“Come,” said Graybeard, “we must have a name for this youngster. Be quick and suggest one.”
There was no response. Finally a big boy, who was busy over his lessons, said without lifting his head, “Call him Joseph.”
So Graybeard entered that name on the school Register.
Joe, as he was called by the boys, grew rapidly, but the helplessness of infancy clung to him. Because he could not fight, he became the butt of every trick a schoolboy could devise, and there was no one who would do battle for him. If a big boy looked hard at him he would howl, and if one of his size rushed at him threateningly, he would shrink with fear. He was incapable of creating any mischief, yet he was continually stumbling into scrapes.
One sultry afternoon as I was sitting in the shade of the walnut tree in front of the school, busy making a sling for Bob out of an old shoe, Joe came up to us, and dropped on his hands and knees. With the greatest interest he watched me cut the leather into a diamond shape; after a while he ventured to ask, “What yer makin’?”
“Wait and see,” I answered, and went on working. When I had finished the sling-strap or pocket, I cut from the lappets of my buckskin moccasin two strings, making a noose at the end of one, and then fastened both strings to the sling-strap. Although I did not say anything about it, I had determined to make one for Joe as soon as I had shown Bob how to use the sling. He tried to find out from Bob what I was making; but that little chap would not speak to him.
When the sling was finished, I told Bob to gather some rusty nails and pebbles. He was off with a jump, and returned with a good supply in an amazingly short time. Joe still sat watching, with eyes and mouth wide open. I put a nail in the sling-strap, and, to show Bob how to use the sling, swung it around three or four times, then threw out my arm with force, letting one end of the string slip, and the nail sped on its way through the air, singing. Bob clapped his hands with delight.
A crow was flying lazily over head, croaking as he went. I sent a stone whizzing up to him; it barely missed his head, and he turned a complete somersault in the air, to our great amusement.
“I’m goin’ to make one too!” said Joe, suddenly rising and hunting around for materials.
I paid no attention to him, but went on teaching Bob how to throw stones with the sling, little thinking that we were drifting toward an incident which gave Joe much pain temporarily and left an impression on my immature mind unfavorable to the White-chests which lasted many, many years.
“Mine’s done!” exclaimed Joe, holding up a sling he had made out of rotten rags.
“Don’t use it,” I made haste to say, “and I’ll make you a good one.”
He paid no heed to my words, but went on trying to balance stones in the old piece of rag. The stones dropped before he could swing the sling and throw them. Bob kept me busy throwing stones for him, for he was afraid of hitting the boys who were on the hillside near by playing tag, or of sending a pebble over the fence, where the girls were singing and chatting over some of their games.
“Look now, look!” cried Joe. I turned to see what he was doing. He had succeeded in balancing a clod of earth nearly as large as his head in the rag sling, and was about to swing it.
Just at this moment Graybeard came out of the carpenter’s shop and, shading his eyes with a newspaper, he called loudly to one of the boys who was playing tag, “Ulysees! Ulysees!” He inflated his lungs to call for the third time, and with greater volume of voice. Joe had swung the clod of earth around for the second time, and it was halfway up for the third round when the string broke; released from its holdings, the clod flew into the air, revolving, and dropping loose particles as it went. I held my breath as I watched it, for I saw just where it was going to strike.
In throwing a stone at some object, I used to imagine that by keeping a steady eye on the stone and bending my body in the direction I desired it to go, I could make the missile reach the place aimed at. In this instance, although I did not throw the clod, I unconsciously bent my body sidewise, keeping my eyes steadily on the lump of earth to draw it away from the spot for which it was making. The two other boys watched with frightened faces.
Graybeard, with head thrown back, lips parted, and chest expanded, called, “Uly—!” when the diminutive planet, which I was trying to guide by my force of will, struck him in the chest, and burst in a thousand bits. For a moment there was coughing and sputtering; then Graybeard drew out his handkerchief, dusted his beard, and his white shirt front. He looked around to see where the missile that struck him came from. I wished that we three could sink into the earth, or else turn into nothing, as Graybeard’s eyes rested upon us.
“Come here!” he demanded with a vigorous gesture. Like so many guilty curs we walked up to him.
“Which one of you did it?” he cried, grasping me by the collar and shaking me until my teeth chattered.
Joe cringed and cried; it was a confession. I was about to say, “he didn’t mean to do it;” when the infuriated man turned, went into the shop, and in a moment came back with a piece of board.
“Hold out your hand!” he said, addressing the shrinking
