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- 2519
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-28T02:26:17.021Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 2397
- text
- “Blame it, I ain’t going to stir him much.”
“Let him alone, I tell you.”
“I won’t!”
“You shall—he’s on my side of the line.”
“Look here, Joe Harper, whose is that tick?”
“I don’t care whose tick he is—he’s on my side of the line, and you
sha’n’t touch him.”
“Well, I’ll just bet I will, though. He’s my tick and I’ll do what I
blame please with him, or die!”
A tremendous whack came down on Tom’s shoulders, and its duplicate on
Joe’s; and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly from
the two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. The boys had been
too absorbed to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school awhile
before when the master came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them.
He had contemplated a good part of the performance before he contributed
his bit of variety to it.
When school broke up at noon, Tom flew to Becky Thatcher, and whispered
in her ear:
“Put on your bonnet and let on you’re going home; and when you get to
the corner, give the rest of ’em the slip, and turn down through the
lane and come back. I’ll go the other way and come it over ’em the same
way.”
So the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with
another. In a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane, and
when they reached the school they had it all to themselves. Then they
sat together, with a slate before them, and Tom gave Becky the pencil
and held her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another surprising
house. When the interest in art began to wane, the two fell to talking.
Tom was swimming in bliss. He said:
“Do you love rats?”
“No! I hate them!”
“Well, I do, too—_live_ ones. But I mean dead ones, to swing round your
head with a string.”
“No, I don’t care for rats much, anyway. What I like is chewing-gum.”
“Oh, I should say so! I wish I had some now.”
“Do you? I’ve got some. I’ll let you chew it awhile, but you must give
it back to me.”
That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their legs
against the bench in excess of contentment.
“Was you ever at a circus?” said Tom.
“Yes, and my pa’s going to take me again some time, if I’m good.”
“I been to the circus three or four times—lots of times. Church ain’t
shucks to a circus. There’s things going on at a circus all the time.
I’m going to be a clown in a circus when I grow up.”
“Oh, are you! That will be nice. They’re so lovely, all spotted up.”
“Yes, that’s so. And they get slathers of money—most a dollar a day, Ben
Rogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?”
“What’s that?”
“Why, engaged to be married.”
“No.”
“Would you like to?”
“I reckon so. I don’t know. What is it like?”
“Like? Why it ain’t like anything. You only just tell a boy you won’t
ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that’s
all. Anybody can do it.”
“Kiss? What do you kiss for?”
“Why, that, you know, is to—well, they always do that.”
“Everybody?”
“Why, yes, everybody that’s in love with each other. Do you remember
what I wrote on the slate?”
“Ye—yes.”
“What was it?”
“I sha’n’t tell you.”
“Shall I tell _you_?”
“Ye—yes—but some other time.”
“No, now.”
“No, not now—to-morrow.”
“Oh, no, _now_. Please, Becky—I’ll whisper it, I’ll whisper it ever so
easy.”
Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about
her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to
her ear. And then he added:
“Now you whisper it to me—just the same.”
She resisted, for a while, and then said:
“You turn your face away so you can’t see, and then I will. But you
mustn’t ever tell anybody—_will_ you, Tom? Now you won’t, _will_ you?”
“No, indeed, indeed I won’t. Now, Becky.”
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