Free Otis Spofford by Beverly Cleary Page A

continue, Otis.”
    But Otis had lost the place once more. He was thinking what he would do if he were an Indian. He could see himself covered with war paint, riding down on a wagon train.
    Mrs. Gitler sighed and looked at the clock as if she were afraid this day might last forever. “That will do, Otis. Ellen, you may continue reading the story.”
    Ellen stood up, but she did not have a chance to read. The buzzer sounded on the telephone that connected Room Eleven with the principal’s office. The class was silent, because it wanted to hear what Mrs. Gitler said.
    “Thank you. I’ll be right down,” she said into the telephone. Then she turned to the class. “Boys and girls, Mr. Howe wants me to come to the office for a few minutes. While I am gone, you will continue reading to yourselves. Remember, I’m putting you on your honor.”
    This meant the class was supposed to behave, even though no one was watching to see that they did. And they did behave until they were sure Mrs. Gitler was safely out of hearing. Then, except for a few unusually good girls who went on with their reading, the room began to hum with activity. Several children went to the window to see how much snow had fallen since lunchtime. Tommy threw an eraser across the room at George. Gary appointed himself a sentry at the door to watch for Mrs. Gitler’s return.
    Austine ran up to the front of the room and sat at Mrs. Gitler’s desk. “Boys and girls, I’m waiting,” she said, the way Mrs. Gitler did when she wanted the class to be quiet.
    “Austine Allen, I’m going to tell on you,” said Linda.
    Austine made a face at Linda and ducked as Tommy threw an eraser at her.
    Otis was still thinking about those friendly Indians in the reader. It wouldn’t be any fun to be a friendly Indian. If he were an Indian, he would be unfriendly. Chief Otis, the unfriendly Indian, that’s what he was. He jumped out of his seat. “I’m an Indian,” he announced. “I’m on the warpath.” He put one hand behind his head and held up two fingers to look like feathers. The other hand he patted over his mouth while he war-whooped.
    “You better keep quiet or they’ll hear you in the next room,” someone said.
    Otis whooped more softly. Then he did a sort of war dance. “Me heap big chief,” he said. “Me chase ’um paleface.”
    “Heap Big Chief Lose-Place-in-Reader,” scoffed Stewy, and pegged him with an eraser.
    Otis went on with his war dance. Some of the other boys joined him and pranced up and down the aisles whooping softly.
    Stewy ran around the chalk rail, gathering erasers for ammunition. He passed them out to the other boys, who pelted the Indians with them. The Indians dodged these bullets. Two who were hit clutched their chests and fell to the floor, where they died before they got up and grabbed some chalk to throw back at the palefaces.
    Otis looked around for a weapon. A pair of snub-nosed scissors lay on Mrs. Gitler’s desk. He snatched them and held them like a hunting knife. “Paleface squaw better run or big chief scalp ’um,” he said to Austine, who was still sitting at the teacher’s desk.
    “I’m not a squaw,” Austine giggled. “I’m a beautiful maiden.”
    The boys hooted at this, and Austine let Otis chase her back to her seat.
    “Austine,” whispered Ellen, “be careful. Mrs. Gitler will be back any minute.” Then she went on reading, and as she read she tugged at a lock of hair to make it grow faster.
    Now I’ll have some fun, thought Otis, as he watched Ellen tug at her hair and look so neat and clean and well behaved. He had not forgotten about those two shirt buttons. Advancing with his scissors, he said, “Big chief scalp paleface maiden.”
    Ellen glanced up from her book. “Otis Spofford, you stop it,” she said, and went on reading.
    “Ugh,” answered Otis, disappointed at not getting a rise out of Ellen.
    “Woo-woo,” whooped the braves. Ellen continued to ignore Otis.
    “Paleface maiden