monthly story for January, to copy, Franti threw a petard on the floor, which exploded, making the schoolroom resound as from a discharge of musketry. The whole class was startled by it. The master sprang to his feet, and cried:—
“Franti, leave the school!”
Franti retorted, “It wasn't I;” but he laughed. The master repeated:—
“Go!”
“I won't stir,” he answered.
Then the master lost his temper, and flung himself upon him, seized him by the arms, and tore him from his seat. He resisted, ground his teeth, and made him carry him out by main force. The master bore him thus, heavy as he was, to the principal, and then came back alone and seated himself at his little table, with his head clutched in his hands, out of breath, and with a look of such weariness and trouble that it was painful to see him.
“After teaching school for thirty years!” he exclaimed sadly, shaking his head.
No one breathed. His hands were shaking with fury, and the cross-wise wrinkle in the middle of his forehead was so deep that it seemed like a wound. Poor master! All felt sorry for him.
Derossi rose and said, “Signor Master, do not grieve. We love you.”
Then he grew calmer, and said, “We will go on with the lesson, boys.”
