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- 2026-01-28T02:26:05.048Z
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- 1495
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- The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights
and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings
and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of
isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every sound
ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr. Walters’ voice, and the
conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude.
A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was
more or less rare—the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher, accompanied
by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentleman
with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter’s
wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless and full of
chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too—he could not meet Amy
Lawrence’s eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But when he saw this
small newcomer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. The next
moment he was “showing off” with all his might—cuffing boys, pulling
hair, making faces—in a word, using every art that seemed likely to
fascinate a girl and win her applause. His exaltation had but one
alloy—the memory of his humiliation in this angel’s garden—and that
record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that
were sweeping over it now.
The visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr.
Walters’ speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. The
middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage—no less a one
than the county judge—altogether the most august creation these children
had ever looked upon—and they wondered what kind of material he was made
of—and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half afraid he might,
too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles away—so he had travelled,
and seen the world—these very eyes had looked upon the county
court-house—which was said to have a tin roof. The awe which these
reflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence and the
ranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge Thatcher, brother of
their own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward, to be familiar
with the great man and be envied by the school. It would have been music
to his soul to hear the whisperings:
“Look at him, Jim! He’s a going up there. Say—look! he’s a going to
shake hands with him—he _is_ shaking hands with him! By jings, don’t you
wish you was Jeff?”
Mr. Walters fell to “showing off,” with all sorts of official bustlings
and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging
directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a target. The
librarian “showed off”—running hither and thither with his arms full of
books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that insect authority
delights in. The young lady teachers “showed off”—bending sweetly over
pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers
at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly. The young gentlemen
teachers “showed off” with small scoldings and other little displays of
authority and fine attention to discipline—and most of the teachers, of
both sexes, found business up at the library, by the pulpit; and it was
business that frequently had to be done over again two or three times
(with much seeming vexation). The little girls “showed off” in various
ways, and the little boys “showed off” with such diligence that the air
was thick with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings. And above it
all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all
the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur—for he was
“showing off,” too.
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