by all manner of jabs and punches through the cracks. From the early assembling of the girls it was very obvious that they had been let into the conspiracy, though they took no part in the active operations. They would, however, occasionally drop a word of encouragement to the boys, such as "I wouldn't turn out the master, but if I did turn him out, I'd die before I'd give up." These remarks doubtless had an emboldening effect upon "the young freeborns," as Mrs. Trollope would call them, for I never knew the Georgian of any age who was indifferent to the smiles and praises of the ladies—before his marriage.
At length Mr. Michael St. John, the schoolmaster, made his appearance. Though some of the girls had met him a quarter of a mile from the schoolhouse and told him all that had happened, he gave signs of sudden astonishment and indignation when he advanced to the door and was assailed by a whole platoon of sticks from the cracks. "Why, what does all this mean?" said he, as he approached the captain and myself, with a countenance of two or three varying expressions.
"Why," said the captain, "the boys have turned you out, because you have refused to give them an Easter holiday."
"Oh," returned Michael, "that's it, is it? Well, I'll see whether their parents are to pay me for letting their children play when they please." So saying, he advanced to the schoolhouse and demanded, in a lofty tone, of its inmates an unconditional surrender.
"Well, give us holiday then," said twenty little urchins within, "and we'll let you in."
"Open the door of the academy " (Michael would allow nobody to call it a schoolhouse)—"Open the door of the academy this instant," said Michael, "or I'll break it down."
"Break it down," said Pete Jones and Bill Smith, "and we'll break you down."
