Jack Hall : or, The school days of an American boy

By Robert Grant

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Title: Jack Hall
or, The school days of an American boy

Author: Robert Grant

Illustrator: Francis Gilbert Attwood

Release date: October 28, 2025 [eBook #77143]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Jordan, Marsh and Company, 1887

Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK HALL ***

[Illustration: HASELTINE’S TRIPLE PLAY.]

JACK HALL

THE SCHOOL DAYS OF AN AMERICAN
BOY

ROBERT GRANT

AUTHOR OF “FACE TO FACE,” “THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL,”
ETC.

_ILLUSTRATED BY F. G. ATTWOOD_

BOSTON
JORDAN, MARSH AND COMPANY
1888

_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_:
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.

I Dedicate this Book

MY THREE BOYS.

[Illustration]

CONTENTS.

PAGE
CHAPTER I.
HOW JACK SPENT THE FORENOON OF WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY 1

CHAPTER II.
THE SNOW-BALL FIGHT 29

CHAPTER III.
A DAY OF RECKONING 65

CHAPTER IV.
JACK GOES TO UTOPIA 96

CHAPTER V.
DR. MEREDITH 120

CHAPTER VI.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS 162

CHAPTER VII.
HASELTINE MAKES HIS DÉBUT 192

CHAPTER VIII.
SETTLING DOWN 230

CHAPTER IX.
THE BIG FOUR 259

CHAPTER X.
UP-HILL 301

CHAPTER XI.
NIP AND TUCK 333

CHAPTER XII.
HASELTINE MAKES HIS CHOICE 377

JACK HALL.

CHAPTER I.

HOW JACK SPENT THE FORENOON OF WASHINGTON’S
BIRTHDAY.

It was a bright February morning. The sun was warm, so that the piles
of snow in the streets were in a perfect condition for snow-balling,
much to the satisfaction of a medium-sized boy of thirteen who had just
come out of the house and was standing on his doorsteps, drawing on his
mittens. His name was Jack Hall, and he wore a Scotch cap, a reefer,
and a pair of rubber boots.

As soon as his mittens were on he cleared the last two steps with a
jump, and, plunging his hands into the nearest snow-bank, stood patting
a ball into shape while he looked around. The street on which Jack’s
house stood was a long and tolerably steep slope. There were houses on
both sides. He lived at the top, near the corner of an intersecting
street, which ran at right angles to it down to Boston Common. Opposite
to his house was a grocery shop.

Suddenly Jack looked animated as he caught sight of another figure,
not unlike his own, on the way up the hill, and by way of welcome to
the new-comer, who was still far off, he emitted a sort of shrill
war-whoop, “Ehu――ehu――ehu!”

Immediately there came a faint reply from the distance, “Ehu――ehu――ehu!”

After each had twice repeated this salutation, Jack continued
contentedly to make snow-balls. He had finished two, tucking one under
either arm, and was moulding a third, when a man appeared on the
further sidewalk of the intersecting street.

“Give me a shot, mister?” shouted Jack.

The man, who was going towards the Common, looked back over his
shoulder and grinned, which Jack recognized as a sign that he might
blaze away, which he did accordingly. The first snow-ball went a little
wide of the mark, and struck the wall beyond with a thud; but the next
hit the man plump in the middle of his exposed arm, and evidently
convinced him that discretion was the better part of valor, for he
gathered his coat collar about his neck, and fled with precipitation
until the corner shut him out from view, pursued by Jack’s remaining
snow-ball and derisive scoffing.

This put Jack in high humor. But before he had fully re-supplied
himself with ammunition, the area door in the wing of the grocery
shop opened, and the grocer’s clerk, a young man of about eighteen,
appeared, carrying some baskets and bundles, with which he proceeded to
load a wheelbarrow belonging to the establishment, that stood beside
the big window, paying no attention to Jack, though he perceived
him very well. For there was perpetual war between the boys in the
neighborhood and “Mustachio,” which was the name applied by them to the
grocer’s assistant on account of a feebly sprouting down on his upper
lip.

Jack had equipped himself amply with snow-balls by the time that the
clerk, with his barrow-full of eggs and flour and other groceries to
be delivered in the neighborhood, was ready to start down the street,
and stood leaning against a tree watching the enemy. Before Mustachio
had proceeded twenty feet, Jack let drive, not at him, but at the area
door, having made sure by a glance that the grocer himself was not
looking out at the big window. Now the area door contained a pocket
about a foot square, cut in the panel and concealed by a swinging
cover, which opened inwards, and shut as soon as pressure was removed.
Through this the baker dropped his rolls in the morning into a basket
in the cellar of the store, and one of the never-tiring amusements of
the boys was to try to do the same with snow-balls. From across the
street this required some dexterity. As a consequence, the grocer had
cause to complain bitterly, both of the influx of snow into his bread
basket, and the dents in the woodwork of the door, which was apt to
need a new coat of paint as soon as the spring came.

On this occasion Jack’s first shot hit the woodwork with a plashing
sound, for the ball was slushy. The noise affected the grocer’s clerk
as a red rag affects a bull. He stopped and, setting down his barrow,
turned towards Jack just as that young miscreant’s second ball hit the
target and disappeared. The clerk muttered something under his breath
and made a dash as though to run across the street. Jack, divining that
this was a feint, retired alertly as far as the corner, where he stood
ready to beat a more hasty and prolonged retreat if necessary. But the
clerk, thinking better of his first impulse, took up the handles of his
barrow and started off again, trundling smartly.

This was Jack’s opportunity. He regained his former post and, aiming
with precision, sent a ball whizzing within an inch of the clerk’s
head, accompanying the shot with a vituperative cry loud enough to
arouse the neighborhood.

“Mustachio-o-o! Mustachio-o-o!”

Dignity was the _rôle_ which the victim assumed this time, for he
paid no heed to either insult. Yet he was doomed to be discomfited.
The second shot hit his barrow without doing any damage, but the next
struck a paper bag containing eggs and broke two, a misadventure which
would require the poor fellow to make another trip by-and-by. He turned
and glared at Jack, realizing his helplessness and yet reluctant to be
unavenged.

So absorbed was he in righteous indignation that he had failed to
observe another small figure creeping up on the opposite sidewalk in
the shadow of the houses and obscured by the trunks and branches of the
row of trees which grew along the street. Mustachio stooped to gather
some snow which he was compressing with relentless vim into ice with
his bare hands preparatory to hurling it at Jack with all his might,
when of a sudden a ball from a new quarter and at short range struck
him with stinging force in the side of the head, plastering his ear
like a poultice. For an instant he was dazed by the shock which gave
time――but only just time――for the reinforcement over the way to shoot
past him and dive into the alley way of Jack’s house a few yards above.
Mustachio plunging into the snow had crossed the street and was at
his new antagonist’s heels in the twinkling of an eye, but too late.
The heavy back door was slammed in his face and double-bolted, and
simultaneously from behind it and from the street corner where Jack had
again sought shelter arose another triumphant cry, “Mustachio-oh-o-ho!
Mustachio-o!”

A few minutes later, a peculiar undulating whistle given vent to by
Jack assured the prisoner that danger was passed, who, accordingly,
reappeared on the scene. The unhappy grocer’s lad, having come to the
conclusion that retribution at the moment was out of the question, was
visible down the street trundling his wheelbarrow, but out of range of
the parting snow-balls which the boys sent after him.

“That was a beauty, Dubsy,” said Jack, by way of compliment to the shot
which had struck Mustachio’s ear.

At that moment a booby-hut swung round the corner. As it went by each
of the boys sprang lightly on to one of the hind runners unseen by
the driver. Away they swept down hill, passing their late enemy, at
whom they grinned exultingly, and delighting in the jounces which the
sleigh made at the uneven places. It turned into the next street, and
soon they were spinning over the smooth, well-trodden snow of the
milldam, amid a host of sleighs and a gay jingling of bells. Presently
the driver pulled up the horses and they stopped before a house where
a lady got out. But they were in luck for the time being; there was
another lady to be left further on; then the booby turned and carried
them back again, which was what they had hoped for. They held on
firmly, still as mice, and well sheltered by the back of the sleigh.

All of a sudden, just as they had reached the foot of their own street,
a voice abreast of them cried loudly, “Cut――cut behind!”

Simultaneously, a snow-ball aimed at them skimmed along the top of the
booby and hit the driver. But the driver needed no additional stimulus;
the cry was enough. Before the snow-ball struck him he had reached for
the whip. Swish! swish! went the lash, curling round the back of the
sleigh. But the boys were quicker than he; at the first note of danger
they had let go their hold.

Instantly they darted after the urchin who had betrayed them, a ragged
shaver, who had taken to his heels the moment after discharging the
snow-ball, and was now running like greased lightning. Their rubber
boots impeded them, and though they panted after the fugitive through
a number of streets they paused at last, pretty well winded, and had
to content themselves with firing a few harmless shots at him. He
returned the fire from the brow of the hill where he stood, and one of
his balls, which were very swift, hit Jack’s Scotch cap, although Jack
dodged, and nearly knocked it off; whereupon the enemy set up a jeer,
and exclaimed before vanishing over the hill,――

“I’ll bring a crowd down this afternoon and knock the stuffing out of
yer!”

[Illustration]

Jack and Dubsy, looking rather sheepish, turned towards home. Their
pride had received a downfall. Moreover they were heated and rather
tired. The vicinity of Ma’am Horn’s struck them, accordingly, as
providential, for it seemed as though “pickle-limes” were the only
things in creation which could relieve their outraged feelings. They
began by flattening their noses against the window-pane of the little
shop. A goodly array of small wares delighted their vision,――peg-tops,
of all sizes; marbles of every sort, from the common clay variety
known as the “twoser” and blood alleys up to wonderful mottled agates;
knives, jack-stones, jew’s-harps, and valentines. There were caramels,
pop corn balls, cream cakes, and cocoanut cakes, and, most tempting of
the whole in the way of sweets, was a tin tray of black looking sticks
of molasses candy, each about the length of a short cigar, but rather
thicker. On the counter, under the eye of Ma’am Horn, who did also a
thriving business in tapes, needles, and haberdashery, stood a dish not
unlike the bowls used for holding gold fish, half full of dark greenish
yellow spheres: these were “pickle-limes.”

Jack had seven cents in his hand, in copper coin, as he entered.

“Give me two pickle-limes, please, Ma’am Horn,” he said. Ma’am
Horn, a thin and rather severe looking lady, fished out the dainties
called for, one of which Jack handed to Dubsy, who had been gazing
at them despairingly, having no money of his own, and who exclaimed
with effusion, “Oh, thank you, Jack.” Together they popped them into
their mouths, and as they munched interchanged glances of rapturous
congratulation.

Jack had five cents left; what should he buy? His eye lingered fondly
on almost every article in the store. He was sorely tempted by a
jew’s-harp, a compressible snake, and by some fascinating striped
marbles known as “Chinees.” But his appetite was far from satisfied.
Then, too, there was Dubsy, and Dubsy was out of cash; though, of
course, if he bought marbles Dubsy would not expect him to share them
with him.

“How much is a cream cake?” he asked.

“Five cents.”

Jack sighed. He knew well the price of those luscious articles, but the
desire to have one made him perhaps imagine that it might have gone
down.

“Give me two cocoanut cakes.”

Cocoanut cakes were a cent apiece. Jack put one into his mouth and
munched it thoughtfully; then with a sigh he held the second out to
Dubsy and exclaimed monosyllabically, “Here!”

“You’re a brick, Jack!”

Jack licked his fingers. “I took the brownest one,” he said,
apologetically.

There were still three cents remaining. With two of them Jack bought
some “Chinees,” but the expenditure of the last cent perplexed him. He
finally selected one of the sticks of black molasses candy; these when
fresh were so adhesive that it was common to transplant them directly
from the tray to the purchaser’s mouth, for if put in paper the paper
was sure to cling to them. Jack’s eyes closed with satisfaction as his
teeth shut down on one end of the delicious morsel. When he looked
again, he perceived Dubsy gazing at him with a manly resolve to exhibit
no envy, and yet with disappointment, or let us rather say resignation,
written on his face.

Jack could not speak, but he grunted and held out his mouth; Dubsy
understood the signal. A moment later his teeth had hold of the other
end of the stick of candy. Now began a struggle. The two boys, chewing
vigorously and soon convulsed with laughter, tried to draw away from
one another, but the tough and ropy compound balked them. In a moment
or two, however, it began to yield, and presently the point of ambition
with Jack and Dubsy was to draw out as long as possible the strand of
stringy molasses which bound them together. At last, after they were
separated from one another by the width of the shop, the strand became
a thread. When this broke the fun was over. But, needless to say, the
mouths of the participants were a sight to behold.

The corner from which they had originally started was the regular
meeting-place for the boys who lived within the radius of half a mile
from Jack’s house. Thither they now returned only to learn that the
other fellows had gone coasting on the Common. Accordingly, they went
into Jack’s back yard by way of the long alley already referred to,
and soon reappeared devouring an apple apiece obtained from the cook,
and dragging a double runner called “Never Say Die,” made out of
Jack’s single sleds, “Star of the East,” and “Reindeer,” with which
they proceeded to the long coast, so called, which ran from a point
opposite the State House diagonally across the Common to the West
Street gate. The coast was in fine condition and crowded with sleds of
every description, from the most diminutive type to huge double runners
capable of holding eight or ten big boys. Some of these last named,
elaborate with carpet laid over the main board and a bell which sounded
at intervals to warn people to get out of the way, seemed to Jack and
Dubsy the most desirable things in the world, and made their own double
runner appear very insignificant by comparison.

However, theirs went tolerably fast, quite fast enough to be safe for
such small boys as they. Jack went down in front “belly flounders,” or
“belly bumps,”――the phrase used to denote lying flat on one’s stomach;
little Bill French, whom they had picked up on the way, came next in
the same posture, grasping Jack firmly by the legs just above the tops
of his rubber boots, and on the end squatted Dubsy, “butcher” fashion,
with one foot hanging out behind for extra steering purposes. The coast
was like glass. They positively flew; and it was no easy work to
guide their course so as to avoid running down the small sleds ahead
of them, to say nothing of getting safely over an ugly rut half way
from the top, which jounced and was apt to upset the unskillful. At the
bottom of the hill, where a crowd of spectators was collected, another
jounce was caused by a plank walk which crossed the coast. This passed
without mishap, the sleds sped along the smooth mall so long as their
velocity could hold out. Thanks to Jack’s cleverness in handling, the
“Never Say Die” made an excellent showing the first time down, being
landed by dint of strenuous coaxing and nursing three inches ahead of
a considerably larger competitor, to the great satisfaction of our
trio. Then came the climb up hill with the prospect of another glorious
descent to deter them from lagging.

It was great sport, and a boon to the hundreds of boys of every size
and class who could thus spend their holiday out of harm’s way in
healthful exercise.

Jack and his friends went down half a dozen times without a mishap, and
even beat their first record, running to a point on the path which none
but the very largest double-runners had succeeded in reaching. But
on the seventh trip they came to grief, though the fault was scarcely
theirs. Jack was in front as usual, and with both his hands clasped
over one of the iron-shod points of “Reindeer,” was urging the “Never
Say Die” on for all she was worth in point of speed, when, of a sudden,
a lady started to cross the coast about half way down. You boys who
know the Common do not need to be told that there is a more or less
traveled path which intersects the long coast at this point.

