“I’ll no lay a hand on bairn o’ Jean Myles,” Aaron replied.  “Ay, and I understood you to say that he should meet his match in you.”

“Did I ever say that, man?  Well, well, we live and learn.”

“What has he been doing now?”

“What has he been doing!” echoed Cathro.  “He has been making me look foolish in my own class-room.  Yes, sir, he has so completely got the better of me (and not for the first time) that when I tell the story of how he diddled Mr. Ogilvy, Mr. Ogilvy will be able to cap it with the story of how the little whelp diddled me.  Upon my soul, Aaron, he is running away with all my self-respect and destroying my sense of humor.”

What had so crushed the dominie was the affair of Francie Crabb.  Francie was now a pupil, like Gavin Dishart and Tommy, of Mr. Cathro’s, who detested the boy’s golden curls, perhaps because he was bald himself.  They were also an incentive to evil-doing on the part of other boys, who must give them a tug in passing, and on a day the dominie said, in a fury, “Give your mother my compliments, Francie, and tell her I’m so tired of seeing your curls that I mean to cut them off to-morrow morning.”

“Say he shall not,” whispered Tommy.

“You shanna!” blurted out Francie.

“But I will,” said Cathro; “I would do it now if I had the shears.”

It was only an empty threat, but an hour afterwards the dominie caught Tommy wagering in witchy marbles and other coin that he would not do it, and then instead of taking the tawse to him he said, “Keep him to his bargains, laddies, for whatever may have been my intention at the time, I mean to be as good as my word now.”

He looked triumphantly at Tommy, who, however, instead of seeming crestfallen, continued to bet, and now the other boys were eager to close with him, for great was their faith in Cathro.  These transactions were carried out on the sly, but the dominie knew what was going on, and despite his faith in himself he had his twitches of uneasiness.

“However, the boy can only be trusting to fear of Mrs. Crabb restraining me,” he decided, and he marched into the school-room next morning, ostentatiously displaying his wife’s largest scissors.  His pupils crowded in after him, and though he noticed that all were strangely quiet and many wearing scared faces, he put it down to the coming scene.  He could not resist giving one triumphant glance at Tommy, who, however, instead of returning it, looked modestly down.  Then—­“Is Francie Crabb here?” asked Mr. Cathro, firmly.

“He’s hodding ahint the press,” cried a dozen voices.

“Come forward, Francie,” said the dominie, clicking the shears to encourage him.

There was a long pause, and then Francie emerged in fear from behind the press.  Yes, it was Francie, but his curls were gone!

The shears fell to the floor.  “Who did this?” roared the terrible Cathro.

“It was Tommy Sandys,” blurted out Francis, in tears.