After the pistol incident, Principal Whitaker summoned Larry Botter to his office and declared, loud enough to be heard in the farthest corner of the schoolyard:
"One more stunt, Botter — the slightest one! — and you'll be sent home, and not even your father will be able to beg mercy for you. Do you understand me? Behave like a student, not like a clown from a fairground."
Larry, of course, immediately began nodding. He stood at attention, staring Whitaker right between the eyes with a look as if he were ready to lay down his life on the altar of repentance.
"Yes, sir!" he blurted out. "No more mischief."
And that settled it.
The next day, Larry indeed behaved as quiet as a mouse. He sat at his desk without moving a muscle, as if he were glued to the chair. When Mr. Burns asked him something about grammar, he answered, albeit off the mark, but without his usual piratical digressions. Tommy Savage, observing this quiet act, couldn't resist and whispered:
"What's the matter, Buffalo, did your father's belt leave a lot of marks on your backside?"
Without turning his head, Larry replied with dignity:
"Those aren't belt marks. Those are the consequences of a nighttime skirmish with a gang of river bandits. Stray bullets, you see."
Of course, everyone knew the truth. But they all pretended to believe Larry. Even Whitaker, walking by, snorted approvingly. And everything would have been fine if Larry could have kept still for at least a week. But his patience lasted exactly two days. On the third, he had already found himself a new occupation — making up nicknames for everyone. Tommy became "Colonel Porridge-Eater," Will Fry — "Sniveling Sneak," and the principal himself, in Larry's secret whispers, turned into "Old Thunder-Guts."
This idyll was shattered by an incident that happened in the school dormitory early in the morning, when the air was still hazy with sleep and smelled of charred wood from the cooled-down stove.
Red-haired Clint was the first to wake up. He always got up earlier than everyone — he loved polishing his famous button-up boots, which his father had brought him from St. Louis and which, rumor had it, cost as much as a good piglet. He climbed down from his cot, stretched, yawned, and shoved his foot into the first boot. And immediately pulled it back out as if he'd been burned. He bent down, took the boot in his hands, and just stared at it for a few seconds, blinking. Then he grabbed the second one. And then his face twisted into such a grimace, as if he had swallowed a live hedgehog.
There wasn't a single button left on the boots. Only neat little holes, as if some giant, meticulous bird had pecked them off.
At first, Clint was speechless. Then a strange, hoarse sound, something like "guh-y-y-y," escaped his throat. And then he shouted so loud that dust rained down from the ceiling:
"My buttons! Where are my buttons?! Someone cut them off!"
Pandemonium broke out in the dormitory. Everyone, sleepy and still in their underclothes, gathered around Clint, who was shaking his poor boots like trophy scalps and choking with rage and bitter tears.
Larry Botter, of course, found himself in the front row. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head with the air of a seasoned sheriff.
"Unnecessary panic, citizen," he pronounced. "Boots without buttons look even better. Real trappers always go around like that. Tie them up with some twine — and off you go, towards adventure. And all these buttons of yours — nothing but foolishness."
Tommy Savage, picking his ear, reached into his pocket and pulled out two dull tin buttons from his last year's pants.
"Here, sew them on. They'll do for now."
But Clint just shook his head, and tears dripped straight onto the boot tops. He cried so bitterly that even the toughest boys felt an awkward lump in their throats.
And then, black and straight as a cypress, Mr. Whitaker appeared in the doorway, having heard the unusual noise in the dormitory.
Such silence fell in the room that you could hear a mouse scrabbling behind the wall. The principal entered, approached Clint with heavy steps, and held out his hand.
"Hand it over," he said in an even, cold voice.
Sniffling, Clint handed him the boot. Whitaker turned it over in his hands, twisted it, held it up to his eyes. Then he slowly raised his head, and his gaze, sharp as an awl, swept over everyone present.
"So," he pronounced, "We've got ourselves a thief. In broad daylight. Or," he paused, "by the light of night. Who did this?"
The boys shifted from foot to foot, staring at the floor. Larry was the first to break the silence.
"But sir, what if it wasn't a person at all?" he inquired almost respectfully. "Rats, for example. Back on our farm, a rat once made off with a whole sack of nails — shiny things, you understand, they're attracted to them."
Whitaker slowly turned to him.
"Rats?" he repeated with a slight smirk. "The same ones that ran off with your fishing net?"
"The very same, sir! A rat is a clever, resourceful beast."
