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Chapter VII
THE harder Tom tried to fasten his mind on
his book, the more his ideas wandered.
So at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he
gave it up.
It seemed to him that the noon recess
would never come.
The air was utterly dead.
There was not a breath stirring.
It was the sleepiest of sleepy days.
The drowsing murmur of the five and twenty
studying scholars soothed the soul like
the spell that is in the murmur of bees.
Away off in the flaming sunshine, Cardiff
Hill lifted its soft green sides through a
shimmering veil of heat, tinted with the
purple of distance; a few birds floated on
lazy wing high in the air; no other living
thing was visible but some cows, and they
were asleep.
Tom's heart ached to be free, or else to
have something of interest to do to pass
the dreary time.
His hand wandered into his pocket and his
face lit up with a glow of gratitude that
was prayer, though he did not know it.
Then furtively the percussion-cap box came
out.
He released the tick and put him on the
long flat desk.
The creature probably glowed with a
gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at
this moment, but it was premature: for
when he started thankfully to travel off,
Tom turned him aside with a pin and made
him take a new direction.
Tom's *** friend sat next him, suffering
just as Tom had been, and now he was
deeply and gratefully interested in this
entertainment in an instant.
This *** friend was Joe Harper.
The two boys were sworn friends all the
week, and embattled enemies on Saturdays.
Joe took a pin out of his lapel and began
to assist in exercising the prisoner.
The sport grew in interest momently.
Soon Tom said that they were interfering
with each other, and neither getting the
fullest benefit of the tick.
So he put Joe's slate on the desk and drew
a line down the middle of it from top to
bottom.
"Now," said he, "as long as he is on your
side you can stir him up and I'll let him
alone; but if you let him get away and get
on my side, you're to leave him alone as
long as I can keep him from crossing
over."
"All right, go ahead; start him up."
The tick escaped from Tom, presently, and
crossed the equator.
Joe harassed him awhile, and then he got
away and crossed back again.
This change of base occurred often.
While one boy was worrying the tick with
absorbing interest, the other would look
on with interest as strong, the two heads
bowed together over the slate, and the two
souls dead to all things else.
At last luck seemed to settle and abide
with Joe.
The tick tried this, that, and the other
course, and got as excited and as anxious
as the boys themselves, but time and again
just as he would have victory in his very
grasp, so to speak, and Tom's fingers
would be twitching to begin, Joe's pin
would deftly head him off, and keep
possession.
At last Tom could stand it no longer.
The temptation was too strong.
So he reached out and lent a hand with his
pin.
Joe was angry in a moment.
Said he:
"Tom, you let him alone."
"I only just want to stir him up a little,
Joe."
"No, sir, it ain't fair; you just let him
"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?"
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."
He turned his face away.
She bent timidly around till her breath
stirred his curls and whispered, "I--love-
-you!"
Then she sprang away and ran around and
around the desks and benches, with Tom
after her, and took refuge in a corner at
last, with her little white apron to her
face.
Tom clasped her about her neck and
pleaded:
"Now, Becky, it's all done--all over but
the kiss.
Don't you be afraid of that--it ain't
anything at all.
Please, Becky."
And he tugged at her apron and the hands.
By and by she gave up, and let her hands
drop; her face, all glowing with the
struggle, came up and submitted.
Tom kissed the red lips and said:
"Now it's all done, Becky.
And always after this, you know, you ain't
ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't
ever to marry anybody but me, ever never
and forever.
Will you?"
"No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom,
and I'll never marry anybody but you--and
you ain't to ever marry anybody but me,
either."
"Certainly.
Of course.
That's PART of it.
And always coming to school or when we're
going home, you're to walk with me, when
there ain't anybody looking--and you
choose me and I choose you at parties,
because that's the way you do when you're
engaged."
"It's so nice.
I never heard of it before."
"Oh, it's ever so gay!
Why, me and Amy Lawrence--"
The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he
stopped, confused.
"Oh, Tom!
Then I ain't the first you've ever been
engaged to!"
The child began to cry.
Tom said:
"Oh, don't cry, Becky, I don't care for
her any more."
"Yes, you do, Tom--you know you do."
Tom tried to put his arm about her neck,
but she pushed him away and turned her
face to the wall, and went on crying.
Tom tried again, with soothing words in
his mouth, and was repulsed again.
Then his pride was up, and he strode away
and went outside.
He stood about, restless and uneasy, for a
while, glancing at the door, every now and
then, hoping she would repent and come to
find him.
But she did not.
Then he began to feel badly and fear that
he was in the wrong.
It was a hard struggle with him to make
new advances, now, but he nerved himself
to it and entered.
She was still standing back there in the
corner, sobbing, with her face to the
wall.
Tom's heart smote him.
He went to her and stood a moment, not
knowing exactly how to proceed.
Then he said hesitatingly:
"Becky, I--I don't care for anybody but
you."
No reply--but sobs.
"Becky"--pleadingly.
"Becky, won't you say something?"
More sobs.
Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass
*** from the top of an andiron, and
passed it around her so that she could see
it, and said:
"Please, Becky, won't you take it?"
She struck it to the floor.
Then Tom marched out of the house and over
the hills and far away, to return to
school no more that day.
Presently Becky began to suspect.
She ran to the door; he was not in sight;
she flew around to the play-yard; he was
not there.
Then she called:
"Tom!
Come back, Tom!"
She listened intently, but there was no
answer.
She had no companions but silence and
loneliness.
So she sat down to cry again and upbraid
herself; and by this time the scholars
began to gather again, and she had to hide
her griefs and still her broken heart and
take up the cross of a long, dreary,
aching afternoon, with none among the
strangers about her to exchange sorrows
with.