I didn’t say anything. Little Jim’s mentioning his dad made me think of mine, and I remembered that he’d said, “We’ll settle it tonight,” so I kept on walking along, not saying anything else—not even wanting to say anything else and knowing my whole day was ruined.
The next thing Little Jim said didn’t help me feel any better, either. He said, “We found out last night that Shorty Long’s first name is ‘William.’”
He struck at another chokecherry shrub, which scattered some more snow in my face, and I said, “ What? Why—that’s my first name! How’d you find out? Who told you?”
“His mom told my mom,” Little Jim said. “She went to church with us last night, you know.”
I‘d seen Mrs. Long last night while she sat in our little church with the Foote family-Little Jim’s last name is Foote. As you know, Little Jim’s mom is the pianist in our church and is maybe the best player in all Sugar Creek territory. Also Little Jim’s parents are always looking for somebody to take to church and are what my dad calls “soul winners”—that is, they are always trying to get somebody to become Christians.
“Mom wants to get Shorty Long’s mom saved,” Little Jim said.
He was socking every chokecherry shrub we came to, and I was getting madder and madder at Shorty Long for spoiling my whole day. Also I was holding my nose tight with my handkerchief to help it stop bleeding.
“Is Shorty Long’s pop saved?” I asked.
Little Jim socked a tall snow-covered mullein stalk with his stick, knocking off the snow and some brown seeds at the same time, so hard that what he said came out of his small mouth as if he had thrown his words at me very hard. “Nope! And he’s mad at some of the Sugar Creek Gang for being mean to his boy. He’s told our new teacher we’re a gang of roughnecks and to look out for us!”
“Did Shorty Long’s mom tell your mom that?” I asked.
Little Jim said, “Yep, last night in our car—”
Then Little Jim stopped with his stick in the air and looked over and up at me and sort of whispered, “Shorty Long won’t go to church because his pop won’t. Maybe his parents’ll get a divorce, Mom said, if they don’t get saved first.”
“A divorce?” I said. “What for?”
“’Cause William’s pop is too mean, and swears so much at his mom, and doesn’t want her to go to church.”
I could hear Dragonfly and Shorty Long talking behind me. They were talking that crazy Openglopish language, just chattering back and forth as if they were the very best of friends.
“But they don’t call him Bill,” Little Jim said, talking again about Shorty Long’s first name. “They call him William.”
All this time Dragonfly and Shorty Long were getting closer and closer behind us, and I could hear the crazy words they were tossing back and forth to each other like two boys throwing softballs.
Just that minute Shorty Long said in Openglopish, “Mopistoper Blopack opis gropeat. OpI’ll bopet hope gopives Bopill Copollopins opa dopetopentopiopon topodopay.” And l knew exactly what he had said. It was “Mr. Black is great. I’ll bet he gives Bill Collins a detention today.”
I pressed my lips together tight and kept still, making up my mind at the same time that I wasn’t going to get any detention.
We all hurried on toward the schoolhouse. The minute I got there I went straight to the iron pump near the big maple tree and put cold water on my face and nose, washing off some of the good red blood I’d shed for a worthless girl. The cold water helped to make my nose stop bleeding. I also rinsed out my handkerchief, being especially glad Mom had made me take two with me, which she nearly always does in the wintertime just in case I catch a cold or something, which I sometimes do.
While I was washing my face, Poetry came over and watched me and said, “You certainly licked the stuffings out of William Long.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But what’d they ever give him that crazy name for?”
And before the day was over, I wished that my name hadn’t been William, either. In fact, before the morning had hardly gotten started, I was into trouble with Mr. Black. And it all happened on account of Shorty Long and I having the same first name. I even hate to tell you what happened, but it’s all a part of the story. So here goes.
First thing, though, before school took up we all got together in the school woodshed and held a special gang meeting. I told the gang what Little Jim told me that his mom said Shorty Long’s mom said about what Shorty Long’s mean pop told Mr. Black about the Sugar Creek Gang being a bunch of roughnecks.
