My teacher held up a piece of broken glass and asked, “Who broke this window?”
Thirty boys tried to think about not only what they had done, but also what our teacher may have found out. She seldom became angry, but she was this time.
“Oh,”I thought, “I was the one who broke the window.” It was caused by a naughty throw of a baseball. If I admitted guilt, I would be in a lot of trouble. How would I be able to pay for a big window like that? I didn't even get an allowance. “My father is going to have a fit,”I thought. I didn't want to raise my hand, but some force much stronger than I was pulled it skyward. I told the truth, “I did it.”It was hard enough to say what I had.
My teacher took down a book from one of our library shelves and I had never known my teacher to strike a student, but I feared she was going to start with me.
