"Teacher, I dun'no. He ain't got no 'fraids. I guess maybe he don't likes nobody shall make nothings mit him. I tells him how you says he shall come on the school, und what you think? He hits me a hack in mine face, und runs on the cellar." "I'd like to see him hit me," said Patrick Brennan, son of the Policeman on the Beat, a noble scion of a noble sire. "Me pop he wouldn't stand fer no funny play," and urged by Miss Bailey's friendly attitude toward Morris, he boasted, "I'll bring him to school if ye want me to; I ain't afraid of him." And one afternoon some days later he did appear with his "new little friend." It had taken six big boys, Patrick, and the janitor to secure his attendance, and he hardly reaped the benefit which so much effort deserved, for, except that he was thinner and in a wildly blazing passion of indignation, his second attendance at Room 18 was much like his first. Again his studies were interrupted for several days, and it was the Truant Officer who next restored him to the Halls of Learning. Between these two appearances Morris had procured further intelligence. "That new boy," he began as always, "that new boy he is in bizzness." "So that's the reason that he fights against school!" cried Teacher, well accustomed to the interference of the sweat shop. "I'm very glad to know his reason for staying away. I was beginning to fear he was not happy here--that he didn't like us." "Teacher, he don't," said Morris, with the beautiful candor which adorned all his conversation. "He hates us." "But why, why?" demanded Miss Bailey. "He hates the childrens," the still candid Morris explained, "the whiles they is Sheenies. He hates you the whiles you is Krisht." "Rather an unfriendly attitude altogether," commented Teacher. "And how do you know he hates me because I'm a Christian?" "My mamma tells me how it is. She says he has mads the whiles you is Krisht und makes all things what is loving mit Sheenies. My mamma says he is Russians; und Russians they don't makes like that mit Sheenies. Teacher, no ma'am, loving ain't what Russians makes mit us. They makes all things what is fierce." "I know, I know," said Constance Bailey, and then--"What is the little boy's business?" "Teacher, he's a fire-lighter." "A fire-lighter," echoed Miss Bailey, with visions of arson before her eyes. "A fire-lighter, did you say?" "Teacher, yiss, ma'am, he is a fire-lighter, but sooner he wants he could to come on the school the whiles he ain't got no bizzness on'y Saturdays."