Tommy Gainsborough did a very dreadful thing. If he had not possessed such a trick in the use of pen and pencil, this never would have happened. But, you see, he spent most of his school hours in drawing pictures on the fly-leaves of his books, which pleased the other boys so greatly that he filled their books also with sketches of people, trees, and houses; while they, in return, worked out his problems in fractions and wrote his spelling lessons for him. His copy-book he was content to keep himself, for he chanced to be the best penman at the Sudbury Grammar School, and his pages were always elegantly inscribed.

As the months went by, and his lesson papers were daily found to be correct,[Pg 72] the teacher's reports of Master Gainsborough's progress proved highly gratifying to the boy's parents. But while Jack supplied his answers in arithmetic, and Joe prompted him with names and dates at history time, Tommy Gainsborough's ignorance of these subjects was deplorable, and his conduct towards parents and teachers was deceiving indeed.

As spring came on he grew restless under the confinement of walls and rules, and longed for the dewy fields and fragrant lanes. If only he might spend the days outside, he thought, instead of sitting mewed up in this dreary schoolroom, what splendid woodland pictures he could draw. Twice he asked the schoolmaster to excuse him, but Mr. Burroughs curtly refused, since it would be unfair to dismiss one pupil to roam the meadows and keep the others at their tasks. Tommy next tried his father, but that gentleman replied with all seriousness,—

[Pg 73]

"My son, you have worked so well this term that I wish you to keep a perfect record until the end of the year. When vacation comes you will be free to spend every day out of doors, but your education is too important to be slighted for pleasure."

Tommy was much disappointed at this decision, and, I am sorry to say, closed the door quite ungently as he started for school.

The day was an enchanting one, and as the boy trudged along the unpaved streets that ran between rows of quaint and ancient houses, a feeling of hot rebellion took possession of him.

"Father does as he likes," he muttered, "and I think I ought to do the same way once in a while. What is the sense in listening to old Burroughs drone all day about nouns and divisors?"

The fresh spring breeze, with its scents of green things growing, was so tantalizing that he paused before the schoolhouse door and thoughtfully wrinkled his brow.[Pg 74] Presently his face grew defiant, and he dashed into the schoolroom with the look of a man who had made up his mind to do as he pleased.

Finding himself to be the first arrival, he hurried to his desk. Deftly tearing from his copy-book a slip of paper resembling those upon which Mr. Gainsborough wrote Tommy's occasional excuses, the boy dipped his pen and quickly wrote the words,—

"Give Tom a holiday."

Now if he had used his own style of penmanship the ruse would have been readily understood by the schoolmaster; but he boldly imitated his father's finely pointed lettering to a nicety, and at the end jotted down the initials, "J. G.," with two short lines drawn under them, just as his father would have signed the note.

Carefully drying his pen, he closed his desk and left the building before any one else arrived. He waited around the corner until almost time for school to[Pg 75] begin, then rushed into the schoolroom, now filled with noisy pupils, marched straight up to the master's desk, and presented his forged excuse.

Mr. Burroughs read the slip with some surprise.

"Of course, Tom," he said, "if your father wishes you to have a holiday, I shall not refuse permission; but I understood that he wished you to remain steadily at school until vacation time."

"May I go?" queried the boy hastily, not caring to discuss the question.

Mr. Burroughs bowed, but laid the slip of paper in his desk. Tommy, not lingering for further debate, sped from the room; and when he reached the place in the next street, where, under Dame Curran's rosebush, he had hidden his sketch-book, he threw his cap high in air from sheer joy of springtime and freedom.

Out from the town he hurried, and soon was tramping through the forest that furnished the banks of the winding[Pg 76] river Stour. All day long he revelled in the glory of the woods, and hour after hour he worked with his pencil, striving to put into his book the charming bits of landscape that greeted his eye on every side. One sketch comprised a bend in the river, with grassy meads beyond; another, an old vine-covered bridge, now fallen into disuse; a third merely pictured a broken tree lying across the sunlit path.

Occasionally he experienced a sharp twinge somewhere when he remembered that all this pleasure was stolen. "But then," he argued, "what difference does it make? Old Burroughs didn't know, and father will never find it out!"

He stifled these pricking thoughts as fast as they arose, not permitting them seriously to disturb his holiday. He whistled, he sang, he lay on his back and looked up at the sky through the chinks in the tender foliage. Sometimes he closed his eyes and listened, and the mysterious woodland sounds, mingled with the purling of the river, yielded[Pg 77] him boundless enjoyment. When, however, the shadows of the trees fell at a certain angle, Tommy closed his sketch-book with a sigh and went swiftly homeward.

"I must get there at the usual time," he meditated, "else they'll ask me where I've been."

As he came in sight of the "Black Horse," the public inn of bygone times, where armored knights had claimed food and shelter, but which was now the comfortable residence of John Gainsborough, Tommy began to whistle airily.

Approaching nearer, he discovered that his father had come with pipe and chair to the front stoop, and was sitting with his face turned down the street, as though watching for somebody.

Tommy began to whistle louder, and as he turned in at the gate, his countenance was beaming with innocence.

He bounded up the steps with the intention of getting into the house as quickly as possible, but as his hand[Pg 78] touched the latch a stentorian voice said,—

"Thomas!"

The boy stopped short, his eyes round with surprise, his lips still puckered for the whistling that had been so abruptly quelled.

"I called for you at school to-day."

"Called for me at school to-day," echoed Tommy, reddening in dismay.

"I did. I found that I must drive out to Squire Bagley's place, and I decided to take you along. It seems that you had already given Mr. Burroughs an excuse from me."

Tommy's fingers began to pick at his jacket, and he racked his brains for a story that would fit the occasion.

"Well, father, I thought—"

"Silence, if you please! I am terribly shocked to find that my son would deliberately write and act a lie. Such conduct deserves the severest punishment. Will you take your whipping before tea or after?"

[Pg 79]

"After," said Tommy promptly; and accepting this as a dismissal he vanished into the house.

The evening meal was not a joyous one for the culprit, owing to his foretaste of what was coming later. His brothers and sisters evidently knew nothing of his escapade, and chattered among themselves as usual; but his mother's eyes rested upon him from time to time with sorrow in their depths. Once a sob came into Tommy's throat, but he fiercely choked it back, scorning to weep even under such harrowing circumstances.

As the family rose from the table, Mr. Gainsborough, pointing to the stairway, said sternly,—

"To your own room, Thomas!"

Very slowly the boy obeyed, and when the upper door had closed upon him, Mrs. Gainsborough laid a detaining hand upon her husband's arm.

"Wait for a moment, John, and look at the child's work."

Mrs. Gainsborough, who was herself[Pg 80] an accomplished painter of flowers, opened Tommy's sketch-book, and laid before her husband's eyes the record of the day's outlawry.

A whispered consultation followed, then Mr. Gainsborough ascended the stair with a heavy, portentous tread.

Tommy, sitting miserably on the side of his bed, heard the measured tramp, tramp along the corridor; and folding his arms he set his teeth grimly and waited for the worst.

Mr. Gainsborough entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"Thomas," he began in a relentless tone, "you have disgraced yourself and your family by your behavior to-day, but I have decided not to give you a whipping."

Tommy leaped from the bed with an exclamation of puzzled relief.

"Instead, my son, I shall take away all your pencils and drawing materials for a month, and shall see that you do not have access to any at school."

[Pg 81]

"Oh, father," howled Tommy despairingly, "I'd rather take the whipping—even two of 'em, if you'll give me back my things! Please whip me, father, as you said you would, and let me have my sketch-book!"

"At the end of a month, and not one day sooner."

Mr. Gainsborough kep............