Never had she spoken thus. If the telling had been difficult to Morris when she was "glad on him," it was impossible now that she was a prey to such evident "mad feelings." And yet he must make some explanation. So he murmured: "Teacher, I tells you 'scuse. I know you knows what year stands, on'y it's polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid." "And so you bothered your Teacher with that nonsense," said Tim. "You're a nice boy!" Morris's eyes were hardly more appealing than Teacher's as the two culprits, for so they felt themselves, turned to their judge. "Morris is a strange boy," Miss Bailey explained. "He can't be managed by ordinary methods--" "And extraordinary methods don't seem to work to-day," Mr. O'Shea interjected. "--and I think," Teacher continued, "that it might be better not to press the point." "Oh, if you have no control over him--" Mr. O'Shea was beginning pleasantly, when the Principal suggested: "You'd better let us hear what he has to say, Miss Bailey; make him understand that you are master here." And Teacher, with a heart-sick laugh at the irony of this advice in the presence of the Associate Superintendent, turned to obey. But Morris would utter no words but these, dozens of times repeated: "I have a fraid." Miss Bailey coaxed, bribed, threatened and cajoled; shook him surreptitiously, petted him openly. The result was always the same: "It's polite I tells you something out, on'y I had a fraid." "But, Morris, dear, of what?" cried Teacher. "Are you afraid of me? Stop crying now and answer. Are you afraid of Miss Bailey?" "N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an." "Are you afraid of the Principal?" "N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an." "Are you afraid"--with a slight pause, during which a native hue of honesty was foully done to death--"of the kind gentleman we are all so glad to see?" "N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an." "Well, then, what is the matter with you? Are you sick? Don't you think you would like to go home to your mother?" "N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an; I ain't sick. I tells you 'scuse." The repeated imitation of a sorrowful goat was too much for the Honourable Tim. "Bring that boy to me," he commanded. "I'll show you how to manage refractory and rebellious children." With much difficulty and many assurances that the gentleman was not going to hurt him, Miss Bailey succeeded in untwining Morris's legs from the supports of the desk and in half carrying, half leading him up to the chair of state. An ominous silence had settled over the room. Eva Gonorowsky was weeping softly, and the redoubtable Isidore Applebaum was stiffened in a frozen calm. "Morris," began the Associate Superintendent in his most awful tones, "will you tell me why you raised your hand? Come here, sir." Teacher urged him gently, and like dog to heel, he went. He halted within a pace or two of Mr. O'Shea, and lifted a beseeching face towards him. "I couldn't to tell nothing out," said he. "I tells you 'scuse. I'm got a fraid."