Then we all voted that we wouldn’t be that. We were going to prove to our new teacher that we weren’t.
Just before the last bell rang, Big Jim gave us all orders to behave ourselves and said, “If any of us doesn’t behave, he’ll have to be called in and stand trial by the rest of us.”
Then the bell rang, and in we went.
2
It’s a crazy feeling, coming back to school after a super Christmas vacation and having a new teacher, a man teacher with shell-rimmed glasses and a head that is bald in the middle, and who has one all-gold tooth right in front. Seeing that gold tooth made me think of Dragonfly, whose large front teeth were much too large for his very small face.
School had been going on for a while, and it was maybe after eleven o’clock, and the first grade was up on the long bench in front of Mr. Black’s desk, with different ones in the first grade standing whenever Mr. Black told them to and coming to stand beside him, where he sat at his big desk, and reading out loud, making it hard for the rest of us to study, which it always is in a one-room school anyway.
I looked across the schoolroom to Dragonfly, who was next to the wall beside the front window, and he happened to be looking at me at the same time. He had a mischievous grin on his always mischievous face, and just as I looked he folded a little piece of paper and slipped it across the aisle to Poetry, who slipped it across another aisle to Circus, who slipped it across to me.
Mr. Black was very busy, and I had already made up my mind that because the lenses of his glasses were very thick, he probably couldn’t see back in the schoolroom very far but could see better while he was reading.
I was supposed to be studying geography at the time, and I had my big geography book standing up on my desk in front of me. It was the easiest thing in the world for me to unfold the note Dragonfly had sent across to me and read it without Mr. Black seeing me do it, and this is what I read in Dragonfly’s crazy handwriting: “Some people have their hair parted on the left side, some have it parted on the right, others have it parted in the middle, and still others have it departed.”
Well, it was an old joke, which I’d heard before, but it was the funniest thing I had thought of for a long time. And because I had been sad or mad nearly all morning, when I read that crazy note in Dragonfly’s crazy handwriting, I couldn’t help but snicker out loud, which I did.
Well, I’m sorry to say, Mr. Black was not only able to see all over that one-room schoolroom, but he was able to hear all over it too.
All of a sudden he jerked up his bald head and looked right straight toward me and said, “Young man! You may stay in after school tonight!”—which didn’t sound very good on account of my dad’s wanting me to come home early for some reason.
“Also,” Mr. Black said—and his voice was a little kinder than it had been—“you may lay your book down flat on the desk!”
Then he let the little girl Elfinita, who was one of Circus’s smaller sisters, sit down on the recitation bench beside another little girl whose name was Suzanna. And then Mr. Black pushed back his big swivel chair, stood up, looked out over the schoolroom, cleared his throat, and said to all of us, and maybe to me in particular, “Students of the Sugar Creek School, there is only one rule for you to obey. I will write that rule on the blackboard.”
He whirled around as though he meant business, looked for and found an eraser, swished it across some arithmetic problems that were there
, and, taking a piece of chalk, wrote the rule in big letters that could be seen from every corner of the room, “Behave Yourselves!” Then he laid the chalk down, sat down in his noisy chair, and went on with his class.
But every two or three minutes, it seemed, he would look in my direction, and I knew that I had started off on the wrong foot—in fact, it was Dragonfly’s wrong foot I’d started off on. I was wondering if Shorty Long’s pop had not only told Mr. Black we were a bunch of roughnecks but also maybe that I was the worst one.
I tucked the note into my pocket when I could, making up my mind that the first chance I had I’d tear it into a thousand pieces and toss it into the big, round Poetry-shaped stove in the center of the room, which was going full blast that morning, making the schoolroom almost too hot for all of us.
But the real trouble came when it was time for my arithmetic class to recite. Mr. Black called us to come to the recitation bench, and all of us boys who were in that group—there were no girls—got up out of our seats and went forward and sat down in front of his desk. There were just three of us in that arithmetic class—Poetry, Circus, and I. Shorty Long was not in the same class I was, and I was glad.
