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 road to immense popularity, for when children do like a teacher they adore him; there is no half-way ground with the young. But Monro and Waterman held sulkily aloof; they apparently were not going to make friends with a man they would shortly be compelled to thrash.

The gauntlet was first flung down by Billy Waterman. One day in the second week, Copford had returned to school after having had dinner, and seated himself at his desk. The stillness that reigned was unnatural and oppressive. He saw something was wrong, but could not tell what it was. The fair head of Priscilla was bent over her desk, but there was an expression of intense indignation on her brow, Waterman and Monro were exhibiting an industry over their slates that was more than usually ominous. One of the very small boys in the front A-B-C row giggled in a sudden manner that indicated previous suppression of his feelings, and then tried to choke off his ill-timed merriment by burying his mouth in his hands, a look of intense fear coming into his eyes.

"Well, Peter," said Copford, genially, "what is the fun about? I don't think you should keep it to yourself, if the joke is as good as all that."

"It's on the blackboard, master," said the frightened boy, in a hysterical gurgle between a laugh and a cry.

Copford turned his head and saw on the blackboard an exceedingly clever caricature of himself, drawn in white chalk. The exaggerated likeness was obvious, and the malicious intent equally so. The master rose to his feet, turned his back upon the school, and gazed for a few moments on the caricature, while an intense quiet reigned in the room. Finally he turned and said:

"Who drew that picture?"

There was no reply. Billy Waterman, turning a trifle pale about the lips, bent his head over his slate. No pupil gave the slightest indication of the culprit, but Tom Monro looked directly at the master with an expression that said, "Now we'll see how much grit he's got."

"Well, Master Waterman," said Copford, easily, "if I had drawn a picture as clever as that, I shouldn't be ashamed to own it."

"Who said I drew it?" muttered Billy, truculently, not going to be caught by such chaff as that.

"Who says it? I say it."

"Oh, do you?" remarked Billy, menacingly. "Well, what else have you got to say about it?"

"I'm not going to say," replied the master. "I'm going to do."

"Well, what are you going to do?" cried Billy, throwing one leg over the bench on which he sat, and turning from the wall, so that he might be ready for either attack or defence.

Priscilla looked up in alarm, her face pale, gazing beseechingly at the master, as if to warn him of his danger.

"What am I going to do?" said the teacher. "Now if you will all pay attention for a moment, I'll show you. You see this picture; it is a very good caricature of myself, but just watch me add a few lines to it."

Copford took up the white finger of the chalk crayon, and gave a touch to the blackboard, near the eye of the figure, then drew a swift line or two about the mouth, a dab here and a dab there, and stood back quickly, so that all might see the result of his work. An instantaneous roar broke out from the school—a roar of laughter. The result on the board was the dead image of the master, with a comicality added to his expression that was simply irresistible. Billy Waterman gazed with dropped jaw and incredulous, wide-open eyes at the picture,

"Well, I swan!" he cried, unconscious that he was speaking.

The master turned again to the blackboard, and after a few strokes, very rapidly accomplished, stood back again, and exhibited to their wondering eyes a picture of Billy himself as he gazed with open mouth at the result. And now the children applauded as if they were at a theatre. No such expertness had they ever seen even at the most interesting show which had heretofore visited the town. Copford picked up the woolly brush used for cleaning the blackboard, and was about to obliterate the result of his labors, when Billy Waterman arrested his hand by crying out, entreatingly:

"Oh, master, don't blot it out."

"Very well," said the teacher. "We will let it stay there for the remainder of the afternoon; but I hope none of the trustees will come in and see what we have been doing. I think, however, we will shorten up one or two of the classes, and thus get time for me to teach you a little about drawing. It is a most interesting study, and I believe I can give you some hints that will be useful."

Russell Copford knew from that hour