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- 2026-01-28T02:35:24.635Z
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- text
- herself to keep still—because, said she to herself, “he’ll tell about me
tearing the picture sure. I wouldn’t say a word, not to save his life!”
Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all
broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly
upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout—he
had denied it for form’s sake and because it was custom, and had stuck
to the denial from principle.
A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air
was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened
himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book,
but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the
pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched
his movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently
for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read!
Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit
look as she did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot
his quarrel with her. Quick—something must be done! done in a flash,
too! But the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention.
Good!—he had an inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring
through the door and fly. But his resolution shook for one little
instant, and the chance was lost—the master opened the volume. If Tom
only had the wasted opportunity back again! Too late. There was no help
for Becky now, he said. The next moment the master faced the school.
Every eye sank under his gaze. There was that in it which smote even
the innocent with fear. There was silence while one might count ten—the
master was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke: “Who tore this book?”
There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness
continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.
“Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?”
A denial. Another pause.
“Joseph Harper, did you?”
Another denial. Tom’s uneasiness grew more and more intense under the
slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of
boys—considered a while, then turned to the girls:
“Amy Lawrence?”
A shake of the head.
“Gracie Miller?”
The same sign.
“Susan Harper, did you do this?”
Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling
from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the
situation.
“Rebecca Thatcher” [Tom glanced at her face—it was white with
terror]—“did you tear—no, look me in the face” [her hands rose in
appeal]—“did you tear this book?”
A thought shot like lightning through Tom’s brain. He sprang to his feet
and shouted—“I done it!”
The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a
moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward
to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that
shone upon him out of poor Becky’s eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred
floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without
an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever
administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a
command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed—for he
knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not
count the tedious time as loss, either.
Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple; for
with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own
treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to
pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky’s latest words
lingering dreamily in his ear—
“Tom, how _could_ you be so noble!”
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