Of course he
knows he can't get the prize for valor, or any prize for that matter.
His mother has to take in washing."
"William," said Billy's father, who had just entered, "that is a very
un-American way of speaking. If I were dead and buried your mother might
have to take in washing, and it would do her no discredit. Honest work
is honest work. Sammy is a very straight sort of boy. He's been helping
at the store Saturday mornings, and I like the boy. He's got pluck."
"Six months give a fellow time to turn round, any way," said Billy, as
the family sat down to supper.
It was September when this conversation took place, and it was December
before the teachers, who were watching the boys' daily records very
carefully, had the least idea who would get the prize for valor.
"Perhaps we cannot award it this year," said the Principal. "Fifty
dollars should not be thrown away, nor a prize really bestowed on
anybody who has not merited it."
"There are chances for heroism in the simplest and most humble life,"
answered little Miss Riggs, the composition teacher.
That December was awfully cold. Storm and wind and snow. Blizzard and
gale and hurricane. You never saw anything like it. In the middle of
December the sexton was taken down with rheumatic fever, and there
wasn't a soul to ring the bell, or clear away the snow, or keep fires
going in the church, and not a man in the parish was willing to take the
extra work upon him.
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