“So it’s you, is it? You know what to expect and are whimpering ahead of time, hey? You are always the source of all mischief in the class.” His steady eyes were peering at the boy’s agitated face. Then he added, “Now if you didn’t start this, who did?” The insinuation increased the bitterness in the boy’s heart. He was biting the lining of his lip to hold his tears in check, but not a sound escaped him. “Won’t you answer me?” The master’s voice was threatening. Much as he hated Long Kunz and Shorty Fritz his pride forbade him to betray them. Silently, grimly, the infuriated priest turned around and walked back toward the blackboard, the swishing of his cassock striking against his heels registering his measured, determined step. To the right of the blackboard stood a large, heavy, gnarled yellowish stick, an ever present warning to the class. Gripping the rattan firmly in his hand the priest faced about and retraced his steps, presently standing in front of Albert. “Well, Albert?” The instructor’s stormy blue eyes were riveted upon the boy and the heavy cane was suspended in the air. Albert only tightened his lips more firmly. “Speak!” Scher’s voice trembled with wrath. A scarcely perceptible smile appeared on the lower part of the boy’s face, which however did net escape the tantalized master. Bang! The stick came down with a crashing blow, but as Albert quickly turned aside it struck the table nearby and broke. Baffled by defeat Father Scher grew more angered and swung the broken end of the cane up and down blindly, striking at his victim until he was exhausted, panting audibly. Brandishing the fragment in his hand for a final blow, he missed his aim and his body swung around, sending his skull-cap to the floor. As he stooped to pick up his headgear—his shaven crown exposed to the gaze of the irreverent youngsters—the awed tension vanished and derisive laughter broke loose. In spite of his pain Albert’s jeering voice sounded louder than all the rest. His little eyes snapped diabolic mockery in his glittering pupils. From the rear of the room came the mimicking of a grunting sucking pig. Confused and out of breath, Scher turned from side to side and his rolling eyes finally focused upon the grimacing face of that ragamuffin, Long Kunz. “Take this!” the master aspirated and gave the boy a sharp cut. Kunz emitted a shriek that rang throughout the cloister. “I didn’t do anything,” he wailed, scratching the smarting spot on his left shoulder—“it was he that started all the trouble.” “Who is he?” demanded the instructor. He brandished the cane, but without letting it fall on Kunz. “Who is he?” he repeated. “Al—ber’” Kunz mischievously piped up, drying his tears. “So it is you—hey? I thought it couldn’t be anyone else.” He turned upon Albert anew, the scorn of vengeance in his metallic voice.