The lady had been waiting on the edge of the coast for several minutes
for a chance to cross. She was very nervous and at the same time in
a hurry to catch a horse-car. There were a number of other people
standing in line as spectators and what with so many sleds on the way
down, and the stream of boys coming up hill dragging sleds behind them,
she doubtless got confused, lost her head, and started just at the
wrong time. It was too late to help her before the bystanders realized
her danger. Jack was seized with horror as she loomed up on the track
just ahead of him. The “Never Say Die” was going like a locomotive.

“Clear the lulla! Clear the lulla-a-a!” Jack shouted, as loud as he was
able.

He made one frantic effort to wrench “Reindeer” aside, but to no
purpose. The lady turned her head at his cry, and just then the points
of the foremost sled struck her amidships, as sailors would say, and
she fell with a despairing shriek on to Jack’s head and shoulders, her
legs flying from under her. Her clothing blinded Jack’s eyes so that
he could perceive nothing ahead. At the same moment, the hinder part
of the “Never Say Die,” as a consequence of the check in front, slued
violently and swung nearly at right angles across the coast, a certain
target for those coming after. Bump! Crash! Another double runner and
a single sled struck them simultaneously, and the wreck of all three,
mingled together and twisted awry by the ugly rut which by this time
they had fallen into, flew asunder. Somehow or other Jack got free
from the lady in time to dodge his head just as “Reindeer,” torn apart
from her mate, smashed into a tree and upset. The unhappy cause of the
catastrophe was tossed a few feet behind him into the gutter. “Star of
the East” darted off to the other side of the coast, but, handicapped
by the remains of the board which ordinarily united her with
“Reindeer,” capsized immediately and rolled over and over with poor
Dubsy. Little Bill French, being light and small, was lifted like a
shuttlecock off the “Never Say Die” by the prow of the “Iceland Queen,”
but only to be thrown a moment later into the middle of the coast by
the violent slueing of that semblance of royalty, from which dangerous
predicament he managed to crawl away unharmed. “Iceland Queen” wobbled
about for a few minutes longer, but upset at last into the gutter;
while the boy with the single sled, violently thrown out of his path,
shot between the trees over the crust of the adjacent field, where he
succeeded in coming to a halt without further mishap. Altogether it was
a dire experience.

Fortunately the lady was merely shaken up a little though a good deal
frightened. The injuries to the three boys were also slight, consisting
of a scratch on Dubsy’s cheek, a lame shoulder received by Jack from
contact with the tree, and a general wetting and begriming of them all.
Jack’s chief concern, after being satisfied that neither the lady
nor either of his companions was dead, was for the “Never Say Die,”
which, to tell the truth, was pretty far gone; for not only was her
main board splintered, but one of the runners of “Star of the East” was
nearly twisted off. Nothing was left, therefore, but to convey what
was left home, which was done by the boys ruefully, inasmuch as such
an occupation on Washington’s Birthday seemed the essence of misuse of
time.

Jack, in common with the other boys of the city, was rejoicing in the
consciousness that there would be no school until Monday, this being
only Friday morning. Washington’s Birthday was to be followed by some
civic celebration on the morrow, thus affording them two days of
vacation in succession, with Sunday to boot. But though there was so
much time at his disposal, every minute of it was precious to Jack.
Accordingly, as soon as the “Never Say Die” was reëstablished in the
back yard preliminary to sending her to a carpenter for repairs, the
question arose, what to do during the hour and a half left before
dinner.

To begin with, the three boys sauntered into the grocery on the corner
and were weighed, a process which they were apt to inflict upon its
long-suffering proprietor whenever there was nothing else in particular
to do. For after getting off the scales it was rather pleasant to
wander about the store peering into the barrels, stroking the cat, and
perhaps, when there was a chance, “hooking” a dried apple or a handful
of beans. On this occasion, Bill French stood treat to figs, which he
charged to his father with an audacity that seemed admirable to Jack.
Bill, though the smallest of the three, was their equal in age, and
more than their equal in sly ways; for whereas Jack was full of animal
spirits and very mischievous, and Dubsy (as the boys called him, for no
reason that was ever discovered, his real name being Samuel) Perkins
was not a model of obedience, they were both straightforward boys.
But they looked up to Bill as knowing a thing or two, and accordingly
listened with avidity when, after they had pretty well exhausted the
resources of the shop, he suddenly exclaimed in a confidential whisper,
“I know what let’s do, fellows.”

“What?” they asked together.

Without disclosing his purpose, Bill led the way out of the store,
up the intersecting street, into one parallel with that on which Jack
lived, and up the back stairs of his house into the garret, stopping
on the way at his own room for a minute, from which he reappeared with
some pieces of stick and a box of matches which he exhibited with a
wink to his companions.

“What are they for?” Jack asked.

“I know,” said Dubsy, after an instant.

“Mum’s the word,” answered Bill, putting his finger on his lips.
Thereupon he mounted a short ladder leading to the skylight, pushed
open the skylight, through which he crawled on to the flat, graveled
roof, followed immediately by the others. This was a lark in itself. To
be able to look over the tops of the houses and to discern the harbor
and the forts and the shipping, or to see the horses and people in the
streets below looking pigmy-like, was a genuine treat.

“Swanny!” cried Jack, with a burst of enthusiasm; “I can see Nahant!”

“And there’s Bunker Hill,” said Dubsy, who was looking in another
direction. “The flags are flying everywhere. That’s because it’s
Washington’s Birthday.”

Their attention was suddenly diverted by seeing Bill light a match
under cover of the chimney wall and apply it to one of the pieces of
stick which protruded from his mouth; then he drew in his breath,
puffed, and blew out a little smoke.

“She’s going,” he said, gleefully. “Have a weed?” He pointed to the
other sticks which lay near by.

Jack looked a little awestruck. “What is it?” he asked, “sweet-fern?”
He had, sometimes, while skating on the ponds, seen older boys when it
was dusk flying about with lighted cigarettes in their mouths, which he
had been told were made of sweet-fern.

“No,” said Bill. “Rattan, greeny.”

Jack hated of all things to be considered green. “Oh,” he said,
doubtfully.

Dubsy had already taken one of the sticks and was lighting it.

“It’s bully,” said Bill. “Charley Buck has smoked real cigarettes and
says they’re no better. Don’t be stumped by Dubsy, Jack! How is it,
Dubsy?”

“First rate,” said Dubsy. “But mine doesn’t draw very well, Bill.”

“I’ll fix it all right,” answered the master of ceremonies. Whereupon
he took his knife and worked it a few times in the unlighted end of
Dubsy’s cigarette. “There! try that.”

The operation acted like a charm; Dubsy was enabled to emit a cloud of
smoke which filled Jack’s doubting soul with envy. To be stumped by
Dubsy was more than he could bear, though he felt very sure that his
mother would disapprove of his smoking.

“It’s better’n hay-seed,” said Dubsy, who had seated himself on a ridge
of the roof beside Bill, and was swinging his foot jubilantly.

“I never smoked hay-seed,” replied poor Jack. “Which end do you light?”
he asked defiantly, taking up one of the pieces of rattan.

“It makes no difference,” said Bill. “Bully for you, Jack.”

A moment later they were all three seated side by side, puffing like
little Turks.

“Yesterday was my birthday,” continued Bill. “See what father gave
me.” He drew out of his pocket an open-faced silver watch, which he
exhibited with pride.

“My eye!” exclaimed Jack. “Does it really go?”

“Go? I guess she _does_. You ought to hear her tick at night. Father
says I shall have a hunter when I’m fifteen, and a gold repeater when
I’m twenty-one.”

The other boys were silent with envy.

“My father’s got lots of money,” went on Bill. “He could buy both your
fathers out, I guess, and have a pile left.”

“My father’s dead, you know,” answered Jack.

“So he is; I wasn’t thinking. Well, then, he could buy your mother out.”

“Let’s see the works,” said Dubsy.

Bill opened the inside cover with his thumb nail in response to this
request, and the three heads were immediately in close proximity
studying the internal arrangements of the watch.

“That’s a jewel,” said Bill, indicating a colored spot among the cogs
and wheels.

The heads went lower in mute admiration.

“It isn’t a very big one, anyway,” said Jack, glad of what seemed an
opportunity for criticism.

“There are fourteen, mostly rubies,” replied Bill. “Don’t breathe so
hard, Dubsy. Father says it hurts the works to breathe on them.”

“Wind her up,” cried Jack.

Bill fumbled in his pocket and produced a key. “She’s mostly wound,” he
said. “I wound her last night and again just after breakfast.” One or
two turns was all the watch would stand at the moment without danger to
the mainspring; so this exhibition was unsatisfactory.

“My father has a stem-winder,” said Dubsy, after a moment; “I’ve heard
him say that a watch with a key was more bother than it was worth.”

“I shouldn’t care for one that _wasn’t_ a stem-winder,” said Jack,
stoutly.

“Sour grapes,” said Bill, with a sneer.

“You feel awful big, don’t you, because you’ve got a watch,” retorted
Jack.

“Oh, come off,” said Bill, contemptuously. This was a phrase unfamiliar
to the others, which Bill had picked up in the streets. The interest
awakened by its use induced a pause, during which Jack cooled down.
He did not wish a row, and was conscious of having been unwarrantably
aggressive. But, as he would have said, he was sick of hearing Bill
blow.

Bill, having by this time exhausted the delights of his cigarette, had
taken his knife and split the rattan open down the middle. “That’s
dried blood,” he said, holding out the pieces for inspection.

[Illustration]

The boys looked, and there, sure enough, running down through the pith
was a fine red thread, which resembled very much what Bill said it was.

“Every time one smokes, blood is sucked out of the lungs and collects
like that,” he said.

“How do you know it’s blood?” asked Jack in rather an awestruck voice.

“Charley Buck says so.” This was strong evidence. Charley Buck was
nearly fifteen.

“I was awfully sick the first time I smoked,” went on Bill, but his
words were not regarded by Jack, who was deep in the process of
dividing his own piece of rattan. There the red thread was, just
as in Bill’s piece. His lungs seemed all right, but his head was a
little dizzy; he coughed once or twice and patted his chest without
uncomfortable results; however, he felt grave. What would his mother
say if she knew the truth! He put the pieces of rattan carefully in his
pocket, and recollected that it was dinner time.

Just then Bill exclaimed in a tone in which pity and satisfaction were
blended in about equal proportions, “I guess you’re sick, Dubsy.”

Dubsy was; the poor fellow looked very white and doleful, and was
sitting still. “I feel faint, that’s all,” he answered.

But it wasn’t all; moreover, it was a good quarter of an hour before
Dubsy was able to lift his head from the roof and be helped down the
ladder. Meanwhile, Jack and Bill sat on either side of him and tried to
cheer him up. Bill, who was able to speak from experience, assured them
that the sickness would soon subside, and that he had been much more
miserable after his first smoke. But to tell the truth, Jack and Bill
also, despite his former experiences, felt rather squeamish themselves
and not much inclined to talk. Besides, the remembrance of what he
supposed to be his dried blood haunted Jack’s mind. Altogether, it was,
on the whole, a bad quarter of an hour, as the French say.

CHAPTER II.

THE SNOW-BALL FIGHT.

As soon as Dubsy Perkins felt all right again, Jack and he left Bill
French’s and went home to their dinners. Jack lived alone with his
mother; he was her only child. Her husband had been killed in the Civil
War ten years before, and Jack was all she had in the world to care for
and be proud of except the memory of Jack’s father’s gallant services
as a soldier, which she was never tired of talking about to Jack. His
name had been John Hall, just as Jack’s was, and he had fallen at
the head of the regiment of which he was Colonel, in one of the last
battles of the war, when Jack was a mere baby.

Back of Colonel John Hall was a long line of Halls, running very nearly
into Mayflower times, a good many of them John Halls or, as those who
knew them best called them, Jack Halls, though John is a good name for
any boy or man to be content with and not to wish to change. They were
a hardy, thorough-going set, these Halls, Massachusetts folk who in
Colonial times, when the days were gone by for shooting Indians, tilled
their farms and made sure that their liberties were not interfered with
by King James or King William or King George. When this was impossible
without taking arms, they were equal to the occasion. Israel Hall,
Jack’s great-great-grandfather, was one of the raw recruits composing
the Continental Army over which General Washington assumed command
under the famous old elm at Cambridge. He followed his commander
through thick and thin, became a sergeant, then a captain, was wounded,
but got well in time to be one of those who made the memorable passage
of the Delaware when our army, reduced to a forlorn band of four
thousand, fell upon the Hessians at Trenton, routed them, and plucked
up spirit and hope once more. He was shot dead, however, at the battle
of Brandywine, and, as will be the case with many brave fellows so long
as wars last, left a wife and some wee bits of children to get along as
best they could.

It would take too long to give an account of the lives of Jack’s
ancestors in detail, but you may be interested to learn something of
the career of Israel Hall’s eldest son,――also named John,――who, having
to make his own way in the world, left the family farm and came to
Salem town in search of something to do. Now, at that time Salem was a
famous commercial port, little as one would imagine it to-day. Forty
years later its prestige was usurped and overshadowed by its near
neighbor, Boston, but from 1770 until 1820 the maritime supremacy of
Salem was unquestioned. Prior to the Revolution, the inhabitants of
the town had been noted for their commercial energy, and when war was
declared they fitted out their trading vessels with guns, and built
others to the number of over one hundred, which made great havoc among
the enemy’s commerce in the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay,
so that the rates of insurance went up amazingly among the British
underwriters. The patriotism and enterprise of the old Salem merchants
is a glowing chapter in the history of our country.

But as soon as there was no more fighting to be done, the merchants
turned their fleet of privateers into trading-vessels again, and as
the vessels were too large for mere coasters, sent them out laden with
Spanish dollars to every nook and corner of the Oriental world,――to
Calcutta and Madagascar, and Batavia and Java, and the Celebes, and
all the chain of islands in the Indian Archipelago which you have read
about in your geographies. There the silver freight was exchanged for
pepper, spices, gums, coffee, or other Eastern products, with which
the captains would either return or would bear away to some European
port, like Marseilles, where part of the cargo was sold at a profit,
and its place supplied by wines and silk to be brought home. It was
an adventurous, exciting life for those who sailed; and meanwhile the
owners sat in their counting-houses casting up figures and waiting
for their vessels to arrive. It was often two and even three years
that they had to wait, but the ships came back at last, freighted with
merchandise, which their owners sold to their fellow townspeople at a
snug profit. Or, if by chance the ships were lost and never returned,
the underwriters reimbursed the merchants so that they were able to buy
new ones.

It was into the counting-house of one of these merchants that Jack’s
great-grandfather, John Hall, chanced to stray one morning in search of
employment. Probably the head of the firm liked the looks of the boy
and divined that he would make a sterling sailor; at all events he took
him into his service and sent him on a long voyage in one of his ships,
which turned out very successfully for the merchant, and for John Hall
too, inasmuch as everybody had a pleasant word to say in his behalf.
From this time forward his life was one of marvelous experiences for
many years to come. One thing leads to another when a young man is
efficient. Before he was nineteen John Hall was a mate, and on his
twenty-first birthday he found himself in command of a three hundred
ton ship, which was a large one for those days. If it were his career
I was narrating, it would be easy to keep you awake many hours with
thrilling tales of what happened to him. He fought with pirates, and
had hair-breadth adventures with savage tribes, was twice shipwrecked,
and barely escaped being eaten by cannibals, only to be imprisoned in
a South American dungeon instead. But in the end he passed safely
through his perils, and settled down in Salem for the rest of his days
with seventy-five thousand dollars in hard cash, which was quite as
much as a million is now.

