How long Claire stood huddled against the closet-door she never knew.  The first thing of which she was clearly conscious was the feel of a key stealthily moved in the lock beneath her hand.  Then the sounds of footsteps lightly tiptoeing away.  Mechanically she turned the knob, the door yielded, and she staggered blindly out from the darkness into the sunlit room.  It was deserted.

If Mrs. Sherman had been there, Claire would have given way at once, letting her sense of outraged pride escape her in a torrent of tears, a storm of indignant protest.  Happily, there being no one to cry to, she had time to gather herself together before going up to face Radcliffe.  When she entered the schoolroom, he pretended to be studiously busied with his books, and so did not notice that she was rather a long time closing the door after her, and that she also had business with the lock of the door opposite.  He really only looked up when she stationed herself behind her desk, and summoned him to recite.

“I do’ want to!” announced Radcliffe resolutely.

“Very well,” said Claire, “then we’ll sit here until you do.”

Radcliffe grinned.  It seemed to him things were all going his way, this clear, sunny morning.  He began to whistle, in a breathy undertone.

Claire made no protest.  She simply sat and waited.

Radcliffe took up his pencil, and began scrawling pictures over both sides of his slate, exulting in the squeaking sounds he produced.  Still the teacher did not interfere.  But when, tired of his scratching, he concluded the time had arrived for his grand demonstration, his crowning declaration of independence, he rose, carelessly shoved his books aside, strode to the door, intending masterfully to leave the room, and—­discovered he was securely locked and bolted in.  In a flash he was across the room, tearing at the lock of the second door with frantic fingers.  That, too, had been made fast.  He turned upon Claire like a little fiend, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched.

“You—­you—­you two-cent Willie!” he screamed.

Claire pretended not to see or hear.  In reality she was acutely conscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in rage gave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test.  It was the tug of war.  The question was, who would be conqueror?

Through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed as interminable to Claire as they did to Radcliffe, the battle raged.  There was no sign of capitulation on either side.

In the course of the morning, and during one of Radcliffe’s fiercest outbreaks, Claire took up the telephone instrument and quietly instructed Shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom at mid-day.

“Two glasses of hot milk will be all we need,” she said, whereupon Radcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from her hand, beating her with his hard little fists.