and it makes no odds which you didn't. I did, and now
it's come, and sich a beatin', Jerusalem! But don't you be too much
took aback by it. You warn't goin' to keep school here no longern to-day,
nohow. Now, I had laid off in my mind to have gin you a duckin'
this very day; and I'll tell you for why. Not as I've got anything particklar
agin you, myself; you have not said one word out of the way to
me this whole term. But, in the fust place, it's not my opinion, nor
haint been for some time, that you are fitten to be a schoolmaster.
Thar's them sums in intrust — intrust is the very thing and the onliest
thing I wanted to learn — I say, thar's them sums in intrust, which I

can't work and which you can't show me how to work, or haint yit,
though I've been cypherin' in it now two months. And thar's Mely
Jones, that's in the same, and she haint learn 'em neither, and dinged
if I believe all the fault's in me and her, and in course it can't be in
the book. But that aint the main thing; its your imposin' disposition.
If this here schoolhouse,” he continued, looking around, “if this here
schoolhouse haint seen more unmerciful beatin' than any other school-house
in this country, then I say it's a pity that thar's any sich a thing
as education. And if the way things has been car'd on in this here
schoolhouse sense you've been in it is the onliest way of getting of a
education, then I say again it's a pity thar's sich a thing. It haint worth
while for me to name over all the ways you've had of tormentin' o' these
children. You know 'em; I know 'em; everybody about this here
schoolhouse knows 'em. Now, as I said before, I had laid off to a gin
you a duckin' this very day, and this morning I was going to let Brinkly
into it, tell I found that the time I seen was a comin' in him was done
come; and I knowed he wouldn't jine in duckin' you on account of his
mother. Now I've been thinking o' this for more'n two weeks, bekase —
now listen to me; didn't you say you was from South Calliner?”

Pausing for, but not receiving an answer, he continued:

“Yes, that's what you said. Well now, I've heern a man — a travellin'
man — who staid all night at our house on his way to Fluriday, say
he knowed you. You aint from South Calliner; I wish you was, but
you aint; you're from Georgy, and I'm ashamed to say it. He ast me,
seein' me a studyin', who I went to school to, and when I told him,”
(Mr. Meadows appearing to be listening) `Meadows,' says he, `what
Meadows?' `Iserl,' says I. `Iserl Meadows a schoolmaster?' says he,
and he laughed, he did; he laughed fit to kill hisself. Well, he told
me whar you was raised, and who you was. But you needn't be too
bad skeered. I aint told it to the fust human, and I aint going to, tell
you leave. Now, I had laid off, as I told you, to gin you a duckin',
but I hadn't the heart to do it, and you in the fix you are now at the
present. Nuff sed, as I seed in a bar-room in Augusty on a piece of
pasteboard, under the words `No credit,' when I was thar. Wonder if
thar's going to be much more schoolin' here?”

Saying which, Allen puckered up his mouth as if for a whistle, and
stalked back to his seat.

Mr. Meadows, during the last few sentences of this harangue, had
exhibited evidences of a new emotion. When Allen told him what the

traveller had said, he looked up with a countenance full of terror, and
on Allen assuring him that he had not mentioned it, he had again
buried his face in his hands. When Allen went back to his seat, he
rose, and beckoning to him imploringly, they went out of the house
together a few steps and stopped.

“I never done you any harm,” said Mr. Meadows.

“You never did, certin, shore,” answered Allen, “nor no particklar
good. But that's neither here nor thar; what do you want?”

“Don't tell what you heard tell I git away.”

“Didn't I say I wouldn't? But you must leave toler'ble soon. I
can't keep it long. I fairly eech to tell it now.”

The schoolmaster stood a moment, turning his hat in his hands, as
if hesitating what sort of leave to take. He timidly offered Allen his
hand.

“I'd ruther not,” said Allen, and for the first time seemed a little embarrassed.
Suddenly the man hauled his hat on his head, and walked
away. He had just entered the path in the thicket, and turning unobserved,
he paused, and looked back at the schoolhouse. And oh, the
anger, the impotent rage, the chagrin and shame which were depicted
on his bloodshot face! No exiled monarch ever felt more grief and
misery than he felt at that moment. He paused but for a moment;
then raising both his hands, and shaking them towards the house,
without saying a word, he turned again and almost ran along the path.

After he had gone, and not until he had gotten out of sight, Allen,
to whom all eyes were turned (except Brinkly's, who yet sat with his
head hidden in his hands on the bench), took Mr. Meadows' chair, and
crossing his legs, said:

“Well, boys and gals, the Goosepond, it seem, are a broke-up school.
The schoolmaster have, so to speak, absquatulated. Thar's to be no
more horsin' here, and the circus are clean shot up. And the only
thing I hates about it is, that it's Brinkly that's done it and not me.
But he wouldn't give me a chance. No,” he continued, sorrowfully and
as if speaking to himself, “he wouldn't give me a chance. Nary single
word could I ever git him to say to me out of the way. I have misted
lessons; 'deed I never said none. I never kept nary single rule in his
school, and he wouldn't say nothin' to me.”

Then rising and going to Brinkly, he put his hand upon his shoulder.

“No, its jest as it ought to a bin; you was the one to do it; and in
the name of all that's jest, Brinkly Glisson, what is you been cryin'

about? Git up, boy, and go and wash your face. I would rather have
done what you've done than to a bin the man that fooled the tory in
the Revolutionary War, and stoled his horse in the Life of Marion.
Come along and wash that face and hands.”

And he almost dragged Brinkly to the pail, and poured water while
he washed.

The children, recovering from the consternation into which they
had been thrown by the combat and its result, now began to walk about
the house, picking up their books and laying them down again. They
would go to the door and look out towards Mr. Meadows' path, as if
expecting, and, indeed, half-way hoping, half-way fearing that he would
return; and then they would stand around Allen and Brinkly, as the
latter was washing and drying himself. But they spoke not a word.
Suddenly, Allen, mimicking the tone of Mr. Meadows, cried out:

“Asa Boatright and Sam Pate, go to horsin'!”

In a moment they all burst into shouts of laughter. Asa mounted
upon Sam's back, and Sam pranced about and neighed, oh, so gaily.
Allen got a switch and made as if he would strike Asa, and that young
gentleman, for the first time in the performance of this interesting exercise,
screamed with delight instead of pain.

“Let Asa be the schoolmaster,” shouted Allen. “Good morning,
Mr. Boatright,” said he with mock humility. “Mr. Boatright, may I
go out?” asked timidly, half a dozen boys.

Asa dismounted, and seizing a hickory, he stood up in the middle of
the floor, and the others formed the circus around him. Here they
came and went, jumping over his switch, and crying out and stooping
to rub their legs, and begging him to stop, “for God's sake, Mr. Boatright,
stop.”

Suddenly an idea struck Mr. Boatright. Disbanding the circus, he
cried out:

“You, Is'rl Meadows, come up here, sir. Been a fighten, have you,
sir? come up, sir. Oh, here you are.”

Mr. Boatright fell upon the teacher's chair, and of all the floggings
which a harmless piece of furniture ever did receive, that unlucky chair
did then and there receive the worst. Mr. Boatright called it names;
he dragged it over the floor; he threatened to burn it up; he shook it
violently; he knocked it against the wall; one of its rounds falling out,
he beat it most unmercifully with that; and at last, exhausted by the
exercise and satisfied with his revenge, he indignantly kicked it out of
doors, amid the screams and shouts of his schoolfellows.