Very possibly some of you may be thinking that you would like to have
lived when a career similar to that of Jack’s great-grandfather was
a natural one for an ambitious boy to follow. But though the glamour
of such adventures as his does make the blood even of those of us
who are grown up tingle as we read, it will not do to shut our eyes
to the truth. We see only the glory and forget the hardships. We
forget, too,――and their many virtues make us forget,――that resolute,
noble fellows as were the men whose enterprise and pluck built up
fortunes for themselves while supplying their country, starved and
draggled by the Revolution, with the necessities and even the luxuries
of life, these old merchant captains and their crews were rough,
ignorant people compared with what some of your fathers are to-day.
They had but little knowledge except of a practical kind acquired by
bitter experience; their one absorbing interest was the accumulation
of money, and, let us say it under our breaths, the standards of
morality by which they did business were not the highest. How could
it be otherwise? The population of the strip of seaboard States which
then composed our country had to begin existence as a nation bankrupt,
and chiefly dependent for its wants on the products of other lands.
Our great-grandfathers were down to hard pan, as the saying is, and
life meant for them a struggle for the means of existence unrelieved
by any but the most homely pleasures and tastes. There were no mills
and factories then to compete with the manufactories of Europe, no
great west with its fields of waving grain and developed mines of gold
and coal and iron, no cotton gin, no splendid libraries and broad
institutions of learning, no railroads, no telegraph. All these were
yet to come, and it is to such men as John Hall that we are indebted
for having laid the foundations of that prosperity which affords to
their descendants opportunities for usefulness and culture such as our
forefathers never dreamed of. Let us admire their courage, grit, and
perseverance; let us applaud their successes and recognize the sterling
virtues by which they won them, but their lot should no more arouse
our envy than should that of those later pioneers in the struggle of
reclaiming our west from the forest and the savage, inspired by whose
adventures as scouts and trappers so many boys have run away from home
and been very sorry afterwards.

We left Jack going home to his dinner, for which he did not feel very
hungry at first. But a fine piece of beefsteak with potatoes and
macaroni, followed by cold rice pudding with bits of cinnamon in it,
of which Jack was especially fond, brought his appetite back again,
so that when he had finished his second plate of pudding, cleaning
the plate with his spoon until it shone, the thought occurred to him
that he would have a third help; but the well-known “Ehu――ehu――ehu”
resounding from the street told him that the fellows were beginning to
collect again, and he started up.

Jack dined in the middle of the day, and his mother had her dinner
at night; but Mrs. Hall made a point of taking her lunch at the same
hour as Jack dined, and after he had finished eating she always tried
to beguile him into sitting still for a while, for he had a tendency,
when anything interesting was in prospect outdoors, to scurry through
his meals and leave the table with his mouth full the instant the last
course had been served. Sometimes he would bolt from his chair as soon
as he had finished his meat, crying,――merely by way of explanation for
his hasty departure,――as he seized his cap and just prior to slamming
the front door, “Don’t want any pudding.” On such occasions his mother
did not always have the heart to detain him.

But this day he dined alone and there was no one to put a check on
his movements, for Mrs. Hall had been called away out of town to see
an old friend who was sick, and would not be back until after Jack’s
bed hour. Deeply as he loved his mother and fond as he was of having
her with him, Jack felt a certain pride in being his own master for
once. As an indemnity for being left alone for the day, he had obtained
permission to order whatever he liked for tea, and to have whomever he
chose among the boys to share it with him. He had already exercised
the second privilege by inviting Dubsy Perkins, Bill French, and Harry
Dale, another of his friends, and it was now necessary to decide upon
the viands before he went out again. This was no easy task, as he had a
number of dainties in mind which ranked very evenly in his estimation.
He felt pretty certain as to one, however. “We’ll have cream cakes,
Hannah,” he said with decision to the maid.

“Very well, Master Jack, I’ll get six; that’ll be one and a half
apiece.”

“How much are _éclairs_?” he asked, presently.

“I don’t know, Master Jack. Your mamma, when she has company, buys
those at the confectioner’s.”

“They’re bully,” he said. “I like the chocolate ones best. I guess,
though, the fellows would rather have cream cakes.”

“Cook has a Washington pie ready.”

“That’s hunky! Mother said that we could have quince jam and raspberry
jam, and――and――I know what we’ll have,” he cried with a wave of his
arm,――“waffles.”

“I don’t know as the cook has a waffle-iron, Master Jack,” answered
Hannah, despondently.

Jack looked downcast a moment. “We had them at Bill French’s, you eat
them with butter and nutmeg,” he said, with a sigh.

“Cook makes those puff cakes very nicely,” said Hannah, who had been
thinking.

Jack clapped his hands. “They’ll do first-rate,” he said. “I guess
that’ll be enough, with the spread bread and butter and some muffins;
don’t you, Hannah?”

“Goodness sakes! yes, Master Jack. If you’re not all sick to-morrow, I
shall be very much mistaken.”

At the mention of sickness Jack was pensive a moment. Then he felt
in his pocket and produced one of the pieces of rattan. “See there,
Hannah, that’s my blood,” he exclaimed.

“Your blood! Mercy on us, what does the child mean?” she added, as she
examined the charred stick.

“It’s dried blood out of my lungs.”

Hannah put the rattan up to her nose, then gave a start. “You don’t
mean to tell me, Master Jack, that you’ve been smoking?”

“What if I have?”

“What will your mamma say?”

“I guess she won’t mind.”

Jack knew that this last statement was not true, but as he intended to
make a clean breast of it to his mother, he felt justified in assuming
a bold front before Hannah.

Hannah shook her head prophetically. “It’s that Bill French, I’ll be
bound; he’s always getting you into some sort of mischief. Hadn’t you
anything better to do than go smoking that nasty stick?”

“I only smoked a little piece,” Jack answered. “Besides, it isn’t a
stick, it’s rattan.”

“I’d just like to get my hand on that Bill French, that’s all,” said
Hannah. “Blood out of your lungs, too! We’ll have you sick abed next,
and your mamma crying her eyes out.”

Jack, as he went out of the house, was conscious that he had not
derived much consolation from Hannah, whose view seemed to confirm the
fearful testimony already in his possession. But on closing the front
door his attention was at once absorbed by what was going on outside.
Some half-dozen boys, including Dubsy Perkins, Bill French, and Harry
Dale, were engaged in building a huge dam. It had grown milder since
morning and was melting fast. Underneath the piles of snow on either
side of the street, the water was beginning to flow rapidly along the
gutters down hill. The boys had selected a spot a hundred yards or so
below Jack’s house, across the way, and had formed a basin by digging
up the snow until they came to the paving. The curbstone constituted
one bank, and the other, or rather the whole remaining bulwark of the
dam, was made of snow piled up and mashed with shovels until it became
firm. While constructing this they had made a temporary dam a few feet
further up, to catch the water; but just as Jack joined them Dubsy cut
a big hole in it, and the accumulated torrent poured with a rush into
the large reservoir. When the smaller dam had emptied itself, they
closed it up again in order to strengthen the resistance of the main
one.

Most of the boys were armed with shovels obtained from home, and they
worked diligently as beavers, building the walls higher and higher
as the water increased in depth. Soon it was necessary to fortify
the curbstone with a layer of snow to prevent an overflow on to the
sidewalk. Every few minutes one of them would test the depth by wading,
and it was not long before the water came up to within half an inch of
the top of Jack’s rubber boots, so that any careless movement on his
part would be sure to let some inside. Their number was rather smaller
than usual, as some of the “crowd” which ordinarily collected in front
of the grocery shop had gone down to the Frog Pond on the Common to
see if there were any “tiddledies,” which, as all Boston boys know,
are cakes of floating ice formed during the first stages of a thaw;
the sport being to jump from one to another, until _terra firma_ is
reached, without tumbling in. This was one of the favorite pastimes of
Jack and his friends. The water of the pond was only deep enough to
give one a thorough ducking, and though whoever was so unskillful or
unlucky as to fall in was sure to be greeted with a jeer of derision,
it may be fairly doubted whether the most miserable participants were
not the boys who went home dry.

But Jack considered himself very well employed as it was. He felt
pretty sure that if there were tiddledies to-day there would be
tiddledies to-morrow, and he was interested in making the dam as high
as his waist, if it were possible. There was such a volume of water in
the basin now that most of their active force was employed in pasting
snow against the back of the lower wall, through which there was a
steady leakage in spite of their best efforts. Two or three of them,
Jack among the number, had already gone in over their boots and wet
their trousers more or less above their knees, so that now they stood
along the sidewalk, or in the street, gazing contentedly into the
enormous pool. Perhaps they realized that there was not much more to be
done, for there began to be some fooling. Bill French introduced it by
dropping a bit of ice down Harry Dale’s back, gliding away in time so
that Harry could not get at him. Harry was just about Bill’s size, but
a little more chunky. He knew that Bill could outrun him, so he nursed
his wrath for the present, and, keeping his eyes open, bided his time.

The spirit of playing tricks upon one another proved contagious, so
that the dam was almost forgotten in the interest of several flights
down street and subsequent tussles. Only Jack and Dubsy still worked
away at the walls now and then, piling fresh snow on top and stopping
the leaks. All of a sudden, as Jack was standing leaning on his shovel
trying to understand how a fine stream of water trickling through the
solid wall of the dam had thus been able to defy his labors, Harry Dale
made a dive at Bill French, who was just behind Jack, and who was off
his guard at the moment. Bill gave a shriek, and, to protect himself,
tried to interpose Jack between his pursuer and himself by seizing Jack
roughly by the shoulders. Jack, who had been already annoyed by Bill
several times, and had contented himself with exclaiming, “Quit your
fooling, Bill,” or, “Let up, Bill,” goaded now by what he supposed
to be a fresh attack, dropped his shovel, seized his tormentor, and
suddenly pulling him forward by a quick movement brought him to his
knees; then picking up a handful of snow he rubbed it freely over
Bill’s face.

“That’s the sort, Jack; give him some more for me,” cried Harry.

Bill, who was struggling with all his might, sprang to his feet the
moment he was let free, and launched himself with rage on Jack’s neck.
In an instant Jack had grappled with him in self-defense. Bill, who was
thoroughly angry and bent on upsetting his adversary, twisted one of
his legs inside of Jack’s, and being lithe and active, though small,
made it incumbent on Jack to exert himself to avoid being thrown. The
pair swayed violently for several moments, then Jack, taking advantage
of a failure of Bill’s to trip him up, retaliated in the same fashion,
and over they went with Bill undermost. They struck against the wall of
the dam, which gave way before them with a slump. Jack, realizing what
the catastrophe promised to be, tore himself by an effort of strength
from Bill’s grasp just in time to avoid more than a severe splashing,
although he fell on his hands and knees, and had a lively scramble
to get away from the deluge which came pouring down upon him as soon
as the flood-gates were removed. But poor Bill, accelerated probably
by the effort which saved Jack, fell with the wall backwards into
the deepest part of the dam, so that his head and the upper portion
of his body were completely submerged. For an instant his struggling
black legs only were visible, then these were drawn under him as he
reappeared head first above the surface, wallowing as he staggered
to his feet. But Bill was doomed to still further discomfiture, for
scarcely had he gained a footing when he slipped and fell sideways
again into the dirty, slushy water, his head this time striking the
curbstone.

The pain of the concussion must have been tolerably smart, but anger
and mortification were sufficient to explain Bill’s facial expression
as he lay on the sidewalk after his companions had dragged him out.
His eyes were shut and his mouth was wide open, but from it at first
no sound issued. It seemed to the others as if the expected bawl were
never coming. But it came at last,――a terribly vociferous cry, preceded
by a noise like the humming of a large top, which increased in volume
until it was a yell,――bursting on them as a thunder storm bursts in
wind and rain after the silence which goes before. “Boo-ooo-ooo!” Then
it seemed as if he would never stop. Jack and the other boys, who were
rather frightened, bent over him with anxious faces, but it was soon
apparent that Bill was more mad than hurt.

“I’m very sorry, Bill; I didn’t mean to send you into the dam,”
protested Jack.

This attempt at consolation only induced a fresh fit of crying on the
part of the victim, which was redoubled when he saw his cap trimmed
with astrachan fished out with a shovel from the bottom of the now
largely depleted dam by Dubsy Perkins.

“It was an accident; Jack didn’t mean to,” said one of the others.

“Served you right for fooling so, Bill,” exclaimed Harry Dale. “We’d
all told you to quit.” Then turning to the rest, Harry said, “He ought
to go home or he’ll catch cold, fellows.”

Bill sulkily allowed himself to be lifted to his feet. He stood
shivering and dripping like a soused pup, sobbing and snuffling, and
eying ruefully his bedraggled cap. “I’ll make you pay for this, Jack
Hall,” he blurted out.

But Jack scarcely heard him, for just at the moment he gave a start,
and shading his eyes with one of his hands gazed intently down the
street.

“Here come the muckers, fellows,” he cried, with excitement.

His companions turned eagerly at his words and looked in the same
direction. Sure enough, a gang of other boys, twenty to twenty-five
in number, had suddenly emerged from a cross street at some little
distance below and was advancing up hill. As the invaders perceived
that they were recognized, they set up a derisive, triumphant yell,
and dashed onward at a rapid dog-trot, preparing snow-balls and waving
sticks.

[Illustration]

“There’s a regular posse,” cried Jack. “Who’ll go and tell the other
fellows?”

“I will,” cried Harry Dale, and suiting the action to the word he
started off to warn their friends, who were running tiddledies.

Meanwhile, Jack and the four other boys, who were all there were, for
Bill French had slipped away to change his clothes, retreated slowly as
their adversaries advanced, Jack having first, with the instinct of
destroying anything that the enemy might find pleasure in, swept away
with his shovel the remaining rampart of the dam. They were outnumbered
for the moment in the proportion of four to one, and though to retire
was ignominious, it seemed necessary under the circumstances. The
vanguard of the invading army now began to discharge their snow-balls,
the shower of which fell slightly short, but served to whet their
ardor. With another cheer and a yell the “muckers” rushed forward,
headed by a powerful-looking butcher’s boy, close by whose side ran the
ragamuffin who earlier in the day had threatened this invasion, and
who could be heard pointing out Jack and Dubsy as special objects of
vengeance.

[Illustration]

“Them’s the chumps, go for ’em!” he cried.

The little band, reluctant to run, wavered and hurled back a volley of
snow-balls, which were returned with vigor. The butcher’s boy was well
known in that quarter of the city as a terror. His balls made solely
with bare hands were hard as ice, and whizzed like bullets. One of them
took Jack in the cheek and stung like mischief, so that the water ran
out of the eye on that side of his face.

“Clean ’em out!” yelled the little instigator.

The consciousness that the protecting alley was close at hand nerved
the boys to hold their ground for a moment longer, and the courage
displayed by them, supplemented by several skillful shots, caused their
opponents to halt and advance more deliberately. Just then there came
flying round the corner Harry Dale, at the head of the detachment of
whom he had gone in search, and whom he had found in the next street
peppering the passers-by in a listless fashion, and only too glad to
come to the succor of their friends.

“To the rescue!” cried Dubsy, waving his arms above his head; and the
reinforcement of a dozen boys swept down upon the combatants.

