The next morning Bobby trudged off to school with Meg feeling, for the first time in his life, that he would rather do anything except go to school.

“You stay out and play,” he directed Meg when they reached the yard. “I’ll go up and see Miss Mason.”

He found the teacher at her desk. She looked neat and cool and self-possessed, and Bobby did not have any of those qualities at that moment.

“I’m sorry I acted like that yesterday at ’rithmetic,” faltered Bobby jerkily. “My mother says I musn’t be a poor loser.”

“All right, Robert, we’ll overlook that,” rejoined Miss Mason graciously. “I could see you were piqued because you failed. But is that all you have to tell me?”

Bobby stared at her.

“Have you nothing to say about the book?” urged Miss Mason.

“I didn’t do it,” insisted Bobby. “You don’t think I would lie, do you not really?” he asked, amazed.

“I don’t know what to think,” sighed Miss Mason. “I am heartily sorry I ever brought the book to school. And, Robert, I thought it my duty to speak to Mr. Carter about this. You are to go to the office direct from assembly without coming back here.”

Poor Bobby came as near to fainting as a boy ever does. Mr. Carter! He shared all the awe and fear of the other boys for the principal of whom little was known, he spending most of his time at the grammar school. Evidently Miss Mason must think him very bad indeed if she had sent for Mr. Carter.

All through assembly Bobby’s thoughts were on the coming interview, and though he usually loved to sing the opening song, this morning he did not sing a note. He looked so solemn and serious that Tim Roon, watching him, decided his father must have whipped him.

The exercises were over too soon for Bobby, who would have had them last the rest of the day if he had been consulted, and the long lines of marching children went back to their classrooms.

“I wonder where Bobby is,” thought Meg uneasily, when Miss Mason’s classes had rustled into place and Bobby’s seat was still vacant.

Bobby, if she had known it, was at that moment making his reluctant way to the office. Just the mere letters printed on the door were enough to make his heart sink down into his shoes, and, as he told his mother afterward, he wished he could “die on the little mat you’re supposed to wipe your feet on.”

He wiped his feet carefully, took a last desperate look up and down the empty hall, and tapped on the door.

“Come in,” called a deep, pleasant voice, not at all the kind of voice you would expect a stern, cross principal to use.

Bobby opened the door and went in. Mr. Carter was writing at Miss Wright’s desk and there was no one else in the room. Bobby knew the principal by sight, for he had seen him once or twice in the corridors. It seemed that Mr. Carter also knew the pupils.

“Well, Bobby,” he said cheerfully. “You are Bobby Blossom, aren’t you?”

Bobby nodded miserably. He was thankful for the “Bobby,” for he detested the unfamiliar “Robert” Miss Mason invariably used.

Mr. Carter took off his glasses and laid them on the desk. He turned his chair slightly to face another chair drawn up at the side.

“Come sit down, Bobby, and don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “I want you to tell me what happened in class yesterday, and why Miss Mason should think that you defaced her book.”

Bobby slid timidly into the chair and began to answer Mr. Carter’s quick questions. And then a strange thing happened. Bobby forgot to be afraid. As he told about the arithmetic lesson, where he had been a “poor loser,” and about the beautiful book that had been destroyed, and explained why he went back to the room at recess time, he forgot that he was speaking to the principal. He stood up straight beside the desk and talked to Mr. Carter as he would to Daddy Blossom. And the principal’s kind, earnest eyes, his ready smile, and deep, pleasant voice, all told Bobby that he was speaking to a friend.

“And I didn’t touch the book, honest I didn’t,” finished Bobby.

Mr. Carter put a big, firm hand over the little one resting on his desk top.

“All right, I believe you,” he said earnestly. “Some day we’ll find the boy who did it, never fear.”

“But Miss Mason thinks she thinks I did it,” protested Bobby.

“I’ll see Miss Mason,” promised Mr. Carter briefly. “The thing for you to do is to forget this and go on as though nothing had happened. You’ll find Miss Mason fair-minded and ready to own a mistake has been made when once she is convinced. As long as you know you didn’t do it you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

The principal put on his glasses and stood up.

