Here was a case. We were about to have an explosion. Evidently the young
fire-eater's blood was up. He was bent on having "a scene;" and, while
his hand was in, he would quite likely make up for all the long months
of peaceful inaction. All the tiger within him stood revealed.

The matter was reported to me of course. After some little thought, my
plan was chosen. Not a word was said on the subject for several hours.
Meals, play-time, study-hours, lessons, everything went on as usual. At
length, about eleven o'clock, Charlie was summoned, not to the
principal's desk, in the public school-room, but to my private office,
in a remote part of the premises. As he entered the quiet apartment, it
was evident that the intervening hours of reflection had not been lost
upon him. He was pretty sure, of course, that I had sent for him in
consequence of the occurrence of the morning. Still he was not certain.
Not a word had been uttered in school on the subject--no allusion to it
even. Altogether there was something about the affair that mystified
him.

The following brief dialogue ensued.

"Where are your skates, Charlie?"

"In my box in the play-room, sir."

"Where is your sled?"

"That is hanging up in the outer shed."

"Where is your fishing-line and your ball?"

"They are in the play-room."

"I wish you would get these and all your other playthings together
before dinner. Peter (this was the head waiter) has collected your boots
and shoes, and Sarah (the seamstress) has got your clothes together and
packed your trunks. I have made out your accounts, and will be ready to
send you home to your father by the afternoon train. You may help Bob
also to collect his playthings; he has not done anything wrong, but he
is so young I think your father would not like to have him here alone so
far from home."

All this was said in a tone as utterly emotionless as I would have used
if asking him whether he would be helped to beef or lamb at table.

Charlie was taken aback. If I had attempted to chastise him, if I had
even used towards him the language of invective or reproach, he could
have met the case. But here was an issue which he had never
contemplated. After a moment of blank amazement, he said:

"Mr. H., I don't want to go home thus. It will grieve my father, and it
will be a lasting stigma to me in Tompkinsville, where it is counted an
honor to belong to this school. I know I have done wrong, but can't you
inflict s