unmoved, and made no sign that he
intended to write at all, but as Mr. Bright kept working at the board,
the boy gradually relaxed his unyielding mood, and after a few minutes
wrote his name in a very neat hand. He even added a little flourish in
one corner of the paper.

Mr. Bright heard the pencil moving on the desk and his blood ran
quicker in his veins, though he showed no outward sign of the fact. He
felt that in the first crossing of swords he had won. That was all.
He heard the pencil drop upon the floor, where "Dodd" let it lie. But
he still devoted himself to his work on the board. He knew that the
name was written. It was all he had asked.

As for "Dodd," he almost wondered how he happened to write at all. He
had made up his mind to be as mean and outrageous as possible when he
came to school, and here he had done the very first thing he had been
asked to do! When he replied to Mr. Bright that he could not write, he
fully intended to have a knock-down with the gentleman rather than put
pencil to paper. He even thought over hastily, how quickly he could
"put a head on the light weight" who had brought him the bit of paper.
For "Dodd" was strong now and prided himself on his skill with his
fists.

But the pencil was in his hand, and, before he was aware, his fingers
clasped it. His hand instinctively took the position for writing, and
somehow or other, there came to his mind, just at that instant, the
memory of Amy Kelly, and of how she had held her soft, plump hand over
his, as she taught him to hold a pen.

If he had observed closely, he would have seen that this was where the
first break came in his rebellion. It was the sunshine of Amy's
character shining down through the dark clouds that had closed in about
"Dodd" Weaver's soul, that first tempted his timid, shrinking, almost
forgotten real self out into the light again. Habit completed what
memory began, and his hand moved, though almost against his will, as if
guided by an impulse beyond himself. Perhaps it was so guided!

He wrote the name; but he did no more. When the pencil dropped to the
floor he would not touch it again. Nothing could have induced him to
do so. He would have fought a duel sooner than have picked it up. His
real self, so weak and so nearly dead, shrank back, exhausted by its
single effort, and his bad nature took control of him again.

But Mr. Bright finished the work at the board, and then went up the
aisle.