It seemed a long time, although it was really only a few minutes, before the last pinwheel subsided.  Anne, recovering herself, sprang to open doors and windows and let out the gas and smoke which filled the room.  Then she helped the girls carry the unconscious Prillie into the porch, where Barbara Shaw, in an agony of desire to be useful, poured a pailful of half frozen water over Prillie’s face and shoulders before anyone could stop her.

It was a full hour before quiet was restored . . . but it was a quiet that might be felt.  Everybody realized that even the explosion had not cleared the teacher’s mental atmosphere.  Nobody, except Anthony Pye, dared whisper a word.  Ned Clay accidentally squeaked his pencil while working a sum, caught Anne’s eye and wished the floor would open and swallow him up.  The geography class were whisked through a continent with a speed that made them dizzy.  The grammar class were parsed and analyzed within an inch of their lives.  Chester Sloane, spelling “odoriferous” with two f’s, was made to feel that he could never live down the disgrace of it, either in this world or that which is to come.

Anne knew that she had made herself ridiculous and that the incident would be laughed over that night at a score of tea-tables, but the knowledge only angered her further.  In a calmer mood she could have carried off the situation with a laugh but now that was impossible; so she ignored it in icy disdain.

When Anne returned to the school after dinner all the children were as usual in their seats and every face was bent studiously over a desk except Anthony Pye’s.  He peered across his book at Anne, his black eyes sparkling with curiosity and mockery.  Anne twitched open the drawer of her desk in search of chalk and under her very hand a lively mouse sprang out of the drawer, scampered over the desk, and leaped to the floor.

Anne screamed and sprang back, as if it had been a snake, and Anthony Pye laughed aloud.

Then a silence fell . . . a very creepy, uncomfortable silence.  Annetta Bell was of two minds whether to go into hysterics again or not, especially as she didn’t know just where the mouse had gone.  But she decided not to.  Who could take any comfort out of hysterics with a teacher so white-faced and so blazing-eyed standing before one?

“Who put that mouse in my desk?” said Anne.  Her voice was quite low but it made a shiver go up and down Paul Irving’s spine.  Joe Sloane caught her eye, felt responsible from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet, but stuttered out wildly,

“N . . . n . . . not m . . . m . . . me t . . . t . . . teacher, n . . . n . . . not m . . . m . . . me.”

Anne paid no attention to the wretched Joseph.  She looked at Anthony Pye, and Anthony Pye looked back unabashed and unashamed.

“Anthony, was it you?”

“Yes, it was,” said Anthony insolently.

Anne took her pointer from her desk.  It was a long, heavy hardwood pointer.