This sudden turn of affairs was too much for the backers of Joe
Herring,――that was the butcher boy’s name,――who turned and fled
precipitately, although Joe and one or two others stood their
ground manfully and tried to rally them. But the counter cheer was
disheartening to an army with victory in its very grasp. They broke and
ran helter-skelter, followed closely by Jack and his comrades. Jack
kept his eye especially on Joe Herring, whom he longed to pay back for
the blow on his cheek; but even Joe did not wait for the new victors to
get too near, but ran at last. As for the youngster who had been the
guide of the raiders, he had taken to his heels at the earliest sign
of danger, and was among the first to reach the halting-place, where
the rout finally paused, not far above the cross street from which they
had emerged. There they made a stand, while their pursuers, who were
not too flushed with success to be cautious, being still numerically
inferior, drew up at a respectful distance and held a council of war.

These snow-ball fights were of tolerably frequent occurrence between
the boys who lived in Jack’s neighborhood and hordes from other
localities, who were apt to be styled muckers by those whose territory
they invaded. Once or twice every winter skirmishes such as the one now
in progress would develop into battles of some magnitude, enlisting
the services, on one side or the other, of all the youth in that part
of the city. Contests of this kind had traditions to encourage them.
Mr. Warren, of whom you will hear later, who had been the college chum
and dear friend of Jack’s father and was now his mother’s adviser, had
often told Jack of how, in the days long before he and Colonel Hall
were boys, there had been relentless strife between the Round-pointers
and the Nigger-hillers, and the North-enders and the South-enders, and
the Charlestown pigs, so called, which last named, in the language of a
local bard,――

“Put on their wigs,
And over to Boston came,”

only to be routed and driven back without them. Jack delighted in the
accounts of these old contests, and though the names were now changed
he had no difficulty in seeing in the Anderson-Streeters and their
allies, foes no less terrible than the boys with whom his forefathers
had fought.

But it is time to return to the immediate scene of action, where both
sides were beginning to realize that there had as yet been no real
fighting to speak of, merely a feeling of one another’s strength.
Scouts had, apparently, been sent out by the muckers to scour the
country, for recruits were coming in by twos and threes. They were a
motley-looking crew, as compared with Jack and his friends, including
some ragged specimens and several negroes, one of whom, a left-handed
lad nicknamed “Custard” on account of the lightness of his sable, was
unerring in his shots. Cardigans, for the most part, took the place
of overcoats among them, but some wore only tightly buttoned jackets,
and kept warm by kicking their toes against the curb-stones, and
alternately stuffing their hands into their pockets or blowing on
their bare fingers.

From time to time they jeered at and insulted the other army, who, by
their pea jackets and rubber boots, suggested the solidity and dignity
of grenadiers, an impression which was heightened by the silent disdain
with which they received the vituperation showered upon them.

But now the Anderson-Streeters, having accumulated a goodly supply of
ammunition, and being twice the numbers of their opponents, show signs
of an intention to attack. Their pickets edge up gradually on the
sidewalk, more or less sheltered by the trunks of the line of trees
which grow there. Snow-balls begin to fly, and Joe Herring at one
point and Custard at another move forward simultaneously, which is the
signal for a general advance. The grenadiers stand firm without firing
a shot. A perfect hail-storm is showered upon them, which they bear
unflinchingly. A loud yell spreads along the advancing line, and the
flower of all Anderson and Pinckney and Revere streets comes dashing on.

“Now let them have it, fellows!” cries Jack at last, who, with General
Warren’s instruction at Bunker Hill, of which he had recently read,
fresh in mind, has waited to see the whites of the enemy’s eyes before
giving the order.

“That’s the sort!” shouts Dubsy, as the whole volley delivered at short
range goes smashing into the faces of their foes.

It is so deadly a volley that two or three of the muckers clap their
hands to their eyes and cry out with pain; others sputter as they
receive the big hard balls full against their teeth. Several caps are
knocked off and fall into the snow. Jack, with his attention riveted
on Joe Herring, sees, to his delight, his first shot take the leader
squarely in the forehead, so that Joe shakes his head savagely like
an angry bull; yet, putting it down, comes on in butting fashion all
the same, and hitting Jack plump in the stomach nearly sends him over.
Custard, too, apparently is not struck, or at least, if he is, does
not mind it, and though some falter he does not, but with another yell
rushes at the grenadiers. These muckers, though checked for an instant,
have good stuff in them.

“Give it to them again!” cries Jack, who seems to be recognized as the
commanding officer.

This volley is well delivered, too, but the on-comers are too near for
it to have full effect. The balls go over the heads of Joe and Custard
and the other leaders, and before there is time to say Jack Robinson,
the two armies are at close quarters. Joe Herring, with a bound like a
wild-cat, gets his arms round the neck of the first of the grenadiers
in his path, and over they go together, with Joe on top, and rubbing
the snow about his adversary’s neck and ears, to accomplish which to
the best advantage he squats upon the victim’s chest. This is the first
feature in a hand-to-hand scrimmage which is waged for several minutes
without apparent advantage on either side, for Jack and Dubsy and Bill
Dale, who happen to be close together, form quite as formidable a trio
as any opposed to them. The muckers fall before them like nine-pins,
and scurry out of their way. Jack gets his fingers inside the collar of
his original enemy of the morning, and shaking him as a terrier would
shake a mouse, dumps him face downward in a pile of snow and slush.
This does Jack’s heart good. The little wretch blubbers and tries to
use the stick in his hand, which Jack snatches away from him, and with
a proper contempt for so unfair a weapon in a snow-ball fight, sends
flying over the wall of a neighboring yard. Sam Willis and George Bird,
two more of Jack’s set, do yeoman service also at the other end of the
line, driving their opponents back and washing the faces of the fallen
with energy.

As used to happen in encounters of old, when knights and other warriors
contended together, the leaders on either side seem at first to fight
shy of one another. They slaughter the weaker at the outset, making
incursions into the enemy’s line, so that often the two armies are
hopelessly confused. Indeed, Joe Herring and Custard are a hundred
yards apart from Jack and his chief allies, and between them the
rank and file are intermingled higgledy-piggledy. But presently, as
fatigue and lack of pluck begin to tell, the champions find that the
only enemies left worthy of the name are behind them, and by a common
instinct turn and eye one another, while the feebler boys draw off a
little as though waiting for the strife to be settled once and for all
by a battle of the giants.

Jack, at a glance, perceiving that Joe Herring and Custard and one
or two others are between him and the main body of his friends, and
seized by what he feels to be an inspiration of generalship, shouts to
Dubsy and Bill, and Sam Willis and George Bird, who are close beside
him, “Cut them off! cut them off!”

Whereupon Jack springs forward at the head of this detachment, imbued
with the idea, which they all share with him, of raking the enemy’s
vanguard fore and aft before the chief force of the muckers can come
up from behind. Inspirited by the plan, those above, among whom Bill
French appears in dry garments, present a bold front, and with a
shout charge. Joe and Custard, realizing their peril, hesitate for
an instant, while a shower of balls pours in upon them, whether to
break through the rallied array of grenadiers or to seek to rejoin
their friends; but before they can decide they are forced to defend
themselves. There are five of them, just equal in number to their
intervening enemies, who, with gritted teeth, bear down upon them.
Jack again singles out Joe Herring, who, adopting his old tactics,
lowers his head and plunges forward. But Jack does not intend to
have his wind knocked out of him a second time. He meets Joe with an
upper cut of his hand, which, though covered with a mitten, is full
of snow, and, jerking the butcher boy’s head up, grapples with him.
They wrestle fiercely; meanwhile, three of the other muckers, beset
before and behind at the same moment, are rolling on the ground. Only
Custard, with Dubsy hanging about his neck and Bill French and another
boy on his back, still struggles for freedom, shouting energetically
for his friends. They are coming by the score as fast as their legs
will carry them, but not soon enough to save their illustrious leader
from disaster. Three boys eager to leap upon Joe Herring are prevented
only by Jack’s decisive “Leave him to me,” so stand aloof ready to give
succor if it be needed. It is scarcely a fair match. Joe is nearly
a head taller and is a year older; his muscles are like steel, and,
moreover, he has thrashed everybody in the neighborhood who has ever
fought with him. If he can once shake Jack off, he will soon knock
the stuffing out of him. But Jack knows this, too, and having got a
good hold, means to have no fisticuffs if he can help it. He intends
to throw Joe if he can. He hears now, as they pitch from one side to
the other with faces scarcely an inch apart, the yells of the great
body of muckers closing in upon them, and knows that the fight is
being renewed on more even terms. Joe knows it, too, and, breathing
hard, makes one grand effort to swing his antagonist off his feet, so
as to be able to bring terror once more into the general ranks. Jack,
however, is ready for him, and, resisting stubbornly, waits until Joe
relaxes his muscles a little as the great effort proves unsuccessful,
then adroitly twists his leg about the champion’s and throws him. Down
they go together, but Jack uppermost, and――long dreamed-of triumph of
his life――able to secure a seat upon the butcher hero’s chest, and to
stuff his mouth with snow. Joe’s eyes are green as they gaze up at
him, and remind Jack of the cat whose death-throes he once witnessed
after the dogs had left her. This was the simile employed by Jack in
recounting modestly his victory that evening at the tea party.

But victory though it was, it was too short for comfort. Before Jack
has time to rub more than a handful of slush over his victim’s face
and ears, the army of invasion, by dint of numbers, drive back the
grenadiers, disputing every inch of ground, and two big fellows throw
themselves upon him and try to drag him off Joe. Harry Dale is on
top of them in an instant, and straightway a half dozen on each side
precipitate themselves and make a pile, at the bottom of which lies
Joe Herring still gripped by Jack. A fearful tussle ensues; the two
principals are of course practically powerless to move, and feel that
they are well off if able to breathe without difficulty. The legs of
both are firmly grasped by a score of arms, which in turn are kept down
by boys on top whom others seek to tear away from the pile. As fast as
one is pulled off another takes his place; heads, bodies, and limbs are
hopelessly intermingled, and neither party seems to have the best of it.

Just as Jack is wondering whether Joe is alive, because he is lying so
still, and whether he himself will not stifle, a shrill voice on the
outskirts of the fight pipes out, “Cheese it! Cheese it!”

At the words every boy ceases action, those on the pile waiting for
confirmation of the news which the alarm has conveyed, and those erect
following the gaze of the small mucker who has given it, and who is
already preparing to flee down the street. As their eyes perceive at
the street corner the officer in a blue blouse with brass buttons, and
armed with a rattan, advancing upon them at a slightly quickened gait,
a dozen of the urchin’s companions repeat the cry,――“Cheese it! Cheese
it!”

In the twinkling of an eye the pile disintegrates itself; the boys
of either faction get up and begin to scatter, the muckers hastily
and fearfully, the grenadiers more composedly, and yet unequivocally.
Jack and Joe uncovered are free to rise, which they proceed to do at
once without further hostilities. Jack, with his eye on the policeman,
mingles with the band of his friends who, gathered on the opposite
sidewalk to that on which the guardian of the peace is advancing, are
hoping to slip by him without molestation, feeling, perhaps, that
inasmuch as they are on their own territory, and merely defending
themselves against invasion, pardon may not be withheld from them. They
take care to be so far respectful in behavior as to refrain for the
moment from the insulting allusion to a cheese indulged in by their
late adversaries, which, for some reason or other, had come to be the
recognized phrase of warning and insult combined, among the youth of
the city, in referring to the constabulary; its origin――at least Jack
and his friends always supposed so――being connected with the theft,
either real or imagined, at an earlier date, of one of the commodities
in question by a member of the force. They await his coming, grouped
together, with almost an innocent air. On the other hand Joe, the
moment he is free, glances over his shoulder at the representative
of order, puts two fingers in his mouth preliminary to emitting a
piercing whistle, shouts “Cheese it!” at the top of his lungs, and
scoots down the street at full speed to the spot where he had deposited
his butcher’s basket. This regained, he continues his flight at a
more leisurely pace until distance hides him from view. His exodus
is the signal for a general stampede of his followers, who disappear
principally into the cross street by which they had come, pursued with
some swiftness by the officer, galled, perhaps, by their impertinence,
or encouraged by their pusillanimity. Jack and his grenadiers, not
having hoped in vain that the engine of the law would pass them by
unharmed, survey the retreat in complacent silence until the policeman
is comfortably remote, then at a signal raise their voices in a
prolonged, ungenerous, “Cheese it!”

The officer turns and looks back at them angrily, and raises his cane
in so threatening a manner that some of the fainter-hearted start
to run into Jack’s alley-way. But the alarm is short-lived; their
enemy, after an instant’s hesitation, proceeds on his way, reflecting
doubtless on the ingratitude of boys. The snow-ball fight is over, and
ten minutes later the grenadiers separate to their homes.

CHAPTER III.

A DAY OF RECKONING.

Jack’s first thought on reëntering the house was for his tea-party,
so he went into the dining-room, where he found Hannah, to his
satisfaction, already setting the table.

“Got the cream cakes?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Hannah. “Sakes alive, Master Jack, where’ve you
been?”

“Snow-balling. We’ve had an awful fight with the muckers.”

“I guess they gave it to you, then,” replied Hannah, whose sympathies
in the matter of snow-ball fights were not, perhaps, wholly on the side
of her charge, as her home was in the vicinity of Anderson Street.
“You’re wetted from head to foot; go right up-stairs and get off those
things.”

“They didn’t lick us any more than we licked them. I threw Joe Herring,
and they all piled on me, and that’s how we were when the ‘cheese
it’ came,” said Jack. He went to the mirror and examined his cheek,
which was beginning to feel a little swollen where the butcher boy’s
snow-ball had struck it under the eye.

“I guess it won’t be black,” he said, under his breath. “Holloa!” he
exclaimed, as he seated himself on the edge of one of the leather
chairs. “My tails are gone.” By way of explanation he held out his
Scotch cap, from which both the ribbons which ordinarily fluttered in
the breeze had been torn off.

Hannah sighed. “That’s the third time this week,” she said. “Get up
this minute, Master Jack,” she continued vehemently; “you’re ruining
the nice furniture. Your mamma would have a fit if she could see you.”

The cause of this outbreak was that Jack, having plumped himself down
as described, was trying to remove one of his rubber boots by pressing
its heel against the toe of the other. It yielded suddenly, and at the
same time a quantity of loose snow was scattered over the carpet.

“Jiminy!” exclaimed Jack.

“Go right up-stairs the back way this minute. Why, your leg is wet as
sop as high as your knee,” said Hannah.

“The dam was over my boots,” he answered. “We made a bully dam,” he
continued, hobbling toward the door on one leg with his bootless foot
drawn up like a stork.

Hannah followed him up to his room, where she proceeded to pull off
the other boot. It was harder to start than its mate. Accordingly Jack
tipped himself back on the bed so that she could get a purchase with
her foot against the iron frame.

“Golly!” he cried, as a small deluge of water flowed back over him. The
boot stuck like a vise, and came off at last amid a splutter of slosh.
Hannah was breathless.

“Now take off every stitch of clothes, or you shan’t have a bit of
supper this blessed night,” she said with decision, as she turned to go.

Fifteen minutes later Jack sat waiting in the parlor to receive his
friends, looking a pattern of spruceness. His broad white collar was
set off by a cherry tie; he wore knickerbockers, red stockings, and
pumps, and his hair lay smooth and neatly parted. Although he appeared
ordinarily in trousers, his mother still made an exception in favor
of knickerbockers in the case of his Sunday go-to-meeting suit. He had
walked three times round the dining-room table, with his hands in his
pockets, surveying the delicacies, so as to make sure that nothing had
been forgotten, before composing himself. But he had not long to wait;
the bell rang loudly three times in quick succession, and promptly at
the hour set for the feast the three guests and their host took their
seats at table. They all four looked very smiling, and showed no ill
results from the experiences of the day. Bill French, apparently, had
quite forgiven Jack for his ducking, though he took a mild revenge by
observing――“Your eye’ll be black to-morrow.”