"The beast may be clever," hissed Whitaker, "but removing buttons from a boot isn't even insolence anymore, it's an art. An art accessible only to someone with fingers. So enough of this nonsense."
The investigation began. Mr. Whitaker commanded: "Clint, bring your boots here."
Wiping his tears, Clint brought over his treasure. Mr. Whitaker, putting on his glasses, began to examine them carefully, running his fingers over the cut threads.
"Where were the boots last night?"
"Under the bed, sir."
"And were they there this morning?"
"Almost... Just closer to the headboard," Clint mumbled.
"And who slept with their head towards your headboard?"
Clint hesitated. Larry immediately hastened to prompt him: "Will Fry, then Tommy, then me."
"I see... so you're the third one?" Mr. Whitaker squinted distrustfully, drilling Larry with his eyes.
"Well, yes, third," Larry hastily confirmed, coughing into his fist.
Mr. Whitaker began to inspect the dormitory.
In a long, silent, and subdued line, the boys trailed after him. Leading the way, strutting importantly like a rooster at dawn, was Larry Botter.
"Tell me, Botter, since when have you been sleeping here?"
"First night, sir," Larry reported briskly. "Just dragged my cot in yesterday."
"And why didn't you go home?"
"It's a long walk, sir. A fellow's legs get tired."
Here Will Fry couldn't restrain himself: "He was throwing clothes around all night, wouldn't let any of us sleep!"
"Do you hear that, Botter?" Mr. Whitaker inquired coldly. "Did you stay here to make trouble?"
"Not true," Larry muttered with offense. "Will's the one who cut the buttons, and now he's pinning it on me! And his bed is the closest to Clint's."
Will squealed with indignation, his eyes welling up with tears:
"I'll tell my mother everything! Let her box your ears, you villain!"
But Mr. Whitaker swiftly grabbed him by the collar of his jacket:
"Hold on, boy! You're not running anywhere!"
Turning to Larry, he growled: "How dare you accuse a comrade without proof?"
"Well, who else, sir?" Larry shouted. "How his mother earns her keep, everyone knows!"
"Silence!" Mr. Whitaker roared so loud the windows rattled. "Another word — and I'll send you home with nothing but a knapsack on your back! Now, march to the corner and stand there until we're finished!"
Larry, grunting with offense, trudged to the corner and stood there by the stove, sulking like a whipped puppy.
Mr. Whitaker's suspicions were growing. But to expel a student, he needed evidence, not just suspicions. And he continued his questioning:
"Who fell asleep last last night?"
"I was already asleep when Botter threw a shoe at me," Silas Simmer whimpered. "It woke me up from the hit, and then I fell asleep again."
"And you cried?" Mr. Whitaker clarified.
"Yes."
"And you, Clint?"
"I was already snoring when he yelled like the yard was on fire," the redhead said indignantly. "I even ran to the window to look, and there he was giggling in his bed and letting off such gas you couldn't breathe!"
"Liar!" came from the corner.
"Silence!" roared Mr. Whitaker.
The interrogations continued, but to little avail. Everyone got confused, everyone claimed they hadn't heard something or had slept through it. It seemed the secret would remain a secret. And then Silas Simmer, the youngest, suddenly piped up in a thin voice:
"Look! There it is, a button!"
Everyone rushed to the window where he was pointing. And sure enough, a lone button was glinting dully in a crack between the floorboards. With a sob, Clint dug it out and pressed it to his chest.
After that, the search resumed with renewed vigor. The boys, jostling each other eagerly, looked under beds, rummaged in dark corners. And in the farthest corner, under a loose, creaky floorboard, a treasure was found. A whole handful of buttons, scattering with a dry rustle.
Complete silence fell. Everyone looked from the buttons to Larry by the stove. He stood there, trying to maintain an indifferent expression, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Mr. Whitaker bent down, picked up one button, held it up to the light.
"Well then," he said wearily. "We found the buttons, now all that's left is to find the thief. Rats, you say, Botter? Seems they've learned to pry up floorboards, too."
Nevertheless, he couldn't catch anyone red-handed — there was no evidence. The matter had to be dropped. Clint was ordered to appear in the office after lessons and sew the buttons back on under the principal's personal supervision. The very next day, he was already strutting around in his repaired boots, but without his former pride, casting wary glances over his shoulder.
Calm was restored in the school. But something had changed. Now they looked at Larry Botter not only with curiosity, but with a faint, unspoken suspicion. And he himself, though he swaggered about as before, still felt this change.