Well, I was still feeling pretty bad and pretty mad and also was trying not to remember the note Dragonfly had sent to me and which was still in my pocket, that note about some men’s hair being parted on the left side, some parted on the right, other men’s hair being parted in the middle, and still others having it departed.
Maybe I ought to tell you that the very first thing Mr. Black had done when school started that morning was to have each one of us write his name on a blank sheet of paper and hand it in to him. I could tell that he had a good memory and that he would be able to remember who all of us were. Most schoolteachers are very smart.
I guess I didn’t realize that I was only half sitting. I’d slid down so far on the bench that I was almost lying on my back, with my feet sticking out in front of me and the heels resting on the edge of the platform. In fact, I had one shoe on top of the other one, thinking about how long my feet looked, and Poetry, who was sitting beside me, had his feet the same way. Each of us knew that the teacher couldn’t see our feet because he was on the other side of the desk.
Poetry had the biggest feet of any of the Sugar Creek Gang, as you maybe know. The toe of his top foot was almost three inches higher than the toe of mine, but we were being very careful not to touch the back of the desk because that would scratch it and also because the teacher might hear our feet and know what we were doing.
All of a sudden Mr. Black’s big voice said, “Long, sit up!”
In my mind’s eye I could see Shorty Long, whose seat was right behind the recitation bench, all slumped in his seat, and I felt good inside that he was getting called down.
I guess I didn’t realize that I’d slid down as much as I had because I’d just been thinking about how long Poetry’s and my feet were. And since it was arithmetic class, I was dividing by two the three inches Poetry’s feet were longer than mine and was thinking that each one of his feet was one and one-half inches longer than mine.
Mr. Black looked as though he was looking right straight at me through those thick-lensed glasses, and he said again, “Long! I said sit up!”
Well, there was a shuffling noise behind me, and in my mind’s eye I could see Shorty Long sitting up as straight as his body could. All of us were sitting very still when, all of a sudden, Mr. Black pushed back his big chair, stood to his feet, swished around the corner of the desk over to where I was, stepped down off the platform, glared down at me, and shouted, “When I tell you to sit up, I mean sit up!”
I spoke up quick and said, “Mr.—Mr.—” and then I jerked myself up into a straight position and said, “Honest, Mr. Black, I didn’t know you were talking to me! I thought you were talking to Shorty Long!”
He glared at me and said, “Isn’t your name William?”
“Uh—yes,” I said, “my name’s William, but not W-William Long. My name’s William Collins!”
And then it dawned on me what had happened. When we had handed in our names that morning on blank pieces of paper, Shorty Long had written his name down as William Long, and I had written mine as William Collins, and Mr. Black had got our names mixed up. And that’s how I happened to get into trouble.
Mr. Black just stood there and looked at me and kept on looking, and all the time I was feeling worse because things were all so mixed up. I guess he was still angry too. Anyway, he didn’t seem to be sorry he had made such a terrible mistake. All he said was “The recitation bench is not a place for a midmorning nap!”
“Y-yes, sir,” I said, as politely as I could. I was trying to remember something my dad had told me, quoting from the Bible. It goes something like this: “A harsh word stirs up anger,” which means if you say angry words to people, it’ll make them mad too. Also, if you say angry words to people, it helps to make you still madder yourself. The way to cool off after a fight is to start using kind words instead of angry ones.
The fierce look in Mr. Black’s eyes made me realize I ought to start making up with him right away. He was still glaring at me. Then he folded his arms and stared straight through me, saying, “William Collins, you may hand me that note in your pocket!”
Well, that was too much. All of a sudden I could see the whole world falling upside down, not only for me but for the rest of us. But I remembered about using kind and respectful words, so I said politely, “What note, sir?”