“I threw him, any way,” answered Jack, referring, of course, to Joe
Herring.

They talked the fight over in detail, and as they discussed, the good
things disappeared with astonishing rapidity. Nothing was wanting; the
cream cakes were fat fellows, and Jack showed strict impartiality and
skill in dividing the extra two so that each of the company should get
an equal amount of the inside.

Dubsy had received the wishbone of the chicken, which he carefully
picked and held out to Jack to pull with him. “Wish!” he cried.

“I _am_ wishing,” said Jack, after a pause.

The others looked on with interest while the two holders pulled
energetically to tear the forked bone apart. Not being dry, it resisted
their efforts for some moments, but at last broke on Jack’s side
just below the crotch, so that Dubsy retained the larger piece, thus
becoming the winner.

“What did you wish for, Dubsy?” they all asked.

“I wished that it might always be Washington’s Birthday,” said Dubsy
jubilantly.

This seemed to every one an eminently sensible wish, though Harry Dale
qualified it by remarking, “I’d rather have every day Fourth of July.”

“That’s so,” said Bill French. “Father’s promised me a big show of
fireworks, this year.”

“What was your wish, Jack?” asked Dubsy suddenly.

“That’s telling.”

“Of course you ought to tell,” said Harry.

“Not if I lost.”

“It can’t come true, any way,” said Bill French.

“How do you know?” retorted Jack sharply.

“What was it, then?” asked Bill.

Jack hesitated a moment. “I wished,” he said a trifle bashfully, “that
when I grew up there might be a war and I might be a colonel, like my
father.”

The boys followed Jack’s glance at the oil portrait, over the
mantelpiece, of the handsome officer gazing down on them, whose face
and dark hair were not unlike his son’s, and became contemplative.

“_He_ was a soldier, too,” continued Jack, pointing to a portrait
of Israel Hall at the other side of the room. “He was my
great-great-grandfather, and was killed at the battle of Brandywine.”

“Are all these your relations?” asked Harry, indicating the half-dozen
pictures on the walls, among which the strong features of the old Salem
sea-captain looked forth stanchly.

“Yes,” answered Jack. “The others were merchants.”

“That’s what I mean to be when I’m a man,” said Bill French. “And when
I’m rich I mean to have a steam yacht. Father’s going to give me a
cat-boat, this summer.”

By this time they had got to the puff cakes, which proved to be all
that Hannah had predicted. After finishing his third help, Dubsy patted
his stomach complacently and observed that he was full up to the
muzzle, which seemed to be each one’s sentiment as regards himself,
though to tell the truth there was scarcely anything left to eat on the
table.

How to spend the evening was now the problem. For a while a bagatelle
board sufficed for their amusement, but growing weary of that, Bill
French chanced to draw up the window-shade a little and peep outdoors.
It was a fine night, with plenty of stars, but no moon. The other boys
joined him, and all four stood with their noses pressed against the
pane.

“Golly!” exclaimed Jack suddenly, in a delighted whisper, “I know what
we’ll do.” He put his finger to his lips and proceeded to run up-stairs
two steps at a time, but noiselessly as a cat, until he reached his
room. Without needing to light the gas, for he knew the whereabouts of
everything well enough to find it blindfolded, Jack rummaged in his
tool-chest for a piece of chalk and a ball of twine. Then he started
down-stairs again, stopping in the parlor a moment to obtain a sheet
of paper from his mother’s desk. With these implements the four boys,
having put on their overcoats, slipped out the front way and carefully
closed the door behind them.

As soon as they were outside, Jack stooped and with his piece of
chalk drew on the bottom doorstep the outline of an envelope, which
he whitened and whitened within until it stood out so distinctly that
any one opening the door would be certain to be misled. Then he rang
the bell, after which all four glided across the street to hide in the
shadow of the grocer’s shop. Hannah, who answered the bell, stared with
surprise at first, and then perceiving the envelope, as she supposed,
descended the steps to pick it up, but naturally her fingers scratched
against the cold granite. A second time she made the same attempt,
but with no better result. The chuckle which Harry Dale was just then
unable to repress was not necessary, perhaps, to make clear to her that
she was the victim of a practical joke; at any rate, she bounced up
and slammed the door indignantly behind her.

This trick was repeated once or twice at other houses, varied by a
second of a similar character, which consisted in fastening a string
to the real piece of paper and jerking it away on to the sidewalk as
the street-door opened. The unfortunate maid-servant, supposing that
the wind had carried it away, would follow for some little distance the
paper flitting along at intervals, until the truth dawned upon her that
she had to deal with “them boys.”

But the novelty of this mischief wore off after a few experiments, and
the culprits arranged themselves on the sill of the grocer’s large
window, like a row of sparrows, to cogitate as to what they should do
next.

“Let’s smash lamp-posts,” said Dubsy.

“I’ve promised my mother not to any more,” answered Jack sadly.

“Well, I haven’t,” said Bill Dale; whereupon he aimed a snow-ball at
the corner gaslight and let drive. A crash of glass followed, and the
boys ran like deer until they were safe in Jack’s alley-way; from this
they cautiously peeped out after a moment or two, and, no policeman or
other censor being in sight, leisurely sauntered forth again.

“I know what let’s do,” said Bill French suddenly in his confidential
tone. “Give me the string, Jack.” Taking the ball of twine, Bill went
noiselessly across the street and up the steps of the house immediately
opposite, which was occupied by a gentleman who was known to them all
as “Stiffy Bacon.” Mr. Bacon, who was regarded by his contemporaries
as a very worthy person, had thus far been unable to preserve friendly
relations with the boys who congregated at the corner, and who, as a
consequence, delighted in making his life miserable. His house and the
one adjoining fronted on a narrow terrace, some six or eight feet above
the level of the sidewalk, which was approached by a few winding stairs
at either end.

Bill fastened the fine twine around the bell-handle, and letting it
unwind returned to the alley-way with the ball, having established a
taut line across the street at a height which would endanger the hat of
any passer. The street was pretty well deserted at this hour, but the
boys were content to wait with a patience worthy of a better cause.
It must have been five minutes before Jack exclaimed, “I hear some one
coming.”

They listened, and could plainly distinguish footfalls and the
resonance from the ferule of a cane on the opposite side. The person
was coming up-hill, and soon, to their delight, proved to be a man
wearing a silk hat.

“Now’s your time,” said Jack to Bill, who had hold of the string.

Bill accordingly pulled the bell and adjusted the line to what seemed
the proper height. The mischief-makers were rewarded by perceiving the
door open and the gentleman, who was walking rather fast, come abreast
of the twine at precisely the same moment, a consummation for which
they had fondly hoped. The unwary pedestrian was brought up short;
his silk hat flew off and striking upon the bricks with a hollow thud
bumped along the street; while the other, who happened by chance to be
no one less than Stiffy Bacon himself, encountering only empty space
and then hearing the mutterings of surprise and indignation below,
stepped forward and peered over the railing. There was a gas lamp a
hundred and fifty yards away which enabled Mr. Bacon, as he thought, to
distinguish the disaster and to divine the cause.

“What do you mean, sir, by ringing at my bell at this hour in that
condition?” he asked angrily.

“What do _you_ mean, sir, by obstructing the highway in such an
outrageous manner?” retorted the stranger, who, having picked up his
hat, was endeavoring to smooth its nap against his coat-sleeve.

“You are intoxicated, sir,” replied Stiffy Bacon.

“How dare you insult a gentleman in such a fashion; you are an insolent
scoundrel, sir! I will enter a complaint against you in the morning for
obstructing the highway and for defamation of character,――yes, sir, for
defamation of character.”

The unfortunate stranger, who drew himself up to his full height as
he delivered this speech, had such an air of injured respectability
and spoke with so much assurance that Mr. Bacon, although very angry,
peered forward a little further and exclaimed, “I obstructing the
highway? Explain yourself.”

“What do you call this, I should like to know, but obstructing the
highway?” replied the victim, pawing the air in search of the twine
which Bill, immediately after the catastrophe, had let drop so that it
lay along the sidewalk. “Fastening a rope across the street to cut the
throats of honest folk at night is akin to manslaughter. Ah, here it
is.”

He picked up the string at his feet, and, perceiving that it dangled
down from the terrace, shook it indignantly at his insulter. “There,
sir, what do you think of that?”

Apprised by the rubbing of the string against his leg that something
was wrong, Mr. Bacon glanced around him and in an instant realized the
situation.

“My dear sir,” Mr. Bacon protested, “you will excuse me. This is none
of my doing; it is the work of some bad boys who are a torment to this
neighborhood.”

“They ought to be arrested; I’d make short work of them if I lived
here,” said the gentleman, brandishing his cane. “Another time, sir,
perhaps you will be more careful as to the aspersions which you cast on
respectable people. Good-evening, sir.” Whereupon the stranger stalked
away at his previous rapid gait.

Meanwhile, the boys had been squatting still as mice in the dark
alley, almost afraid to breathe for fear of giving any indication as
to their whereabouts. The affair had exceeded in dramatic effect their
wildest anticipations, and there had been moments, especially when the
stranger had brandished his stick, during which they had felt a common
impulse to run into the house. But now that they had only Stiffy Bacon
to concern themselves about, terrible as he was, a feeling of relief
so far took possession of them, that the irrepressible Harry Dale,
unable to contain himself longer, chuckled again. Mr. Bacon, who had
stooped to examine the arrangement of the device by which he had been
victimized, caught the sound, and, turning in their direction, shook
his fist and exclaimed, “You young rascals, you!”

At these strenuous words, which were delivered in what seemed to them
a tone of terrible wrath, the young evil-doers turned and fled with
precipitation up the alley, save Jack, who lingered for an instant
to pick up the ball of twine and pull the line as taut as possible
with all his might. He could hear the jangling of the bell as he
followed the footsteps of his companions, who ran through the back
yard into the house again. From the windows of the dining-room the
four peeped once more into the street, but all was still. Stiffy Bacon
had apparently retired to his lair. After watching a sufficient time
to make sure that the enemy was not lying in wait for them, Jack’s
visitors ventured to take leave of their host, as it was now half-past
nine, and in fifteen minutes more Jack himself was sound asleep.

An hour later, Mrs. Hall returned home. Stepping into the laundry, as
was her custom every night before going to bed, to make sure that all
was safe from fire, she saw Jack’s mittens and pea-jacket hanging up to
dry, and smiled to herself as she thought of the happy day he must have
passed. Hannah, who would sooner have cut off her right hand than have
got Jack into trouble, had already reported to her mistress that the
tea party had been a great success, and smothered her own resentment
at having been made to scratch her finger-nails on the stone step.
Before entering her chamber, Mrs. Hall went into Jack’s room, and,
bending over the little iron bedstead, stood watching for some minutes
his peaceful, regular breathing. “Dear boy!” she murmured, “what
should I do without him?” She stooped and kissed his soft cheek, which
unexpectedly aroused him.

[Illustration]

“Is that you, mother?” he asked.

“Yes, dear; good-night.”

“But I’m not asleep; you mustn’t go.” He rubbed his eyes and sat up in
bed.

“It’s late, dear; lie down again. Have you had a happy holiday?”

“Bully, mother; sit down, I want to tell you about it. You _shall_
stay,” said Jack, putting his arm about her neck and drawing her cheek
against his own.

“You shall tell me all about it in the morning.”

“No; now, mother.”

“Well, dear?”

Jack was silent a moment. “I smoked to-day,” he blurted out.

“Smoked?”

“Yes; it wasn’t tobacco, it was rattan. Dubsy and Bill French smoked
too. Dubsy was sick afterwards; I wasn’t sick, but I felt queer.”

“Why, how came you to do that, Jack? You must have known that it was
wrong.”

Jack said nothing, but played with his mother’s hand.

“Didn’t you, dear?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Who put such an idea into your head?” she asked.

“Bill French. I guess he smokes lots; we went on top of his house, so
that no one could see us.”

“You forget, my dear, that God saw you,” said his mother.

Jack was pensive a moment. “And Washington?” he asked.

“Sh!” Mrs. Hall was a little doubtful how to take this observation.

“Do you suppose,” Jack went on after a moment, “that he knows his
birthday is a holiday?”

“I think very likely, dear.”

Jack was again silent. “Mother?”

“Well?”

“Bill French says that when you smoke rattan the blood is sucked out of
your lungs; do you believe it’s true?”

Mrs. Hall started a little, but a moment’s reflection enabled her to
answer composedly, “No, dear, certainly not; such a thing would be
impossible.”

“He showed us the dried blood in the rattan, afterwards.”

“Nonsense, dear. Bill French was trying to make sport of you.”

“Charley Buck told him so.”

“Charley Buck ought to know better, then. Charley is too old to tell
such foolish things to little boys. What he says about the blood isn’t
true; but it would make me very unhappy to have you smoke, Jack, until
you are a man. It’s a very bad habit for a boy to get into, no matter
what he smokes, rattan or anything else. But I’m very glad you told me,
Jack. If you had concealed it from me and I had found it out, I should
have been very unhappy.”

“I didn’t want to go to sleep until I’d told you,” answered Jack,
drawing her cheek closer to his own.

“You will promise me not to smoke again?”

Jack promised, and then laid himself down again perfectly happy, still
clasping his mother’s hand, which she did not withdraw until he had
returned to the land of dreams.

But while Mrs. Hall was dressing in the morning, Hannah brought word
that Jack had waked up covered with a rash, and that he complained of a
headache. The doctor was hastily sent for, but on his arrival the fears
of anything serious were promptly dispelled by the announcement that
Jack had a thorough case of measles. The loss of the holiday outdoors
seemed to be very nearly made up to the invalid himself by the news
that he could not be able to return to school for a fortnight at least;
and his mother, who sat beside his bed for a while after the doctor had
gone, was on the point of leaving him with a comparatively light heart
to his own devices, when word was brought her that Mr. Briggs, the
grocer, was down-stairs and would like to see her.

“He has probably come to explain why his last supply of coffee is so
much poorer than I have usually had,” said Mrs. Hall to herself.

But Mr. Briggs had come for a very different purpose. He looked very
grave and a little embarrassed as she entered the sitting-room into
which he had been shown. He was a tall and rather thin man, with a
worried expression, which became intensified as he proceeded to explain
the reason of his visit. “I’ve come, ma’am, to say that something must
be done about that boy of yours. I’ve stood it a good many years,
ma’am, and my patience is pretty much exhausted, I’m free to confess.”

Mrs. Hall colored violently. “Are you speaking of Jack, Mr. Briggs?”

“Yes, ma’am. If I may be so bold, he’s a very troublesome young
gentleman, and there’s plenty in the neighborhood who think as I do,”
he said respectfully.

“Sit down, Mr. Briggs; what has he been doing now?”

“You know it ain’t the first time I’ve had to complain,” he remarked
apologetically.

Mrs. Hall bowed coldly.

“If it isn’t one thing it’s another,” he continued. “I’m willing to
put up with their coming into the shop and purloining beans and dried
apples and figs which they don’t pay for, knowing as boys is boys; but
when it comes to”――

“What! you don’t mean to tell me that my son takes things from your
store which he doesn’t pay for!” interrupted Mrs. Hall, in a horrified
tone. “Why, that would be stealing.”

