Bingham, a short, stout, compact young ruffian, of twenty-two or twenty-three, not quite as tall as Bart, but a third more in weight, and who had an ugly reputation as a quarrelsome fellow of many fights, had at first treated Bart with good-natured toleration, and said he would let him go on awhile.  With him consorted John Craft, a chap of about his age, but of better reputation.  Bingham had broken up a school the winter before, just below in Mantua, and was from the first an object of dread to parents in the new district.  He was a dull scholar, and his blunders had exposed him to ridicule, which the teacher could not always repress.  He left the school, on that Friday, moody and sullen, and came back on Monday full of mischief.

Not a word was said, that reached Bart’s ears, but the young women had a scared look, and an ominous dread seemed to brood over the school-room.  Monday and Tuesday came and went, as did the scholars, and also Wednesday forenoon.

The room was arranged with three rows of desks on two sides, and one on the third.  Behind these sat the large scholars, with Grid, near the door.  When he called the scholars in, after the recess, Bart quietly locked the outside door, and put the key in his pocket.  He was cool, collected, and on the alert.

The first class began to read, each rising while reading, and then sitting down.  Bart had observed that Bingham sat with his book closed, and wholly inattentive to the exercise, and quietly placed himself within a few feet of his desk.

As it came Bingham’s turn, he sat with an assumed look of swaggering indifference.  “Mr. Bingham,” said Bart very quietly, “will you read?”

“I’m not goin’ to read for any God damned——­” the sentence was never finished, though Grid was; yet just how, nobody who saw it could quite tell.  Something cracked, and Grid and his desk went sprawling into the middle of the floor.  A hand came upon his collar as the last word was uttered.  It was so sudden that he only seized his desk, which was taken from its fastening at the bottom as if it were pasteboard, and went in ruins with its occupant.  As he struck, half stunned and surprised, he arose partly to his feet, and received on the side of his head a full blow from the fist of Bart.

Craft, who had been amazed at the suddenness of the catastrophe, and who was to have shared in the fight, if necessary, arose hesitatingly just as Grid received his quietus.  Bart turned upon him with his white, galvanized face, and watery, flashing eyes, “Sit down, John Craft,” in a voice that tore him like a rasp on his spine, and John sat down.  During this time, and until now, no other sound was heard in the room; now a half sob, with suppressed cries, broke from the terrified girls and children.  “Hush! hush! not a word!” said the still excited master; “it is over, and nobody much hurt.”  Bingham now began to rise, and Bart approached him:  “Wait a moment, Mr. Bingham,” he said, and, unlocking the outside door:  “There! now take your books and leave, and don’t let me find you about this school-house so long as I remain—­go!” and the humbled bully sullenly picked up his small property and went.