The first excitement over, Brian began to find school a rather disappointing affair. Forbsie sat across from him, Artie two rows over. He would go over and see Artie for a while, brian decided; he got up and started down the aisle. Miss MacDonald, at the board, turned and saw him. “Sit down, Brian”.

“I’m just going over to see Artie.”

“You’ll have to sit down.” She turned back too the board.

Brian continued on his journey to Artie. She wasn’t his mother; he wasn’t hurting anything; he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

“I said to sit down!”

‘He stopped at the end of the aisle. “I just want to see Artie for a minute.”

“You must put up your hand if you want something. Then I’ll give you permission to see Artie.”

He stood watching her.

“Sit down in your seat!”

He continued to stand. Miss MacDonald’s thin face reddened slightly. She bit her lip. “Sit down!”

Brian stood. Utter classroom quiet had descended. Outside the window a meadow lark went up his bright scale with a one-two-three-and-here-I-go. Miss MacDonald began to walk down the aisle in which Brian was standing. He reached into his hip pocket and felt the comfort of the water pistol there. Miss MacDonald stopped three seats ahead of him. “Will you sit down!”

Wordlessly he drew the pistol out, being careful not to squeeze the butt. He held it behind his back. Miss MacDonald reached out her hand to guide him back to his seat. It paused in mid-air as Brian brought the water pistol to view. One clear drop of water hung from the end pointing at Miss MacDonald’s midriff. Her mouth flew open. She stared at the pistol and at the slight drip of water from the small hand holding it.

“I filled it,” Brian assured her, “out of the fountain.”

Her face flamed. “Give me that pistol!”

He made no move to hand it to her.

Her hand darted out to the water pistol. Startled, Brian squeezed. The pistol squirted. Miss MacDonald, with her dripping hand, jerked the pistol from his grasp. She propelled him from the room.

As he walked ahead of her to the end of the hall where the Principal’s office was, Brian’s heart pounded; he was in for it. The front of heer dress dripping, Miss MacDonald knocked on the Principal’s door. It opened, and Mr. Digby, tall and sandy-haired, a questioning look upon his rough face, stood there.

With emotion poorly concealed, Miss MacDonald told him what had happened, the indignant spray of saliva from her thin lips unheeded, the corners of her mouth quivering. When she had finished, Digby said:

“You’d better let your classes go. Miss Spencer has, hers. I’ll attend to Brian.”

The door closed on Miss MacDonald’s outraged back.