Ralph always believed that he would have been speedily defeated by Phillips had it not been for two thoughts which braced him. The sinister shadow of young Dr. Small sitting in the dark corner by the water-bucket nerved him. A victory over Phillips was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young schoolmaster. The other thought that kept his pluck alive was the recollection of Bull. He approached a word as Bull approached the raccoon. He did not take hold until he was sure of his game. When he took hold, it was with a quiet assurance of success. As Ralph spelled in this dogged way for half an hour the hardest words the Squire could find, the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, and Ralph’s friends even ventured to whisper that “maybe Jim had cotched his match, after all!”
But Phillips never doubted of his success.
“Theodolite,” said the Squire.
“T-h-e, the o-d, od, theod, o, theodo, l-y-t-e, theodolite,” spelled the champion.
“Next,” said the Squire, nearly losing his teeth in his excitement. Ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, and the conquered champion sat down in confusion. The excitement was so great for some minutes that the spelling was suspended. Everybody in the house had shown sympathy with one or the other of the combatants, except the silent shadow in the corner. It had not moved during the contest, and did not show any interest now in the result.
“Gewhilliky crickets! Thunder and lightning! Licked him all to smash!” said Bud, rubbing his hands on his knees, “That beats my time all holler!”
And Betsey Short giggled until her tuck-comb fell out, though she was on the defeated side.
Shocky got up and danced with pleasure.
But one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes of Mirandy destroyed the last spark of Ralph’s pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below-zero feeling all through him.
“He’s powerful smart, is the master,” said old Jack to Mr. Pete Jones. “He’ll beat the whole kit and tuck of ’em afore he’s through. I know’d he was smart. That’s the reason I tuck him,” proceeded Mr. Means.
“Yaas, but he don’t lick enough. Not nigh,” answered Pete Jones. “No lickin’, no larnin’, says I.”
It was now not so hard. The other spellers on the opposite side went down quickly under the hard words which the Squire gave out. The master had mowed down all but a few, his opponents had given up the battle, and all had lost their keen interest in a contest to which there could be but one conclusion, for there were only the poor spellers left. But Ralph Hartsook ran against a stump where he was least expecting it. It was the Squire’s custom, when one of the smaller scholars or poorer spellers rose to spell against the master, to give out eight or ten easy words, that they might have some breathing-spell before being slaughtered, and then to give a poser or two which soon settled them. He let them run a little, as a cat does a doomed mouse. There was now but one person left on the opposite side, and, as she rose in her blue calico dress, Ralph recognized Hannah, the bound girl at old Jack Means’s. She had not attended school in the district, and had never spelled in spelling-school before, and was chosen last as an uncertain quantity. The Squire began with easy words of two syllables, from that page of Webster, so well known to all who ever thumbed it, as “baker,” from the word that stands at the top of the page. She spelled these words in an absent and uninterested manner. As everybody knew that she would have to go down as soon as this preliminary skirmishing was over, everybody began to get ready to go home, and already there was the buzz of preparation. Young men were timidly asking girls if “they could see them safe home,” which was the approved formula, and were trembling in mortal fear of “the mitten.” Presently the Squire, thinking it time to close the contest, pulled his scalp forward, adjusted his glass eye, which had been examining his nose long enough, and turned over the leaves of the book to the great words at the place known to spellers as “incomprehensibility,” and began to give out those “words of eight syllables with the accent on the sixth.” Listless scholars now turned round, and ceased to whisper, in order to be in at the master’s final triumph. But to their surprise “ole Miss Meanses’ white nigger,” as some of them called her in allusion to her slavish life, spelled these great words with as perfect ease as the master. Still not doubting the result, the Squire turned from place to place and selected all the hard words he could find. The school became utterly quiet, the excitement was too great for the ordinary buzz. Would “Meanses’ Hanner” beat the master? beat the master that had laid out Jim Phillips? Everybody’s sympathy was now turned to Hannah. Ralph noticed that even Shocky had deserted him, and that his face grew brilliant every time Hannah spelled a word. In fact,
