Excerpt
CHAPTER I "OLD DUT" TELLS A STORY—DICK ANOTHER——
"Master Prescott, what are you doing?"
The voice of Mr. E. Dutton Jones rasped out rather sharply, jarring on the generally studious air of the eighth-grade room of the Central Grammar School.
"What were you doing, Master Prescott?" repeated the stern voice of the principal.
Dick Prescott had glanced up, somewhat startled and confused. By this time every boy's and girl's eyes had turned away from text-books toward Dick Prescott.
"I was whispering, sir," confessed Dick.
"Oh, was that all?" demanded the somewhat ironical voice of Mr. E. Dutton Jones, more commonly known as "Old Dut."
"Yes, sir."
"To whom were you whispering?"
"To Master Hazelton."
"If I am intruding on no confidences, what were you whispering about?" continued Old Dut.
"I——" began Dick, and then his face turned still more red under the curious gaze of some fifty boys and girls. "I was telling Master Hazelton a funny story."
"Do you think it was very funny?" inquired Old Dut.
"The story? Yes, sir."
The broad grin that promptly spread over Harry Hazelton's face seemed to confirm Dick's claim as to the humorous quality of the story.
"Master Prescott," adjudged the principal, "you may rise in your seat and tell the story to the whole class, myself included. On this dull, rainy day I feel certain that we all need a good laugh."
A smile that grew to a titter in some quarters of the room greeted Dick as he struggled half-shamefacedly to his feet.
"Go on with the story," encouraged Old Dut. "Or, rather, begin at the beginning. That's the right way to serve up a story."
"I—I'd rather not tell the story, sir," protested young Prescott.
"Why not?" demanded the principal sharply.
"Well, because, sir—I'd rather not. That's all."
Principal Jones frequently employed that grilling way of questioning one of his pupils, and his implied sarcasm had a very effective way of making young offenders squirm before the class.
Whispering, in itself, is not a criminal offense, yet it often has a sad effect on the discipline of a schoolroom, and of late Old Dut had been much annoyed by whisperers.
"So you won't tell us all that choice story, eh, Master Prescott?" insisted the principal, half coaxingly.
"On account of its being such a very personal one I'd rather not, sir," Dick answered, still standing by his desk. "I might hurt some one's feelings."
"Too bad!" murmured Old Dut. "And just after we had all been enlivened by the hope of hearing something really funny! I know your rare quality of humor, Master Prescott, and I had promised myself a treat. My own disappointment in the matter may be cured, but what about the boys and girls of this class? I know that they are all still eager to hear a really funny story."
Old Dut paused, glancing impressively about the room. Dick, shifting first to one foot and then to the other, had not yet succeeded in parting with much of the fiery color that had flamed up to his cheeks, temples and forehead.
"Master Prescott," announced the principal, "the class shall not be deprived of its expected treat....