Horace banged on the back door of Red's house and yelled, "Red!" over and over until Red came out. The two 11-year-old boys trudged through the fresh snow towards their school.
"Old crow's gonna kill me," Horace stated, referring to Mrs. Crowell, their sixth grade teacher.
"Why?"
"I only spent 10 minutes on my homework."
"Let me see."
Horace passed a notebook to him. Red pointed to one of Horace's answers. "That's wrong. The answer is seven-tenths."
Horace looked at him open-mouthed. "How'd you learn to do that so quick?"
Red shrugged. "It's easy for me, that's all."
Horace took the book back, stopped walking, erased his answer, and wrote in seven-tenths.
"What about the next questions?" He handed the notebook back to Red.
Red corrected all of the errors. Out of 12, Horace had only three correct. Carefully, Horace erased his mistakes and wrote in the right answers.
Justice came later that afternoon. Mrs. Crowell, an alert little woman dressed neatly in a starched dress, with a sweater pulled over her shoulders, glared at Horace and Red, who were standing in front of her.
"You did this yourself?" She shook the notebook in Horace's face.
"Yes," he stammered.
She glowered at him, on the verge of saying something, then shifted her gaze to Red. "You're not helping him, you know." Red was about to deny he had helped Horace, but hesitated when she held up her index finger in warning. He remained silent.
"Well, silence seldom hurts," she said in exasperation. "Give him not fish, but teach him how to fish. Who said that?"
"I don't know," Red replied.
"I'm not surprised," she said, obliquely referring to Red's mixed-marriage parents. His father was Jewish, and his mother, Episcopalian.
She stared thoughtfully at the boys, shifting her eyes from one to the other. Then she said, "William, you're our top student. You've already jumped ahead one class and could probably skip another grade. I've talked to your mother at the parent-teachers’ meetings." She paused, and continued dispassionately. "I think you get your smarts from your father.
"Horace, you stay after school and do all of those equations on the blackboard. William, you stay also. Sit in your chair and think about what you did to him. Now, both of you sit down."
Horace wore a silly grin as he walked back to his chair.
The closing bell rang and the class rushed in a noisy frenzy for the doors, all except Red and Horace. Mrs. Crowell wrote 12 equations on the board and spoke to Horace. "Come, take your time, and think out each answer."
Horace approached the board, stood slouched, and studied the first equation.
Mrs. Crowell told Red to come to her desk. "Pull the chair closer and sit down." She talked in a low voice so Horace couldn't hear. "I've taught a long time, and I think I can spot certain traits in my pupils. I can recognize winners and losers." She dipped her head toward Horace. "I don't have high hopes for that big fellow, but I sense a good streak in him. He's worthy of an extra effort on someone's part." She sighed. "I can't get through to him, but you, that's a different story. He thinks the world of you. His affection for you is probably more than what he feels for his own brother. He'll do anything for you. You can help him. Teach him how to study." She leaned back in her chair, stared solemnly at Red, and finally dismissed him.