"In Faraway, New York," said she, glibly.
"Tom Linley, I'll take that," said the teacher, in a lazy tone. He
was looking down at his book. Where he sat, facing the class, he
could see none of the boys without turning. But he had not turned.
To the wonder of all, up he spoke as Tom Linley was handing a slip
of paper to Joe Beach. There was a little pause. The young man
hesitated, rose, and walked nervously down the aisle.
"Thank you," said the teacher, as he took the message and flung it
on the fire, unread. "Faraway, New York;" he continued on his way
to the blackboard as if nothing had happened.
He drew a circle, indicating the four points of the compass on it.
Then he mapped the town of Faraway and others, east, west, north,
and south of it. So he made a map of the county and bade them copy
it. Around the county in succeeding lessons he built a map of the
state. Others in the middle group were added, the structure
growing, day by day, until they had mapped the hemisphere.
At the Linley schoolhouse something had happened. Cunning no
sooner showed its head than it was bruised like a serpent, brawny
muscles had been easily outdone, boldness had grown timid, conceit
had begun to ebb.
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