to be worshipped from afar in all probability, but to
be, nevertheless, his girl. So he drove ruthlessly from his heart all
memories of a certain gray-eyed Harriette, his third-grade charmer, and
erected a purely tentative shrine to the new divinity. As yet he was not
quite certain of his feelings--and there might be a later addition to
the room!

In the meantime, there was the vacant seat. Temporary idol or not, he
longed for possession of it, but he knew that although he moved heaven
and earth to support a direct request for transfer, Miss Brown would
never assign it to him. Many a past bitter experience had shown the most
harmless desires to mask deep-laid juvenile plots, and she was
singularly wary and distrustful. A way must be found to trick her into
giving him the occupancy.

He ate his meat and potatoes very quietly and thoughtfully that noon, a
procedure so contrary to his usual actions that his mother asked him if
he felt well. He nodded abstractedly, went upstairs to the big, sunny
sewing room, searched the family needlecase for a long stiff darning
needle and extracted several rubber bands from the red cardboard box on
the library table. Then he sauntered off to wait in the school yard for
assembly bell, with the air of a military strategist who has planned a
well-laid campaign and is sanguine of success.

The tramp of juvenile feet up the broad, school stairways grew steadily
less until silence reigned in the big, empty corridors. Miss Brown sat
down at her desk, drew out the black-covered record book from the
right-hand drawer, and gave a few reassuring pats to her dark, orderly
hair. Scurrying footsteps pounded up to the cloak room entrance. A
moment later, Thomas Jackson, still panting and breathless, stumbled
into his seat and mopped the beads of perspiration from his dark-skinned
forehead with his coatsleeve. Then the tardy bell rang and Miss Brown
began roll call.

"Anna Boguslawsky," came her clear, even tones as the "B" names were
reached. Hardly had Anna's timid "Here" reached her ears than a series
of subdued cluckings came from some small boy's throat. She rapped for
order and went on.

"Edna Bowman."

"Clu-wawk, clu-wawk," repeated the offender. Miss Brown laid her book
down with a snap and glared at the class, which hesitated between
ill-suppressed amusement and fear of teacher's wrath. She waited for one
long, dragging moment and spoke crisply:

"Children, you are no longer third-grad