“Next time you come to see me, let’s hope we have something pleasanter to discuss,” he said smilingly, holding out his hand to Bobby. “By the way, didn’t I see a little sister of yours yesterday and two other young people rather anxious to go to school?”

“That was Meg,” Bobby informed him. “She had to take the twins home. They’re crazy to come to school.” Then he backed out of the room.

“He was just as nice!” Bobby kept saying over and over to himself on his way upstairs. “Just as nice! And he doesn’t b’lieve I hurt the book.”

Tim Roon glanced at Bobby curiously as he came quietly into the room and took his seat. The class was having a reading lesson, and Tim could keep his book open and pretend to be very busy while he did several other things. He had not known that Miss Mason would make such a “fuss,” as Tim called it, over the book, and he was mean enough to be glad that Bobby was getting all the punishment. Tim had a wholesome fear of Mr. Carter, having met the principal on several occasions when his bent for mischief had brought Miss Mason’s wrath down on him. He wondered what Mr. Carter had said to Bobby.

The weather was clear and crisp now, and the grammar and high-school boys could talk of nothing but football. The primary grades, of course, were considered too little to have a team, but nevertheless they knew a good deal about the game and secretly thought they had just as fine players among them as the older boys.

“Let’s go round and watch ’em practice,” suggested Palmer Davis to Bobby after school, the afternoon of the day he had seen Mr. Carter. “Meg will tell your mother. Won’t you, Meg?”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Meg sunnily. “Go on, Bobby, she won’t care.”

“I’ll be back by five,” called Bobby after her.

Meg wanted to see the football teams practice, but she was attending to her music very diligently and practiced her hour after school faithfully. She meant to be able to play a march for assembly as soon as she was asked.

Bertrand Ashe joined Palmer and Bobby at the corner.

“Stop at my house a minute,” he urged, “and I’ll get my football. We can have a little game.”

Bertrand had a cousin at boarding school who always sent him the nicest presents for Christmas. He had a knack of knowing what a boy wanted, and this football was a gift from him.

The football under Bertrand’s arm, the three boys walked on to the large vacant lot back of the grammar-high-school building, which was used by the teams as a football field.

“Get some more of the fellows,” directed Palmer. “My, it’s kind of muddy, isn’t it?”

The field was a little soft, but the two teams were out practicing, and a crowd of enthusiastic followers, in small groups about the lot, were watching them. Palmer, who was a leader among the younger boys, succeeded in rounding up more of their class to complete his team, among them Tim Roon and his inseparable friend, Charlie Black.

“Come on over in this corner,” said Palmer, beckoning them to follow him. “Old Hornbeck’s down to watch the high-school squad, and like as not he’ll order us off if he sees us. Those high-school boys think they own the earth.”

There was a ruling, as Palmer knew, that the smaller boys should keep off the field while the others were playing football. The rule was made to keep them from getting in the way and possibly hurt. But the primary lads were sure they were being treated unfairly.

“Line up,” ordered Palmer, trying to read a crumpled paper he had taken from his pocket. “Here’s a signal I copied for us to try.”

The boys had only a hazy notion of the way a real game of football was played, but they kept their eyes desperately on the ball. They had no team to play against, as Palmer said it was hard enough to get boys for one team, let alone two, but they had often had great fun knocking the ball around among their own eleven.

“Six-ten-nine-nought,” read Palmer.

He dashed forward, Bobby after him. Together they fell on the ball and rolled over. Then Bobby rose with it tucked neatly under his arm, and began to run. Tim Roon and Charlie Black tried to head him off, slipped, and tripped him.

Bobby had fallen on the ball and he meant to keep it under him. He managed to shake off Charlie Black and half rose, watching his chance to run. Just as he was ready for a dash, a stout, heavy shoe struck him in the side and knocked him down again.

“Foul!” shrieked Bertrand excitedly. “Tim Roon, you’re a cheat!”

Bobby struggled to his feet, blind with anger.

“You you ” he sputtered, and rushed at Tim fiercely.