Ralph always believed that he would have been speedily defeated by Phillips had it not been for two thoughts which braced him. The sinister shadow of young Dr. Small sitting in the dark corner by the water-bucket nerved him. A victory over Phillips was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young school-master. The other thought that kept his pluck alive was the recollection of Bull. He approached a word as Bull approached the raccoon. He did not take hold until he was sure of his game. When he took hold, it was with a quiet assurance of success. As Ralph spelled in this dogged way for half an hour the hardest words the Squire could find, the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, and Ralph’s friends even ventured to whisper that “maybe Jim had cotched his match after all!” But Phillips never doubted of his success. “Theodolite,” said the Squire. “T-h-e, the, o-d, od, theod, o, theodo, l-y-t-e, theodolite,” spelled the champion. “Next,” said the Squire, nearly losing his teeth in his excitement. Ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, and the conquered champion sat down in confusion. The excitement was so great for some minutes that the spelling was suspended. Everybody in the house had shown sympathy with one or other of the combatants, except the silent shadow in the corner. _It_ had not moved during the contest, and did not show any interest now in the result. “Gewhilliky crickets! Thunder and lightning! Licked him all to smash!” said Bud, rubbing his hands on his knees. “That beats my time all holler!” And Betsy Short giggled until her tuck-comb fell out, though she was on the defeated side. Shocky got up and danced with pleasure. But one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes of Mirandy destroyed the last spark of Ralph’s pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below-zero feeling all through him. “He’s powerful smart is the master,” said old Jack to Mr. Pete Jones. “He’ll beat the whole kit and tuck of ’em afore he’s through. I know’d he was smart. That’s the reason I tuck him,” proceeded Mr. Means. “Yaas, but he don’t lick enough. Not nigh,” answered Pete Jones. “No lickin’, no larnin’, says I.”