“The one in your pocket. I was going to wait until after school for it, but I’ll take it now, since it was passed during school hours and since so many boys had a share in passing it on to you.”
Suddenly Big Jim spoke up from the back of the room. “Mr. Black, may I say a word?”
Mr. Black raised his eyes and looked toward the back where Big Jim was sitting. He said, “You may stand up and say it.”
I looked around and saw Big Jim standing up straight and tall. His jaw was set as though he was thinking, and he said in a polite but very firm voice, “May I have the note, Mr. Black? I’m the leader of the Sugar Creek Gang. And that’s one of our rules—no note writing or passing in school. If you don’t mind, the Sugar Creek Gang will discipline William Collins.”
It surely sounded funny to hear Big Jim call me “William.” And the way I felt, you could have knocked me over with a feather. It certainly was a great idea, if only it would work.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Black said, “but I insist on having the note. You may be seated.”
Big Jim didn’t be seated. He kept on standing. Then he spoke again, and this is what he said very politely: “In the United States we respect the personal property of others. Isn’t that note William Collins’s personal property?”
Mr. Black didn’t seem to like that. He said to Big Jim, “You sit down,” and I saw Big Jim’s face turn as white as a new snowdrift. He kept on standing, and Mr. Black kept on standing, and they were glaring at each other the way two angry dogs do when they meet for the first time and each is trying to let the other one know which one of them is going to be the boss. Except that I knew Big Jim didn’t want to be anybody’s boss. He only wanted what he would call “justice.”
Then Big Jim said, “I will be seated, Mr. Black. You have a right to tell me that because you are the teacher, but I respectfully repeat, I think that note is William Collins’s personal property!”
Big Jim sat down in a dignified way, like a soldier obeying an officer. He sat there with his pencil in his hand, making fierce little jabs on the yellow writing tablet on his desk, and I know he was doing what people call “doodling.”
I always liked to see what Big Jim’s doodling looked like, because he made the most interesting doodles when he was making marks and talking to other people at the same time. He actually drew interesting pictures and didn’t know he was doing it.
Mr. Black held out one of his big, pudgy hands toward me and said, “All right, William Collin
s, I’ll take the note. Now!”
Well, what was I to do? Big Jim was the leader of the Sugar Creek Gang, and I had always done what Big Jim told me to. Mr. Black was the teacher of Sugar Creek School, and all of us boys were supposed to obey the teacher. Also, I had my dad’s orders to behave myself. And not only that, my parents had taught me that the Bible itself teaches that a Christian ought to obey those who have the rule over him. But the whole question that was mixed up in my red head (which wasn’t thinking very clearly that day anyway) was, who did have the rule over me—Mr. Black or Big Jim?
I had my hand in my pocket, gripping the note tight. I was wishing I could tear it up with one hand but knew I couldn’t. Without knowing I was going to, I turned around quick to Big Jim and said, “What’ll I do, Big Jim?”
His face was still white, and I knew that, if he felt the way I did, he was trembling inside and was in the right kind of mood for a good fight. And if it had been another gang instead of Mr. Black that was causing all the trouble, there would probably have been a real old-fashioned rough-and-tumble before noon.
While I was turned around, I could see that the rest of the boys and girls in that one-room school were feeling just as funny on the inside as I was. Some of the girls were crying a little—except for Circus’s sister Lucille, who didn’t cry easily. Poetry had his big hands doubled up on the desk in front of him. Dragonfly’s very small face looked even smaller, and his mussed-up hair looked as though it was trying to stand on end. He had a colored pencil in one hand and, without knowing what he was doing, had its purple point pressed against his two large front teeth. Little Jim sat there holding onto his long, new yellow pencil just the way he does when we’re out in the woods and there is danger and he holds onto a stick, which he nearly always carries when we go on hikes. Circus’s monkeylike face didn’t look mischievous, and I could see the muscles in his jaw moving as if he was almost wishing he could get into a fight with somebody.
Sugar Creek Gang Set Books 7-12 Page 17