Teacher Meadows read this remarkable letter as though uncertain whether he were asleep or awake. It would be difficult to describe the effect on the “audience.” They were not particularly emotional people, but this letter seemed to affect them strongly.

Poor Will! his cup of sorrow was full! The first words told him the mistake he had made, and he listened, with the anguish of despair, while Teacher Meadows read on remorselessly to the end. He could neither creep under his seat nor steal out of the apartment. He knew that every eye was fixed upon him—oh, what would people think! Once, when the letter was nearly finished, he ventured to glance towards some of his school-mates; but their faces were so full of anger, astonishment, and horror, that he hastily looked in another direction.

But in the midst of all this suffering, there was one consolation—his parents were unable to be present. He knew how grieved they would feel, and so he rejoiced at their absence, and bore his misery as patiently as he could.

And yet he was tortured almost beyond endurance. Oh, why had he written so freely about his school-fellows in this letter? Why had he written so disrespectfully about Mr. Meadows, who was always so kind to him?

Teacher Meadows, who scarcely ever spoke unkindly to his pupils, now said to the hero, in a constrained and[277] harsh voice: “I cannot understand how any boy could think such a subject—say, rather, want of subject—and so free an expression of his views, could possibly win him the prize.”

In a low and faltering voice, Will said something about “a great mistake.”

“Oh, a mistake,” said Mr. Meadows. Then he added sarcastically: “That is too bad; for if your friend Henry had received this letter, he would have had a very vivid idea of your comrades’ characteristics and of your teacher’s incapacity.”

Then, remembering that others were present, he checked himself, and said more mildly, “Will, I am disappointed in you; I had formed a much better opinion of you. There, let it pass; I shall say no more about it.”

Poor boy, he was certainly to be pitied! Censure was to him intolerable; and censure before all these people! Truly, he was being punished for his carelessness.

After all, he had not said anything so very wicked about either teacher or school-fellows; and perhaps an impartial judge would have decided that, all things considered, the writer of such a letter deserved the prize. But Mr. Meadows’ judgment was biassed; he felt insulted; and he thought otherwise.

“But,” chuckles the astute reader, “surely Marmaduke could not be duped after that!” We beg your pardon, gentle reader; but if you think that, you are not skilled in the art of writing stories.

Marmaduke, also, was unable to attend school that day; and if you read the letter carefully once more, you will perceive that it is so vague and incoherent that no one except the four in the plot could make anything out of it. Those who heard it would not perceive that any great danger menaced Marmaduke; and even if they should warn him to be on his guard, he would hardly connect this letter with the one he was to receive in due time. No; Marmaduke would be as unsuspicious as ever, no matter how much he might be warned.

And thus it happened that Will’s muddled wits preserved the plot.

[278]

But the other boys! Ah, they had reason to feel aggrieved and insulted!

All except George were indignant at poor foolish Will. Mr. Meadows had decided that the odds were in favor of George, and, much to the chagrin of four ink-loving youths who knew they would win, he bore away the prize. He was a philosopher, but not a stoic, and now supreme content played over his visage. In fact, he felt so joyous and exultant that he could laugh at Will’s blunder.

Not so, the others. Out of sight and hearing of the people, they pounced on Will, (figuratively speaking,) and glared at him with the most ferocious and horrible expression of countenance that they could put on.

Even good-natured Charles was vexed to be thus openly criticized, and he said sullenly, “Well, Will, I guess you needn’t call our plot mean after this.”

Will heaved a sigh, but said nothing.

“Look here, boys,” the winner of the prize interposed; “suppose that one of us had been asked by a cousin a long way off to give an opinion of his school-fellows, would it have been as mild and as sincere as the one Will gave? I know that a great many boys would have said far meaner things than Will did; for, when a boy comes to speak of his school-fellows, he will hardly ever say a word in their praise. I’ve often wondered why it is,” musingly, “and I think sometimes a boy is a blockhead, anyway. Well, perhaps it isn’t so; perhaps I’m mistaken. Come, Charley; be just to poor Will.”

“Listen to the orator!” mockingly observed a defeated competitor [not one of the six]. “He talks as though he made it a business to study a ‘school-fellow’s’ habits!”

“The prize has made an oracle and a hero of him,” chimed in another, who probably felt that there was more or less truth in the Sage’s remarks.

“What’s the name of his prize, anyway?” queried still another defeated one, with considerable interest in his tones, but not deigning to glance towards the victor.

“Oh, it’s some mighty good book, I suppose;” answered the first speaker. “In fact, so good, that it’s bad!”

[279]

The four inky-fingered youths who knew they would win, thought this so comical that they laughed derisively.

George’s eyes flashed fire and his blood boiled, but he said, as calmly as he could, “I’ve often noticed that boys that guess at things hardly ever hit the mark. Now, your ideas about this prize ar............