who operated the telegraph, and if the lawyer had any appreciation for the breadth of gossip that passed for conversation in Bitter Springs, he would be downright grateful for Cobb’s discretion, even if that message came by way of the most circuitous route possible.
Cobb slipped the letter under his vest. It was still a question in his mind if he would allow Finn to send the letter for him. The boy wanted to run an errand in the worst way, but Cobb wondered if he shouldn’t think of something with a less problematic outcome if Finn should fail.
Cobb stepped away from the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the sketch he had pushed aside. There was no need to carry the sketch when he had Miss Morrow in his sights, but he found himself picking it up and slipping it back into the inside pocket of his vest anyway.
* * *
When Tru led her students in prayer the following morning, she heard Finn Collins’s voice rise above the others. It seemed he also put considerably more feeling into the effort than was his usual recitation; however, neither his volume nor his vehemence saved him from being summoned to her desk to read his apology to Priscilla Taylor and the class. She kept one eye on Rabbit and his friends to make sure they didn’t snigger and with the other took note of Priscilla to be certain she didn’t gloat. Her watchfulness was rewarded because neither of those things occurred.
Properly chastened, if not sincerely sorry, Finn returned to his seat and folded his hands on his desk. He also put his feet flat on the floor. Tru was trying to guess how long he could possibly maintain that pose when she noticed he was eyeing the smudged slates around him as if anticipating the end of the day when he would be cleaning them. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t read the class something from
Tom Sawyer
very soon; the chapter where Tom slyly engages Ben in whitewashing the fence seemed particularly apropos of Finn’s situation. Even if Finn did not grasp the implication, it would be a balm on her conscience.
Tru raised the map at the front of the classroom to reveal the multiplication and division problems she had put on the blackboard before the students arrived. The older children groaned, recognizing it as work for them. Her younger pupils dutifully took out their
McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader
when she asked and turned to Lesson Thirty, in which Kate and Nell fashioned a boat for their dolls out of a tub and set it loose on the pond. There was slate work that followed, and while they were engaged in that, Tru checked the work of the older students.
“You have a head for numbers, Mr. Fox,” she said, lightly laying her hand on Robby’s shoulder. “Better than I recollect from yesterday.” She felt his uneasy shrug. “But I wonder if it’s not your neighbor’s work I should be praising.”
Rabbit’s head swiveled around and up. “It’s not his fault, Miss Morrow. I told him he could copy from my slate. I don’t mind.”
“I mind, Cabot.”
“It’s Rabbit, Miss Morrow. Really. I hardly recognize the other.”
“You mean your Christian name.”
“The way I figure it, the Christian thing to do would have been for my parents to name me William or Robert or even Jefferson, like my pap. Cabot Theodore just about guarantees a boy’s going to have his head pushed in a trough at least once before he turns seven.”
“I hadn’t considered that. How many times has it happened to you?”
“Never. I’m called Rabbit on account of I’m fast as one, not because it rhymes with ‘Cabot.’”
“Or ‘Blabbit,’” Finn said. “But you do that, too.” His comment, made in an aside to his neighbor loudly enough to be heard by the class, earned him some titters from his friends and a silent rebuke from his teacher. He ducked his head and reapplied himself to his slate.
“Very well,” Tru said, “but Cabot is a name rich with history.”
Rabbit looked
Cobb slipped the letter under his vest. It was still a question in his mind if he would allow Finn to send the letter for him. The boy wanted to run an errand in the worst way, but Cobb wondered if he shouldn’t think of something with a less problematic outcome if Finn should fail.
Cobb stepped away from the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the sketch he had pushed aside. There was no need to carry the sketch when he had Miss Morrow in his sights, but he found himself picking it up and slipping it back into the inside pocket of his vest anyway.
* * *
When Tru led her students in prayer the following morning, she heard Finn Collins’s voice rise above the others. It seemed he also put considerably more feeling into the effort than was his usual recitation; however, neither his volume nor his vehemence saved him from being summoned to her desk to read his apology to Priscilla Taylor and the class. She kept one eye on Rabbit and his friends to make sure they didn’t snigger and with the other took note of Priscilla to be certain she didn’t gloat. Her watchfulness was rewarded because neither of those things occurred.
Properly chastened, if not sincerely sorry, Finn returned to his seat and folded his hands on his desk. He also put his feet flat on the floor. Tru was trying to guess how long he could possibly maintain that pose when she noticed he was eyeing the smudged slates around him as if anticipating the end of the day when he would be cleaning them. She wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t read the class something from
Tom Sawyer
very soon; the chapter where Tom slyly engages Ben in whitewashing the fence seemed particularly apropos of Finn’s situation. Even if Finn did not grasp the implication, it would be a balm on her conscience.
Tru raised the map at the front of the classroom to reveal the multiplication and division problems she had put on the blackboard before the students arrived. The older children groaned, recognizing it as work for them. Her younger pupils dutifully took out their
McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader
when she asked and turned to Lesson Thirty, in which Kate and Nell fashioned a boat for their dolls out of a tub and set it loose on the pond. There was slate work that followed, and while they were engaged in that, Tru checked the work of the older students.
“You have a head for numbers, Mr. Fox,” she said, lightly laying her hand on Robby’s shoulder. “Better than I recollect from yesterday.” She felt his uneasy shrug. “But I wonder if it’s not your neighbor’s work I should be praising.”
Rabbit’s head swiveled around and up. “It’s not his fault, Miss Morrow. I told him he could copy from my slate. I don’t mind.”
“I mind, Cabot.”
“It’s Rabbit, Miss Morrow. Really. I hardly recognize the other.”
“You mean your Christian name.”
“The way I figure it, the Christian thing to do would have been for my parents to name me William or Robert or even Jefferson, like my pap. Cabot Theodore just about guarantees a boy’s going to have his head pushed in a trough at least once before he turns seven.”
“I hadn’t considered that. How many times has it happened to you?”
“Never. I’m called Rabbit on account of I’m fast as one, not because it rhymes with ‘Cabot.’”
“Or ‘Blabbit,’” Finn said. “But you do that, too.” His comment, made in an aside to his neighbor loudly enough to be heard by the class, earned him some titters from his friends and a silent rebuke from his teacher. He ducked his head and reapplied himself to his slate.
“Very well,” Tru said, “but Cabot is a name rich with history.”
Rabbit looked
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