LITMIR.BIZ

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off” with small scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline-and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had to be done over again two or three times (with much seeming vexation). The little girls “showed off” in various ways, and the little boys “showed off” with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur-for he was “showing off,” too.

      There was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters’ ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough-he had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind.

      And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters was not expecting an application from this source for the next ten years. But there was no getting around it-here were the certified checks, and they were good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated to a place with the Judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from headquarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the decade, and so profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial one’s altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy-but those that suffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to Tom for the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges. These despised themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass.

      The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the superintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow’s instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises-a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt.

      Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her face-but he wouldn’t look. She wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went-came again; she watched; a furtive glance told her worlds-and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom most of all (she thought).

      Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked-partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand on Tom’s head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:

      “Tom.”

      “Oh, no, not Tom-it is-”

      “Thomas.”

      “Ah, that’s it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That’s very well. But you’ve another one I daresay, and you’ll tell it to me, won’t you?”

      “Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas,” said Walters, “and say sir. You mustn’t forget your manners.”

      “Thomas Sawyer-sir.”

      “That’s it! That’s a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many-very, very great many. And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it’s what makes great men and good men; you’ll be a great man and a good man yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you’ll look back and say, It’s all owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood-it’s all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn-it’s all owing to the good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible-a splendid elegant Bible-to keep and have it all for my own, always-it’s all owing to right bringing up! That is what you will say, Thomas-and you wouldn’t take any money for those two thousand verses-no indeed you wouldn’t. And now you wouldn’t mind telling me and this lady some of the things you’ve learned-no, I know you wouldn’t-for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. Won’t you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?”

      Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish. He blushed, now, and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters’ heart sank within him. He said to himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question-why did the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up and say:

      “Answer the gentleman, Thomas-don’t be afraid.”

      Tom still hung fire.

      “Now I know you’ll tell me,” said the lady. “The names of the first two disciples were-”

      “David and Goliah!”

      Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.

      Chapter V

      About half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon. The Sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt Polly came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her-Tom being placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days; the mayor and his wife-for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow Douglas, fair, smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg could boast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer Riverson, the new notable from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a body-for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came the Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass. He always brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so good. And besides, he had been “thrown up to them” so much. His white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on Sundays-accidentally. Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs.

      The congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all through service. There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred, but I have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago, and I can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in some foreign country.

      The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. His voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a spring-board:

      Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow’ry beds of ease,

      Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro’ blood – y seas?

      He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church “sociables” he was always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and “wall” their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, “Words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this mortal earth.”

      After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into a bulletinboard, and read off “notices” of meetings and societies and things till it

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