“Yes, ma’am, strictly speaking, I suppose it would,” replied the
grocer, with a judicial air. “But as I was telling you, I’m willing to
say nothing about that for the sake of your custom, provided as no more
snow is fired into my cellar. The basket into which the baker drops the
rolls for my customers is so wet every morning that they’re mostly
spoiled, to say nothing of the dents in the door from the snow-balls
and stones which don’t go in. I only want to be reasonable, or I’d send
in a bill for my wheelbarrow which some of them broke last week by
upsetting it down the area steps. I’ve told you most of this before,
ma’am,” he continued, after a pause, “and you’ve promised to speak to
your son.”

“I have spoken, Mr. Briggs. I have cautioned him particularly to let
your wheelbarrow alone, and not to fire snow-balls at your door. But
this stealing is a more serious affair, and shall be put a stop to at
once.”

“It isn’t the stealing that I care about,” replied Mr. Briggs dryly.
“But if I have to put the matter in the hands of the police, as I’ve
made up my mind to do if my cellar ain’t let alone, I can’t answer for
what’ll happen. I’ve put up with their tricks as long as I can.”

“What makes you think that Jack is still concerned in this mischief?”
asked Mrs. Hall. “I assure you that I have told him repeatedly that he
is not to molest you.”

“It doesn’t seem to make much difference, ma’am, then, for my clerk
see him with his own eyes shy two snow-balls at the door only yesterday
morning, and one of them went through. Besides, he’s a sort of leader
of mischief hereabouts. He and the Perkins boy and the Honorable
Horatio French’s youngest son are up to all sorts of pranks, and it’s
hard to say which of them is the worst.”

Mrs. Hall sighed and looked sad. She said presently, “I will make a
point this time of seeing that Jack avoids your premises, Mr. Briggs,
and if you will send in a bill covering whatever he has taken from your
store, and the cost of a new wheelbarrow, I will pay it.”

“Thank you, ma’am; I should never think of doing that.”

“I insist,” said Mrs. Hall decidedly. She felt fairly ready to cry at
Jack’s depravity.

“Then I shall consider that from this time forth there will be a
change,” said Mr. Briggs, rising. “It’s the last time I shall speak,”
he added, as he stood with his hat in both his hands, evidently feeling
it his duty to be explicit.

“Very well, Mr. Briggs. Let me say that at present there will be no
occasion for you to trouble yourself, so far as――as Jack is concerned,
for he has the measles.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, ma’am; he must have been took sudden.”

“This morning.”

“Well, I hope he’ll get well soon. I bear no malice, ma’am, I hope
you’ll believe, and if it weren’t that I thought him a smart, likely
lad, I should have spoken to the police long since. Good morning,
ma’am.”

“Good morning, Mr. Briggs. Oh, one moment. The last coffee you sent
was very poor,” she said, unable to forego this opportunity to put the
worthy grocer a little in the wrong.

“Very well, ma’am; I will take it back and send you some more.”

When she was alone, Mrs. Hall wiped her eyes, which were full of tears.
The idea of Jack’s taking what did not belong to him! Honesty was
honesty, no matter whether it were a question of dried apples or of
diamonds, and the boy who got into the habit of thinking trifles of no
importance would soon degenerate. Then, too, how often she had warned
him not to interfere with Mr. Briggs! That hole in the area door had
been a constant source of trouble ever since Jack had been able to fire
a snow-ball. What with catapults and bean blowers in addition, which
were the engines of assault when the snow was gone, poor Mr. Briggs had
ample cause to complain. It was evident that he had been goaded to a
point where he would take desperate measures unless something were done
to restrain effectually his tormentors.

This was by no means the first occasion, as Mr. Briggs had seen fit to
remind her, that she had been called to account for Jack’s mischievous
behavior; but somehow or other she had flattered herself from time to
time that the grocer was crabbed and prone to fault-finding, and that
her son’s high spirits would moderate themselves as he learned more
clearly to recognize the rights of others. But of late it had seemed
to her that instead of improving, Jack was growing steadily worse.
Rumors of his ill-doings reached her ears from various sources, and
even Hannah had given her to understand that he had been alluded to in
neighboring kitchens as little inferior, in capacity for wickedness,
to a fiend. His clothes, alternately soaking wet, stiff with mud, or
full of rents, bore silent but eloquent testimony to the recklessness
of his conduct. She felt that she did not, of course, mind the mere
rough usage, though it entailed perpetually washing and mending; that
was to be expected, perhaps, of an active boy; but his constant return
home in a draggled condition made her anxious as to the character of
his amusements. He was perpetually in the company of Bill French, whose
family, though rich, were new-comers in that part of the city, and
to whose society she would have liked to see him less devoted. This
incident of rattan-smoking was another piece of testimony to confirm
her opinion that Bill was an undesirable crony for Jack. Dubsy Perkins
and Harry Dale seemed to her less objectionable, especially Harry, who
was a quieter and more thoughtful-looking boy than most of the others
who made a playground of Mr. Briggs’ corner. As for Dubsy, he imitated
Jack in everything, applauding all he did, and trying his best to keep
up with or even surpass him in whatever was proposed.

Little by little, it had come over Mrs. Hall of late that the best
thing for Jack would be to send him to some school away from home.
The growing city seemed no place for a high-spirited boy, for whatever
he did was pretty sure to be mischief or against the law. Time was
when the Common had been an ample play-ground, but the crews of
children which crowded it now, to the annoyance and even peril of adult
persons, had induced the municipal authorities to consider whether
the population had not become so large as to make it imperative to
forbid ball-playing and other healthy sports to go on there. One strong
argument in favor of the proposed restriction was that the playground
was usurped by youths of seventeen and upwards, large and powerful as
men, who kept away the smaller boys. For a time the vacant lots on
the outskirts of the city had become favorite resorts, but these were
rapidly being occupied by houses. Only the streets were left, and boys
who tried to play there were involved in an incessant warfare with the
police. To keep Jack indoors was impossible, and she reasoned that if
the natural outlets for youthful energy were obstructed, others of an
unwholesome kind would be found by him. Nothing disturbed her more
than the thought of Jack becoming old before his time, one of the
knowing little gentlemen of fifteen, who sauntered about the streets in
standing collars and kid gloves with an eye to the girls. She wished to
see Jack remain an unsophisticated manly boy as long as possible, and
she feared that another year of city life might bring about a change in
him far more to be deplored than any amount of mischievousness.

But the thought of parting with him was unbearable. He was her idol
and the delight of her existence. At present he was under her eye, at
least for a part of the time, and could not go very far wrong without
her perceiving it. Would it be possible to find a school in the country
where, in addition to the advantages of a natural boyish development,
Jack would find also the watchful care of a home? There were, she knew,
academies――some of them large ones――to which certain of her friends
had sent their boys, but she had derived the impression that at them
excellence in instruction was the chief consideration, and that the
masters were not expected to concern themselves with the morals of
the pupils――many of whom were day-scholars who lived in adjoining
towns――outside of the class-room, unless any boy became conspicuously
disreputable. She had discussed the matter somewhat with her adviser,
Mr. Warren, who agreed with her that Jack would be better off away
from the bricks and mortar, and who promised to make inquiries as to
where it was advisable to send him. He had further made her understand
that the question had only latterly been forced upon the attention
of parents by the growth of our cities. Hitherto there had been, and
there was still in the smaller places, facilities for children to
play naturally and yet to go to school at home. Our system of free
education, which dated from noble John Winthrop’s time, had properly
been our boast, and we had, accordingly, always rather regarded it
as superior to the English system of large public schools away from
the cities, without perceiving that it might not always suffice for
our needs. Home training was, doubtless, the key to many virtues, but
there was unquestionably a more preponderating danger to be feared, to
the growth of the muscles, and to the action of the liver, lungs, and
heart, and, most important of all, to the character itself, in the
cramped, unwholesome life which a boy is in danger of leading who goes
to school in a large city.

There was another point of which Mrs. Hall had thought in this
connection. She knew that her husband had been very anxious that his
son should grow up an American, without false notions of equality, and
with pride and faith in his country. It had been his intention to send
Jack to the public schools so that he might mix early with all sorts of
boys. And yet she could remember hearing him remark shortly before he
went to the war, that it might well be a question how far, to insure
this, one would be justified in subjecting a child to the companionship
of rough or vicious boys. Since then she had discussed the matter with
Mr. Warren from this point of view. She was far from wealthy, but she
could afford to pay a reasonable sum for Jack’s tuition. Would sending
him to a school to which the mass of boys were not well enough off to
go tend to foster in him undemocratic notions? As her adviser explained
to her, it would be folly to assume that because free education was
open to all for the sake of the poor, all were obliged to take
advantage of it in order not to be regarded as aristocrats. As well say
that a man was no lover of republicanism because he lived in a more
expensive house than his neighbor.

CHAPTER IV.

JACK GOES TO UTOPIA.

Mrs. Hall’s reflections concerning Jack were interrupted by the sound
of the door-bell. A moment later Hannah ushered in a no less formidable
personage than Mr. Bacon. A call at so early an hour was not likely to
be merely social Mrs. Hall well knew, and she began to ask herself what
Jack had done now, as her visitor made some observations on the weather
before proceeding to explain the real object of his coming.

[Illustration: MR. BACON WAS CEREMONIOUS IN HIS GENERAL DEPORTMENT.]

Mr. Bacon was ceremonious in his general deportment, especially toward
ladies. Indeed, his erectness, spruceness, and general starched effect,
combined with his austerity toward the boys of the neighborhood,
had won for him his nickname. Mrs. Hall had a bowing acquaintance
with him, but there was none of that familiarity between them which
encourages the friendly discussion of a serious affair. Mr. Bacon
announced in well chosen language that his patience (like Mr. Briggs’)
was exhausted. He had been badgered, so he phrased it, long enough.
Only the night before a party of boys, of which, presumably, Master
Hall was one, for the reason that they had concealed themselves in
Mrs. Hall’s alley-way, and had sought shelter in Mrs. Hall’s house,
had made a barrier across the street with a piece of twine fastened
to his door-bell at such a height as to imperil the eyesight, to say
nothing of the hats, of the passers. This sort of thing could not go
on. He had endured, with forbearance, having his windows smashed by the
careless and sometimes deliberate discharge of various missiles, having
his doorsteps dirtied by muddy feet, his wife’s pet cat tormented, and
himself insulted by offensive epithets, hoping that parental authority
might interfere. But it seemed to him as if matters were getting worse
every day instead of better. To apply to the police to protect him and
his household against his neighbors’ children was a step from which he
shrank, yet something must be done. For some reason or other the boys
appeared to pitch invariably on him as a victim on whom to practice
their pranks, though he was not conscious of having deserved their
hostility. Would not Mrs. Hall remonstrate seriously with her son, whom
he had reason to believe to be more or less of a ringleader among them?

Mrs. Hall, who had listened with pain and mortification to this account
of Jack’s wrong conduct, was too much of a fond mother not to take
advantage of Stiffy Bacon’s reference to the fact that he had been
especially selected to play tricks upon.

“Of course, Mr. Bacon, Jack has behaved very badly, and you must not
think for a moment that I wish to justify his actions,” she said; “but
boys will be boys, and may it not be that if you were a little better
disposed toward them they might not be so troublesome? Their annoyance
of you is indefensible, I know, still, as you yourself say, they seem
to single you out especially to play tricks upon.”

Mr. Bacon colored violently. “I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Hall,”
he answered. “I pride myself that my treatment of the boys who
congregate in this street has been most considerate and lenient. The
fact is, madam, I am afraid you do not appreciate what nuisances they
have become. If it be true that I have unwittingly incurred your son’s
ill will, I can scarcely be held responsible for the constant vexation
they occasion the worthy tradesman opposite by their mischievous
behavior; scarcely a day passes without some cause for complaint on his
part.”

It was now Mrs. Hall’s turn to blush, but she answered, a little
warmly, “I think that Mr. Briggs is quite able to fight his own
battles, Mr. Bacon. As to Jack, I shall most certainly forbid him to
go upon your premises in future. There will be no chance of it at
present,” she added, rising, “as he has the measles.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Bacon. “Very sorry to hear it, I’m sure. It is not a
serious disease, I believe.”

“I believe not,” she answered coldly, and so they parted. But there was
further mortification in store for Mrs. Hall.

Ten minutes later Hannah, in an awe-struck tone, informed her that
there was a policeman in the front entry. It occurred to her at once
that Mr. Briggs had repented of his leniency and sought protection from
the law without waiting for another breach of it. The sight of the tall
officer in the blue coat and brass buttons, with a number shining on
his breast, filled her with dismay. At least he would have to wait
until Jack was well before he carried him off to court.

“The captain has sent me to say, ma’am, that this breaking of lamps
must come to an end. There’s been sixteen smashed at the corner here in
the last month,” he began.

“Do you mean that he suspects my boy of being concerned in it?” asked
Mrs. Hall, as he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“Boys did it, ma’am; or rather snow-balls fired by boys, and I guess
what your son don’t know about it ain’t worth knowing,” replied the
officer confidently.

“I feel sure that Jack has not broken any for――eh――a week,” she
faltered. “At least he promised me faithfully that he would not, and I
never knew him not to keep his word.”

“Can’t pretend to say who did it,” he said. “If I’d seen it done while
I was on the beat, there’d been an end to it mighty quick; they take
precious good care to wait until I’m not round. All I’m saying is,
some one did it, and that some one is boys; and, what’s more, there’s
got to be an end of it, or there’ll be trouble. I’ve tried to be easy
with them, but it’s no use; the more I overlook the saucier they get,
and it’s about time to cry halt. My instructions, ma’am, are, to make
arrests, if another lamp is broken.”

“But you can’t arrest a boy if he is innocent,” exclaimed Mrs. Hall,
who was becoming alarmed.

“I guess there ain’t much danger of my making any serious mistakes,”
said the officer, with a grin. “I’ve been on this beat for the last
four years, and I know pretty well by this time who’s innocent and
who’s not.”

“The boys all appreciate how lenient you have been with them,” she
said, hoping, perhaps, to mollify him by flattery. “They quite look
upon you as a friend.”

“Maybe it would have been better if I’d been strict with them from the
first. There’s no trusting them; the moment my back’s turned they’re
making faces at me or shouting after me,” he said, somewhat bitterly,
evidently reflecting on his experience of the previous afternoon.
“There ain’t much gratitude in boys if you come to reflect upon it;
leastways, I ain’t found much so far. Well, ma’am, I bid you good
morning,” he added. “A warning’s a warning, and that’s all there is
about it.”

“If there are any lamps broken during the next fortnight,” Mrs. Hall
hastened to say, as the officer turned to go, “it won’t be Jack’s
fault, for he has the measles.”

“Sho! Has he though? Want to know!” he said slowly, by way of comment,
pausing between the phrases. “Well, ’tain’t as bad as scarlet fever. I
hate to see boys sick, though. _Good_ day, madam.”

That afternoon Mrs. Hall put on her bonnet and went down town to call
on Mr. Warren, whom she always consulted when she wished advice. She
told the lawyer briefly, in rather a despairing tone, all that had come
to her ears during the morning, and ended by saying that if a good
school could be found outside the city, Jack must be sent to it, even
if her heart were broken as a consequence. Her heart was certain to be
broken if he remained at home.

