you to offer before I report your case to the principal?"
The word "principal" struck him to the vitals. Grand Inquisitor, Grand Khan, Sultan, Emperor, Tsar, Cæsar Augustus—these are comparable. He stopped squirming instantly, and sat rigid.
"I want an answer. Why did you shout those words at me?"
"Well," he murmured, "I was just—thinking."
"Thinking what?" she asked sharply.
"I don't know."
"That won't do!"
He took his left ankle in his rignt hand and regarded it helplessly.
"That won't do, Penrod Schofield," she repeated severely. "If that is all the excuse you have to offer I shall report your case this instant!"
And she rose with fatal intent.
But Penrod was one of those whom the precipice inspires. "Well, I have got an excuse."
"Well"—she paused impatiently—"what is it?"
He had not an idea, but he felt one coming, and replied automatically, in a plaintive tone:
"I guess anybody that had been through what I
