Chapter VII

The harder Tom tried to focus on his book, the more his mind wandered. Eventually, sighing and yawning, he gave up. Time seemed to stretch endlessly until recess. The air was eerily still, the kind of lazy day where nothing stirs. The soft murmur of the twenty-five students studying created a soothing atmosphere akin to the gentle buzz of bees. In the distant warmth of the sun, Cardiff Hill rose with its lush green slopes shrouded by a haze of heat and purple distance. Occasionally, birds lazily circled high in the sky; apart from some napping cows, there was no other sign of life.

Tom’s heart yearned for freedom or at least something engaging to pass the time. His hand slipped into his pocket, and his face lit up with gratitude that felt like silent prayer. Furtively, he retrieved a percussion-cap box, setting it on the long flat desk. The tick probably shared Tom’s sense of relief, though too early; as soon as it started its journey across the desk, Tom redirected it with a pin.

Joe Harper, his close friend, sat beside him, equally restless and now deeply engrossed in this small adventure. Joe was Tom’s best friend during the week but an opponent on Saturdays when they played marbles. Taking out a pin from his lapel, Joe began to help maneuver the tick. The game grew more engaging by the minute.

Tom suggested dividing their space with a line drawn down the center of a slate:

“Now,” he explained, “while it’s on your side, you can move it around, and I’ll leave it alone. But if you let it get onto my side, I’ll take over.”

“All right, start it up.”

Soon, the tick escaped Tom’s watch and crossed to Joe’s half. After a brief skirmish, it returned to Tom’s territory. This back-and-forth continued as each boy alternated between manipulating the tick with intense focus and watching eagerly while the other took his turn.

Eventually, luck seemed to favor Joe. Despite the tick’s attempts at evasion, Joe skillfully blocked its advances whenever victory seemed imminent. Frustrated, Tom finally couldn’t resist interfering again. Instantly, Joe protested:

“Tom, you need to let it be.”

“I just wanted to give it a little nudge, Joe.”

“No way—it’s not fair. You need to leave it alone.”

“Oh come on, I won’t do much.”

“Leave it, I said!”

“I refuse!”

“Well then, whose tick is this?”

“It doesn’t matter who owns the tick—it’s my side of the line, and you can’t touch it.”

“Well, I’m going to bet that I will. It’s my tick, and I’ll do what I want with it or die trying!”

A sudden flurry ensued as both boys received a strong hit on their shoulders. Dust flew from their jackets as the rest of the school watched in amusement. Unaware of this until then, their teacher had been watching the whole scene before joining in.

When noon came, Tom whispered to Becky Thatcher:

“Put your bonnet on and act like you’re heading home. When you reach the corner, slip away through the lane and come back this way. I’ll take a different path.”

Each went off with separate groups of friends but met at the end of the lane, securing their own little meeting spot once they reached school alone again. They sat together, drawing on a slate while Tom guided Becky’s hand in creating pictures.

As interest waned, they began talking. Tom was brimming with joy:

“Do you like rats?”

“No! I hate them.”

“Well, I do too—especially when they’re alive and swinging around your head by a string.”

“I don’t really like rats much. What I love is chewing gum.”

“Oh yeah? I wish I had some right now!”

“You want some? I have some. You can chew it for a bit but you’ll have to give it back.”

Thrilled, they took turns chewing and swinging their legs against the bench in blissful contentment.

“Have you ever been to a circus?” Tom asked.

“Yes, and my dad plans to take me again if I’m good.”

“I’ve been to the circus several times—lots of things happen there. It’s better than church! There are exciting shows all the time. When I grow up, I want to be a clown in a circus.”

“That sounds nice. They look so funny with all their colorful makeup.”

“Yes, they do. They earn heaps of money—almost a dollar a day, Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky, have you ever been engaged?”

“What’s that?”

“You know, engaged to get married.”

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

“I guess I would. But what does it feel like?”

“It’s amazing! You just tell someone you’ll never love anyone else and then kiss them. Anyone can do it.”

“Do people always do that?”

“Yes, everyone who loves each other does. Do you remember what I wrote on the slate?”

“Um—yes.”

“What was it?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“Will you let me know?”

“Yeah—but later.”

“No, now.”

“No, not now—we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Oh no, right now! Just whisper, real softly.”

Becky hesitated but then nodded. Tom passed his arm around her waist and whispered the tale as gently as he could.

“Now, you whisper back to me—just like that.”

After some resistance, she agreed with a condition: “Turn your face away so I can’t see, and then I’ll do it—but please don’t tell anyone.”

“No, promise. Now, Becky.”

He turned his head aside. She leaned closer, her breath stirring his hair as she whispered, “I—I love you!”

Tom let go of her and they ran around the desks in playful circles, stopping only when Tom finally convinced her to reveal what he wanted most—sharing a kiss. In the end, after some hesitation, she relented, covering her face with her apron. Tom embraced her, pleading gently for that final gesture.

“Now, Becky—it’s done—all but the kiss. Don’t worry about it—it’s nothing. Please.”

He tugged at her apron and waited for her hands.

Eventually, Becky gave in; her hands dropped as her glowing face lifted and accepted. Tom kissed those vibrant lips and whispered:

“Now it’s all done, Becky. And from now on, you know, you’ll never love or marry anyone but me—forever. Will you?”

“No, I’ll only ever love and marry you, Tom—and you can’t marry anyone else either.”

“Of course. That’s part of it. And always when we go to school or come home, we should walk together if no one is watching. You choose me, and I’ll choose you at parties because that’s what engaged couples do.”

“It sounds wonderful. I’ve never heard about this before.”

“Oh, it’s really fun! Like with Amy Lawrence—”

Her eyes widened, revealing Tom’s mistake. He stopped, confused.

“Oh, Tom! So I’m not your first?”

Becky began to cry softly. Tom tried to comfort her:

“Don’t cry, Becky. It doesn’t matter about her anymore.”

“Yes, you do care for her, Tom—you know you do.”

Tom reached out, but she pushed him away and turned her back on him, tears continuing to fall. He attempted again with soothing words but was rebuffed once more. Frustrated, his pride wounded, he stormed off outside. Standing restlessly by the door, he hoped she’d change her mind and come find him. But she didn’t. Doubt crept in, making him think perhaps he had erred.

Struggling with himself, Tom gathered courage to try again, returning inside where Becky sat alone, still sobbing with her back to the wall. Remorse hit Tom hard. He approached her hesitantly:

“Becky, I—I don’t care for anyone but you.”

She didn’t reply, only sobbed harder.

“Becky”—pleadingly. “Will you say something?”

More sobs followed.

Tom dug into his pocket and pulled out a brass knob from an old andiron handle—a treasured trinket. Holding it up to show her, he asked:

“Please, Becky, will you take this?”

She knocked it to the ground in anger. Tom stormed off, walking away over hills far beyond reach, never returning to school that day.

Becky soon felt uneasy. She searched everywhere: no sign of him at the door or playground. Calling out:

“Tom! Come back, Tom!”

She heard nothing but silence. Alone and surrounded by strangers, she collapsed into her grief once more. As other students began returning, she had to hide her sorrow and bear a long, lonely afternoon without anyone to share her pain with.