Mr. Warren listened to her patiently, and when she had finished took a
letter from his desk which he handed to her.

“You see I have been making inquiries,” he observed, as he watched her
read. “Schools of this sort are cropping up all over the country. You
have no idea how many there are until you begin to investigate. But I
am told that this is one of the best.”

“Utopia School. What a curious name!” said Mrs. Hall, musingly.

“It suggests progress and hope.”

“Decidedly. But I don’t care to have any experiments tried on Jack.”

“Not even if he turns out a fine manly fellow as a result of them?”
asked her friend, with a laugh. “But you need have no fear that there
is anything unduly visionary in the curriculum of Dr. Meredith, my dear
Mrs. Hall. Those who know him best say that his aim is merely to turn
out his pupils, at the end of their course, gentlemen and scholars.”

“John Meredith. That is an attractive name; how old is he?”

“A young man, but then remember we have faith in young men in this
country. Between thirty-five and forty, I should say. By the way, he
is neither a clergyman nor a doctor; his Dr. means simply that he has
taken the University degree of Ph. D.”

“The school was founded eight years ago, I see,” she said, referring to
a prospectus inclosed in the letter.

“Yes,” he answered; “it started with twenty-five pupils and has now
about two hundred, who represent nearly every State in the Union. It
was founded by individual enterprise and generosity; half a dozen
wealthy men, who, very likely, were as puzzled what to do with their
sons as you are with Jack, put their heads together at the suggestion
of this young Meredith, who felt that he had ideas on the subject, and
subscribed the money to build a tasteful schoolhouse, with dormitories
for the boys, and a wing for the master’s own use, all under a
single roof. And now, not ten years later,”――Mr. Warren reached out
his hand for the prospectus, which he perused an instant to refresh
his memory,――“yes, here it is, now there are three new dormitories,
each adapted to house sixty boys, a schoolhouse where the lessons
are recited, which includes a fine library as well, a chapel, and a
gymnasium, all forming a large quadrangle. Within the quadrangle is
a foot-ball ground and a base-ball ground, and around the foot-ball
ground is a running track. Outside there appear to be lawn-tennis
courts, and not more than a quarter of a mile away, a lake a mile and
a half long and a quarter of a mile wide, on the banks of which is a
boat-house. Add to this picturesque country surroundings, good food,
and the personal supervision of the masters over the morals and health
of each boy,――you will notice that point insisted upon,――and it seems
to me that you have a paradise.”

“I could go and see him occasionally?”

“As often as you please, I imagine. Five or six hours in the train
would bring you to him or him to you at any time.”

“But I shall miss him so much, Mr. Warren. In England it is a matter of
course to send boys away from home, and the parents don’t seem to mind
it; but we are more like the French, we cannot bear to be separated
from our children.”

“I remember,” replied Mr. Warren reflectively, “being told by a
young man who had been a pupil at one of the large English public
schools,――Eton, or Harrow, or Rugby, I forget which,――that whereas
his parents, who were then living in London, came to see him a number
of times in the course of the year, it was unusual for the rest of
the boys to receive a visit from a relation from one end of a term
to another. English fathers and mothers like to affect not to have
feelings, on the theory that the display of emotion and affection tends
to make boys unmanly. They would consider one who wept on parting with
his mother rather a milksop, I imagine; and on the same principle they
consider it better discipline to keep away during term time. But we
have no such theory as yet, Mrs. Hall.”

“I should hope not,” she replied. “I should feel very badly if Jack
didn’t shed a few tears on parting with me. As for myself, I can’t
say what I might not do in my despair. I suppose that I must bring
myself to it, Mr. Warren,” she added. “You feel sure that Jack will be
well looked after? He needs personal influence; all the floggings and
punishment in the world wouldn’t do him any good. What he requires is
to have his mind awakened to the fact that there are more important
matters in life than snow-balling and coasting and base-ball, and
to recognize that he owes something to others. At present he seems
to think that if the whim seizes him he is justified in playing the
most disagreeable tricks on people, even to the extent of ignoring the
rights of property, if Mr. Briggs is to be believed. While remaining
the manly, earnest boy that he is in many ways, I wish to see him
become more thoughtful and considerate. Do you think Utopia School will
produce those results?”

“So I am assured. We have no very old schools of the sort in this
country, therefore the testimony must needs be imperfect as to their
value. But, as that letter informs you, Dr. Meredith’s first aim is
that his pupils should be, at graduation, high-minded youths.”

“I suppose I must consent to it,” murmured Mrs. Hall presently, and so
her resolution was taken.

Correspondence was at once opened with Dr. Meredith, who suggested that
Jack should come to him after the Easter recess, as there happened to
be a vacancy in the school. Before this time Jack had recovered from
his illness, though he looked somewhat pale and thin. His mother did
not inform him of her intention to send him away from home until
about a fortnight before he was to go. Jack manifested, on hearing the
news, unmitigated satisfaction, but as the day drew near which was to
separate him from his mother, he became very quiet and unlike his usual
self. He sat beside her in the evenings, his shock of dark hair nestled
upon her breast, while she gave him counsel as to what he must be sure
to do and not to do when he no longer had her to watch over him. She
made him promise to study well and to obey his new master, and he would
listen in thoughtful silence to her instructions as to keeping his
clothes neat, and not forgetting to say his prayers morning and night,
and sometimes to read his little Bible, her gift on his tenth birthday.
“And whatever you do, Jack, remember, always speak the truth and never
do anything mean.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Your father had a horror of falsehood above everything else; he used
to say that he had no patience with a lie. Ah, how I shall miss you, my
dear little man! You will not forget me, will you, Jack?”

Forget her! Then was the moment for him to fling his arms about his
mother’s neck, and kissing her again and again, vow that he would
be miserable away from her, and that he would far rather stay at
home,――which whole-souled protestations sounded sweet in the poor
widow’s ears, and helped to ease the pang of parting.

Both she and Hannah were kept very busy in getting his wardrobe ready.
There were new sets of shirts and stockings to be bought and marked,
and the old things had to be darned and generally put in order. He was
pleased beyond measure by the purchase of a leather trunk, stamped
with his initials, to carry his belongings, which were numerous, and
would have filled two or three trunks had he been permitted to carry
them all. It was difficult for Jack to decide what to leave behind;
everything was dear to him, from his discarded rocking-horse with
its moth-eaten hide to his latest treasure, a small engine, which
was operated by steam, and which he had bought by saving up his
pocket-money. His room was full of toys: there were tin soldiers and
forts in the defense of which to employ them, a splendid tool-chest, a
theatre, a magic-lantern, and an assortment of marbles, shuttlecocks,
bats, and balls, the accumulations of his childhood. He persuaded his
mother to let him take the engine, but he was compelled to see most of
the other things, which Hannah stigmatized as truck, put away to await
his return. An exception was made in favor of his favorite base-ball
bat, which he was to carry in his hand, a few tools, the shuttlecocks,
and his bag of marbles, all of which would take up but little room, and
which would be useful to him at Utopia.

Outside the house, the news of his proposed departure had aroused
great interest among his companions, who one and all expressed their
envy of what they considered his great good-fortune. Dubsy Perkins was
inconsolable, and Bill French announced an intention of persuading his
father to let him follow Jack in the autumn. Even Mr. Briggs, when Jack
for the fourth time in three days went into the grocer’s store to be
weighed, remarked, with a commendable degree of warmth, considering
their relations toward one another, “I hear we’re to lose you soon,
Master Hall.”

“Yes, I’m going to boarding-school, where there are two hundred boys,
next week,” replied Jack proudly.

“I want to know,” responded the grocer, and he added a moment later, by
way of expressing his interest or gratitude,――let us believe it was the
former,――“Have some dried apples?”

The invitation was meant to include the group of half a dozen boys
in the store at the time, who accepted it gladly, but with some
wonderment. Since the visit of Mr. Briggs to Mrs. Hall and several of
the other parents, the behavior of his tormentors had shown marked
improvement; though they still meandered about and through his premises
on the smallest pretext, the pilfering had mostly ceased, and the
snow-balls found in his bread-basket were less numerous. As, owing to
his mother’s strenuous exhortation, Jack had restrained his fingers
ever since from the barrel containing the beans and dried apples,
and the box of figs, the permit dazed him for a moment; but when he
realized that “Old Briggs” was actually “standing treat,” his heart
felt warm toward his old enemy, and some shame for his own cruel
treatment of him was mingled with his reflections.

Indeed, Jack had also the satisfaction of parting with Stiffy Bacon
under peculiarly pleasant circumstances. That gentleman’s irate
threats, as repeated by Jack to the other fellows, had produced such
a feeling of alarm that none of them had dared to venture on his
premises ever since. On one of the few balmy days which come early in
April to herald the approach of spring, the boys, who had assembled
at the corner to enjoy the first game of scrub of the season, were
astonished to see Stiffy Bacon come down the steps of his house with
two new cricket bats and a set of wickets in his hands, with which he
advanced toward them. The boys stopped their game and gazed at him in
bewilderment, scarcely believing their eyes and half inclined to run.
The sight of a Greek bearing gifts is not apt to be assuring, but in
this case there was no cause for alarm. Mr. Bacon stopped a foot or two
away, and addressing them all, but more especially Jack, said:

“Young gentlemen, I am very much obliged to you for being so quiet and
behaving so well during my wife’s illness, and I ask you to accept this
cricket set as a token of my good will.” Whereupon he held out the
bats and wickets to Jack, who received them mechanically, so utterly
at a loss was he in common with all the others to understand what Mr.
Bacon was driving at. The fact was, that Mrs. Bacon had presented her
husband with a fine baby a few weeks before; but this interesting
circumstance was quite unknown to the boys, who, accordingly, were
feeling very shamefaced at the praise bestowed upon them, knowing that
they had been quiet for quite another reason.

The donor further heaped coals of fire upon their heads by producing
a cricket ball and the bails for the wickets from his pocket, in
response to which there came a feeble murmur of “Thank you, sir,” from
the group, who stood like gawks, half frightened and yet very much
pleased withal. Jack, who, as the one to whom Mr. Bacon had principally
addressed his speech, felt that it was incumbent on him to make an
appropriate acknowledgment of the gift, stood uneasily shifting his
feet and trying to think what to say. As in the case of Mr. Briggs,
such unexpectedly friendly conduct had produced a revulsion of feeling
toward his former enemy. Just as Mr. Bacon, after an awkward pause
on both sides, was turning away, Jack, seized by an inspiration,
exclaimed, “Now, fellows, three cheers for Stif――_Mr._ Bacon!”

They were given with a will and a tiger, and at the sound of them the
gentleman in question looked back evidently much gratified and lifted
his hat, for he could not help being extremely polite even when he was
most gracious.

“Thank you, very much, sir,” several boys cried now that the ice
was broken, and Bill French was hypocrite enough to add, “I hope
Mrs. Bacon is quite well again,” which nearly caused a titter. Jack,
congratulating himself that the word “Stiffy” had been repressed in
time, struck up the song, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” which was
continued by all hands until Mr. Bacon was in-doors again. First and
last the affair was a most auspicious one, and let it be hoped that
henceforward a perpetual truce was observed between the boys and the
Bacon family.

On that point Jack was never fully informed, for he left home a week
later for Utopia. When the day actually arrived he was much too elated
to feel any severe pangs at leaving the dear old street where he had
done so much mischief during the past four or five years, and even his
partings with his friends were so jolly that nothing but the delightful
prospect before him could have excused such light-heartedness.

Mrs. Hall, like the brave woman she was, had shed her tears in secret
or was saving them up until she should be left alone, for her face was
wreathed in smiles as she clasped her darling to her bosom for one last
hug after the driver announced that there was no time to lose if he
wished to catch the train. Jack was in an exuberant state of mind, for
in addition to the proud consciousness that he was to travel alone for
the first time in his life, he had been allowed a full cup of coffee
for breakfast, which was a great treat to him. Beside Hannah, who threw
her apron over her head every minute or two to hide her eyes, there
were Dubsy Perkins and Bill French and Harry Dale in the hall to see
him off, and each had brought a parting gift. Bill French’s was a knife
with eight blades including a gimlet, a cork-screw, and other useful
devices, which, as Bill explained with pride, cost ten dollars. Beside
it Dubsy’s present looked very insignificant, but a tip-cat made by
Dubsy was regarded in the neighborhood as a work of art entitling its
possessor to the congratulations of his friends. “I made it on purpose
for you, Jack,” said the manufacturer, with a look of genuine affection
on his honest but not over-clean face. Harry Dale had brought a book
entitled “Every Boy his own Carpenter,” which gave directions how to
make everything under the sun.

Jack’s new trunk had been strapped on behind, and all was ready. After
that last hug he ran down the steps crying “Good-by, everybody,” and
got into the carriage. The boys thrust their hands through the open
window for a final shake, and just as the driver had said “Clk!” to the
horses, Hannah came rushing out with some cold chicken and a turnover
done up in a napkin, which had almost been left behind.

But at last he is really off, with his head out so as to wave one
more “good-by” to his mother, and after he has drawn it in out it
flies again on the other side, for in turning the corner he perceives
old Briggs in his white apron standing on the threshold of his store
grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Good-by, Mr. Briggs, good-by!” he shouts, while Hannah murmurs, “God
bless his heart; there isn’t a soul in the street who won’t miss him,”
a remark in which the worthy henchwoman might have found herself, it is
to be feared, in a minority, if the vote had been taken.

Meantime, Bill and Dubsy and Harry, who being each armed with a
catapult have let fly simultaneously some tolerably large shot at the
little window in the rear of the carriage as it rolls off, one of which
just misses the driver’s ear, run to the corner and watch until the
carriage reaches the foot of the street and turns again, being rewarded
by a final wave of Jack’s arm as he catches a glimpse of them, to which
they reply with a prolonged “Ehu――ehu――ehu.” Wafted on his way by which
familiar war-whoop of his childhood, Jack Hall takes his first step
forward in the battle of life.

CHAPTER V.

DR. MEREDITH.

Utopia School takes its name from the small town adjoining, to reach
which Jack had to change cars and run twenty odd miles on a country
branch after traveling several hours on the main line. But time passed
all too quickly for our hero, who never wearied of looking out of
the windows at the landscape flying away behind, in the intervals of
exhausting the resources of the train peddler, a boy of about his
own age, in whose stock in trade Jack took a keen and very soon a
substantial interest. He let the books tossed on the seat beside him be
gathered up again without remonstrance, though he cast sheep’s-eyes at
a small treatise on base-ball with an illuminated cover representing
a player in the act of striking. A banana and a small drum of figs
were temptations, however, to which he succumbed, and just as he was
finishing the last of a roll of lozenges which had won him over after
these were gone, the crowning attraction of the day appeared in the
form of prize packages labeled to contain any number of useful articles
in the way of stationery and jewelry, and costing only a quarter. But
their more potent charm lay in the further inscription, well adapted to
dazzle youthful eyes,――“One package in every hundred issued contains a
hundred-dollar bill. This is guaranteed by the company. Try your luck.”

Jack’s reasoning was, that the quire of paper, pens, pencil,
sealing-wax, and “three separate articles of jewelry,” which every
one of them was warranted to include, must be worth far more than the
price demanded. So in any event his money would not be squandered, and
there was no telling――for he was pretty lucky as a rule, having on one
occasion picked up a cameo pin in the street, and on another a silver
coin――that he might not happen on a package which had a hundred-dollar
bill in it. The one which the boy had left on the seat looked plump
and satisfactory. Jack squeezed it and held it up for a moment to the
light, but there was nothing gained by that. When the boy came back he
examined the dozen others in the basket critically.

