“Certainly,” said George, as he prepared to go on with his classes, but Zebedee’s face fell. “Short words, all of ’em,” he soliloquized. “Must have learned them of Dorothy.” At another time George Brayton might have showed signs of rebellion, but he saw nothing very dreadful in the idea of going over to Dr. Dryer’s house after school. It may, indeed, have been the very thing he would have asked for. Bar Vernon attended rigidly to his duties that afternoon, but there was nothing to prevent him from using slate and pencil, and, before school was out, Val Manning had a very fair outline of all Bar had to tell him. Then, indeed, the latter suddenly discovered what a lion he had become. As Zeb announced to “the boys,” not only had Bar returned safe and well, but “he has also distinguished himself by bringing back Mr. George Brayton with him. I could have done but little more myself.” At that very moment, however, the proposed “looking into” George Brayton’s absence was beginning at the house of Dr. Dryer, and never before had the principal tried to look so large, or felt so really insecure about his actual size. “Mr. Brayton,” he began, “may I ask where your journey conveyed you?” “City and back,” said George, curtly. “Business errand, that’s all.” “May I also venture to inquire as to the object of your journey?” asked the principal, with increasing dignity, while his wife smiled upon him her completest approbation, and Effie’s blue eyes expanded with surprise and indignation. “Certainly not,” quietly responded Brayton, without the quiver of a nerve. “You refuse a satisfactory response to my interrogation?” exclaimed the Doctor. “Why,” said George, “if it isn’t satisfactory it ought to be. The business I went on was my own, not yours. I don’t see why you should take any special interest in it.” “None of his business?” exclaimed Mrs. Dryer, aghast. “Is that the way you understand your duty to your superior? Perhaps you will say that this, too, is none of his business?” With that the angry lady plucked from behind the sheltering folds of her dress the remains of Bar Vernon’s tolling machine, and cast it widespread upon the carpet. “What’s that?” asked Brayton, with a mild look of curiosity. “That, sir,” said the Doctor, severely, “is the part of our philosophical apparatus which you have basely deflected from its proper uses for the alarm and disturbance of this peaceful community.” “Dr. Dryer,” said Brayton, as he struggled to suppress a laugh, “has Ogleport gone crazy since last Monday morning, or are you the only sufferer?” “What do you mean, sir?” “Please tell me, Doctor, where did you find that thing, and what is it?” “Find it?” exclaimed Mrs. Dryer. “I found it myself up in the steeple, where it was tolling the bell.” “Tolling the bell!” “Yes, sir, that and the wind, just as you meant it should. Do you suppose the Ogleport Academy supplies philosophical apparatus for tolling bells with?”