A serious look had settled upon all faces.
Every scholar had learned one thing, learned it well and
quickly--it was to be no playroom.
There was a recess of one hour at noon. All went for their dinner
pails and sat quietly, eating bread and butter followed by
doughnuts, apples, and pie.
The young men had walked to the road. Nothing had been said. They
drew near each other. Tom Linley looked up at Joe Beach. In his
face one might have seen a cloud of sympathy that had its silver
lining of amusement.
"Powerful?" Tom inquired, soberly.
"What?" said Joe.
"Powerful?" Tom repeated.
"Powerful! Jiminy crimps!" said Joe, significantly.
"Why didn't ye kick him?"
"Kick him?"
"Yes."
"Kick _him_?
"Kick _him_."
"Huh! dunno," said Joe, with a look of sadness turning into
contempt.
"Scairt?" the other inquired.
"Scairt? Na--a--w," said Joe, scornfully.
"What was ye, then?"
"Parr'lyzed--seems so."
There was an outbreak of laughter.
"You was goin' t' help," said Joe, addressing Tom Linley.
A moment of silence followed.
"_You_ was goin' t' help," the fallen bully repeated, with large
emphasis on the pronoun.
"Help?" Tom inquired, sparring for wind as it were.
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