Tip had learned to read.

Patiently, earnestly, he had plodded on through the long winter; now his sad blunderings in that line were over for ever; not a boy in school read more slowly, distinctly, and correctly than Tip Lewis.

The selections were to be made by the committee, immediately after class, of those who were considered ready to enter the history class on the following term.

This was the highest reading class in the school: and Tip's eyes fairly danced when Mr.Holbrook, who was chairman of the committee, out of a class of thirteen read but two names,--"Thomas Jones" and "Edward Lewis." "Hallo, Tip!" Howard Minturn had said to him at recess; "let's shake hands.

Welcome to history; it's awfully hard and interesting." And Tip did shake hands, and laughed; and looked over at the other clique--the dunces--with a half-patronizing nod to Bob Turner; and wondered how he _could_, have borne it to have been numbered with them that day; then he felt that he was climbing into the first set, and climbing _fast_.
In spelling, too, he came off conqueror; spelled down the class, spelled until Mr.Burrows closed his book with the words, "I presume you are tired of this, gentlemen, and, as our examinations are confined to the lessons, I think it will hardly pay to go further, for Edward has not missed since the second week in the term." So again, flushed and excited, Tip went to his seat victorious.