She did not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right.

The denial only seemed to make the thing worse for Tom.

Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain.

When the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still--because, said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the picture sure.

I wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!" Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout--he had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had stuck to the denial from principle.
A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum of study.