“Anything is better than this,” Ned said one day to some of the boys of his own age. “In my opinion it's better to have a regular row. What Room said was quite true; we shall get the worst of it; but the story will then come out, and it will be seen what a beastly tyranny we have been undergoing. I tell you, I for one will not stand it any longer, so here goes,” and he threw his book up into a tree, in whose branches it securely lodged. His comrades followed his example, and the news that Sankey and some of the other fellows were determined to put up with it no longer soon spread, and in five minutes not a book was to be seen in the playground. The spirit of resistance became strong and general, and when the bell rang the boys walked into the schoolroom silent and determined, but looking far less moody and downcast than usual. Mr. Hathorn took his seat at his desk. “The first class will come up and say their tasks.” Not a boy moved in his seat. “The first class will come up and say their tasks,” the master repeated, bringing his cane down with angry emphasis on the desk. Still no one moved. “What does this mean?” he shouted, rising from his seat. “It means, sir,” Ned Sankey said, rising also, “that we are determined, all of us, that we will learn no more extra tasks. None of us, so far as we know, ever touched your cat, and we are not going to submit to be punished any longer for a fault which none of us have committed.” “No, no,” rose in a general chorus through the schoolroom, “we will do no more tasks.” Mr. Hathorn stood petrified with astonishment and white with anger. “So you are at the bottom of this, Sankey. I will make an example of you.” So saying, he took a stride forward toward Ned. In an instant a shower of books flew at him from all parts of the room. Infuriated by the attack, he rushed forward with his cane raised. Ned caught up a heavy inkstand. “If you touch me,” he shouted, “I will fling this at your head.” Mr. Hathorn hesitated. The shower of books had not affected him, but the heavy missile in Ned's hand was a serious weapon. In another moment he sprang forward and brought his cane down with all his force upon Ned's back. Ned at once hurled the heavy inkstand at him. The schoolmaster sprang on one side, but it struck him on the shoulder, and he staggered back. “You have broken my shoulder, you young scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “I shouldn't care if I had broken your head,” Ned retorted, white with passion; “it would have served you right if I had killed you, you tyrant.” “One of you go and fetch a constable,” Mr. Hathorn said to the boys. “Let him send his servant. He will find me at home. Mr. Hathorn, I am not going to run away, you need not think it. Give me in charge if you dare; I don't care what they do to me, but the whole country shall know what a tyrant you are.”