“Did you ever see any one get a prize?” Jack asked, when he had
completed the inspection.

“You bet your life,” responded the peddler. “I see a young feller
aboard the train just your size find one of them hundred-dollar bills
only last week.”

“Swanny!” said Jack; “I wish I knew which one to choose.”

“You pays your money and you takes your choice,” answered the lad
impartially.

“Well, I’ll take this one, I guess,” said Jack, with a sigh, at last.

The one chosen was down at the bottom of the pile, and looked a
trifle bulkier than the others, though they were all very much alike.
The peddler had evidently little curiosity as to the result of the
selection, for he continued on his way the moment after pocketing the
quarter, rather to the surprise of the purchaser. Jack proceeded to
open the envelope with eager anticipation. The first thing he noticed
was a number of sheets of very common ruled note-paper, beside which
lay a lank pencil, a penholder of a kind which can be duplicated for
a cent, three pens, a half-dozen colored wafers, a miserable bit of
red wax, a few envelopes, a ring set with a small green glass stone, a
bangle of thin platinum, and a brass watch-chain. These were the entire
contents. Jack peeped between the sheets of paper, but no bank-bill
had been skillfully concealed there. Ruefully he began to examine the
collection of trash which he had acquired for twenty-five cents, and
was wondering whether the green stone could possibly be an emerald,
and what he should do with his purchases, when the train stopped and
the conductor called out that passengers for Utopia and certain other
places must change cars. Jack stuffed the contents of the prize package
into his pockets and obeyed orders.

Five minutes before Jack’s train reached the station, a train from the
opposite direction had arrived with passengers from the West, one of
whom, a bright-looking lad, was already seated in the car on the branch
line which Jack entered, and it so happened that when the conductor
cried “All aboard” the two boys found themselves the sole occupiers of
it. The new-comer was neatly dressed, was a bit taller than Jack, slim
and wiry, with a wide-awake expression.

The boys exchanged shy glances, and Jack experienced a thrill of
sympathy in observing the torn envelope of another prize package lying
at the stranger’s feet. Presently, with the restlessness common to
youth, the latter got up and, putting a hand on the arm of the seat on
either side of him, started to propel himself along the aisle in the
manner of an athlete on parallel bars, with the result that, after a
spasmodic jump or two, he fell in a heap on the floor, whereupon he
arose, and, brushing the knees of his trousers, looked at Jack and
laughed. Then he proceeded on his way, like an ordinary mortal, to
the end of the car, which, being the last in the train, commanded an
absorbing view of the road-bed over which they were spinning at ever so
many miles an hour. Here he was soon joined by Jack, and the pair stood
side by side looking at the long line of track, until the other boy
said suddenly, after a more than common oscillation of the swaying car,
which nearly upset them both,――“That’s nothing. You ought to see how
fast they go on the New York Central.” Then he added, “Going to Utopia
School?”

“Yes,” said Jack. “Are you?”

The boy nodded. “My name’s Frank Haseltine,” he said. “I live in
Cincinnati. My father’s in Congress, and President of the Haseltine
Iron and Steel Works. I hate school, but father says I’m to go
to Utopia for six years, and then to college. I’d rather be a
professional, wouldn’t you?”

“A professional? I don’t know what you mean,” said Jack doubtfully.

“A base-ball player, of course. I’d like to be on one of the champion
nines. Foxy Ricketts, who’s only five years older than I, is to be
change pitcher for the Red Stockings this season. He used to be captain
of the Rising Suns. That’s the club I belong to. I’m only third base in
the second nine, but I guess I’d have played catcher next year if I’d
stayed. What club do you belong to?”

“The Massasoits,” said Jack.

“Never heard of them,” answered Haseltine decidedly. “What’s your
name?” he inquired.

“John Hall. Most people call me Jack, though.”

“Where were you raised?”

Jack looked puzzled. “Do you mean where do I come from? Boston.” As he
felt that his answer seemed scant in view of Haseltine’s details, he
added, “My father was a colonel, and was killed in the war.”

“Is that so? I’ve an uncle who’s a general. He was wounded in the war
but got well again. If I can’t be a professional when I grow up, I’d
rather be a soldier than anything. What did you play on the Massasoits?”

“Short stop.”

“That’s a first-rate position,” responded Haseltine, patronizingly.

After these remarks, the boys sat down side by side and were soon deep
in a cordial conversation, very early in which they emptied their
pockets for the benefit of one another. Jack’s new knife, all the
blades of which he opened admiringly, the tip-cat, and two splendid
agate marbles were matched by Haseltine with a fascinating little
compass in a shiny, round metal case, a silver-mounted whistle in the
shape of a dog’s head, and, most exciting of all to Jack, a tiny live
snake in a wooden box, which crawled and wriggled about its owner’s
hand in a most approved fashion.

“He’s real tame,” observed Haseltine. “I’ve had it six months. He lives
on flies, and I wouldn’t lose him for anything; would I, Bill?” he
added, caressing the small reptile.

Jack was silent a moment. Then he asked, “What’ll you take for the
snake?”

“What’ll you give?”

“I’ll swap one of my agates for him.”

“Not much. Will you give me the knife?”

“I guess _not_. That knife cost a lot of money.”

“It’s mighty difficult to get a snake tame as Bill.”

“Will you take both the agates?” asked Jack presently.

“Let’s see them,” said Haseltine. He examined the marbles critically.
“What else’ll you give?”

“I’ll throw in a blood alley.”

“Let’s see the blood alley.” After inspection he inquired, “What else
you got?”

“Isn’t that enough? I’m willing to let you have this, too,” Jack
said at last, indicating the watch-chain. They had already compared
experiences on the subject of prize packages. Needless to say,
Haseltine had been no more fortunate in finding a hundred-dollar bill
in his, but though they had come to the conclusion that the jewelry was
not quite up to the mark, there was sufficient uncertainty regarding
its value to make the ownership of it seem not wholly undesirable.

Haseltine weighed the chain pensively. “See here,” he said, “if you’ll
give me the two agates, the blood alley, the chain, and the ring, you
may have Bill. Is it a go?”

Jack hesitated; he felt that he was asked to pay a high price, but a
glance at Bill, who in response to his master’s effort to show him off
was wriggling delightfully, settled the question in his mind. “Give me
the snake,” he said, handing over the specified articles in exchange.
Jack returned the little creature to his box and deposited it in one of
his trousers’ pockets with the air of a proprietor.

Just then the train stopped at a station, and the boys, owing to the
great uproar which was going on outside, popped out their heads. The
platform of the station was crowded with young fellows of all ages
and sizes, some of them nearly grown up. About half of them were in
uniform, part of whom wore drab flannel shirts trimmed with blue and
embroidered in the middle of the breast with a large blue =U=,
drab knickerbockers, and blue stockings; the others, armless white
shirts adorned with a flaming constellation, red belts, and nondescript
trousers, which showed clearly to the boys that they were in the
presence of two rival base-ball clubs and their respective constituents.

“I wonder which licked,” said Haseltine excitedly, and under a common
impulse he and Jack started for the rear door.

But here their progress is blocked, for the boys with the =U= on
their breasts and their friends are by this time clambering up the
steps and beginning to swarm into the car. There is a great hubbub
and shouting and shaking of hands between the rival factions, which
is followed by a sudden hush, for the captain of the home nine――a
strapping-looking country lad who reminds Jack of Joe Herring――has
got his men in a bunch together and now cries, “Three cheers for the
Utopias, boys! Now, one”――

“Hurrah!”

“Two”――

“Hurrah!”

“Three”――

“Hurrah!” And then at the close came a delicious “tiger-r-r,” in which
the entire juvenile population of the town joined.

“The Utopias must have won,” whispers Haseltine.

“Why?” asks Jack, who is really beside himself with excitement.

“Because the others cheered first.”

As the reverberation of the tiger dies away a handsome, bronzed,
athletic-appearing boy, with a little down on his upper lip, and who
seems to Jack a man, steps to the edge of the platform, and swinging
his cap above his head, exclaims in a dignified tone, but with great
enthusiasm, “Now, fellows, nine rousing cheers for the Foxbridge
Stars,――and any time they will come to Utopia we will give them their
revenge.”

“’Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah!――Utopia-a-a-a!” rings
out on the air in short, sharp response.

“Time’s up, gentlemen,” cries the genial conductor, who stands watch
in hand. “All aboard!” He waves his hand to the engineer, the engine
gives a snort and a whistle, and amid a great shouting and waving of
hats and bats and handkerchiefs the train moves slowly away from the
station, the Stars and their satellites following it on its way for two
hundred yards or so, leaping like greyhounds, until fairly distanced.

Jack, who has had the satisfaction of interpreting to Haseltine the
cheers of the victorious nine as an imitation of the Harvard University
method, watches eagerly the body of Utopia boys as they pour into the
car and take possession of the seats. They are in tearing spirits over
their success, and for some time talk of nothing but the details of the
game, recollecting with enthusiasm the fine points of play,――Bedlow’s
pitching, Goldthwaite’s one-handed catch at second base, and, most
glorious of all, Ramsay’s home run, which won the game when the score
was tied. Ramsay is captain, the manly-looking fellow who proposed
the cheers for the Stars, and Jack feels, as he watches him leaning
back against the seat, with his hands resting on the handle of his
bat, and accepting modestly but with a smile of permissible pride the
congratulations showered upon him, that he would give anything to be
in his shoes.

The boys are of all sizes, for at least fifty, big and little, have
come down from the school to back up the nine, and even to the smallest
they are decked with blue ribbons, stamped “Utopia” in silver letters.
No one pays attention to Jack and Haseltine, who are sitting side by
side at the end of the car with their ears open.

“Won’t the Doctor be pleased!” exclaimed one of the players, breaking a
momentary pause in the rejoicing.

“What a pity he didn’t come!” said another.

To this there was a general assent, after which some one cried, “Give
us a song, Jumbo.”

“A song! A song!” repeated several jubilantly, and then as the boy
called upon did not immediately respond, there was a universal call,
“Jumbo, Jumbo! Hit her up, Jumbo!”

Jack and Haseltine, following the direction of all eyes, perceived an
especially fat boy in the middle of the car, who was just beginning the
words of a taking song, which was very spirited. After each verse there
came a ringing chorus, in which all joined ecstatically:――

“Stop that knocking; let me in;
Stop that knocking; let me in;
Oh, I tell you stop that knocking at my door.”

This was always repeated, and every time they sang it the swell of the
voices grew louder and the enthusiasm greater, until, what with the
hammering on the floor with bats to express the knocking, together
with the increasing tendency to sacrifice harmony to sound, it seemed
as though the roof of the car would come off. It was a thorough
pandemonium; and Jack thought the occasional transposition of the first
phrase of the chorus into “knock that stopping” one of the funniest
things he had ever listened to.

When Jumbo finished, Goldthwaite the second base, who had made the
one-handed catch, sang in a rich tenor voice, “Aunt Dinah’s Quilting
Party,” which had a sentimental refrain about seeing Nelly home by
starlight, and made Jack feel pensive, though he preferred the humorous
song. Everybody sang the chorus with a great deal of sentiment,
especially Ramsay, who sighed perceptibly when Goldthwaite pictured
Nelly’s hand as resting on her lover’s arm “light as ocean’s foam.”

Presently there were cries for “Jack Spratt and his Wife,” presumably a
ditty, but who turned out to be two inseparable friends thus nicknamed
because one was very stout and the other unusually slim. The pair
contributed an amusing double-part song, which set everybody into peals
of laughter, and restored the spirit of hubbub subdued by passing
thoughts of Nelly. Just as the last verse came to an end, the train
began to slow up, and amid shouts of “Here we are,” every one started
to his feet and made for the door.

“Utopia!” cried the conductor vociferously.

“As if we didn’t know that, Henry,” responded the foremost as they
rushed out.

Jack and Haseltine brought up the rear, and found themselves on
alighting face to face with a ponderous, hearty, red-faced man carrying
a whip, whose face was one broad grin as he listened to the joyful
tidings of the victory from a dozen lips at the same moment.

“And won’t the Doctor be tickled to death!” Jack heard him exclaim with
a chuckle. “Mr. Percy’s yonder,” he continued, indicating with his
thumb a barge drawn by two horses, into which the majority of the boys
were already precipitating themselves. “He couldn’t wait to hear who’d
won. And so you beat ’em, did you? Well, well!”

At the mention of Mr. Percy’s name there had been a further diversion
to the barge, and only three or four still remained, pouring a few last
details into the ears of the man with the whip, who now asked, “Has any
one of you laid eyes on the two new boys I’ve come to fetch?”

“Your kids are all serene, Horace; I saw them aboard the train,” said a
boy in answer.

“Master Hall,――Master Haseltine?” inquired Horace, stepping forward as
he caught sight of Jack and his friend.

“All right,” said Jack; “I’m Hall.”

“And I’m Haseltine.”

“Checks, please,” said Horace. Then pointing to a vehicle half-wagon,
half-carryall, a few yards beyond, he told the two boys to get in while
he looked after their baggage.

Before they had well seated themselves, the barge, filled almost to
overflowing with its noisy freight, started off at a goodly pace to the
accompaniment of fish-horns and fiendish cat-calls. As it swept by
the smaller conveyance a shower of beans fell rattling about the ears
of the new-comers, which caused Jack instinctively to clap his hand on
the side-pocket of his jacket in search of his catapult; but before he
could get at it the grinning faces of his assailants were out of range.

“By gum!” Jack muttered belligerently.

“It’s no use, any way,” said Haseltine. “If you had hit them, it would
have been all the worse for both of us afterwards. I expect to be half
killed as it is.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

“They’ll haze us, of course. I know a fellow who was made to jump
into the river on a Christmas eve, and who, as the result of it, had
pneumonia and nearly died.”

“At Utopia?”

“No, it wasn’t at this school; but they’re all alike. They make you
stand on a table and recite poetry, and do all sorts of monkey tricks.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You couldn’t help yourself; they’d stick pins into you if you refused,
or burn you with a red-hot iron.”

“They should kill me before I’d do a thing,” said Jack stoutly, but,
nevertheless, he continued contemplative until their conductor arrived
with the trunks. A moment later they were off.

“That’s great,” Horace observed with gusto, after a period of reflective
silence.

“What is?” inquired Haseltine.

“The ball game. Them Stars has been all-fired cocky since way back, and
boasting as how they couldn’t be beat. But they’re done for this time,
sure. Fourteen to thirteen――tidy score, too; that home-run was what
done it. Great boy, that Harry Ramsay.”

“He’s captain, isn’t he?” asked Jack.

“Yes, captain of the nine, and cute all round. I tell you, the Doctor’s
proud of him, and’ll be mighty sorry when he goes to Harvard next year.
He is smart at his books, too.”

“Tell us about some of the other players,” said Haseltine.

“Well, they’re all pretty stout. Bedlow’s a rattling good pitcher, and
when he’s in shape it takes an A 1 player to get base hits off him,
I can tell you. Goldthwaite’s good, too, at second base; and Bobby
Crosby at left field, though he goes in more for foot-ball. He’ll be
captain of the eleven, fast enough, when Burbank goes. He’s a great
hand at kicking goals. There ain’t a better nor a smarter set of boys
in the country than the boys of Utopia School, take ’em all together,”
continued Horace, giving a flick with his whip to emphasize his words;
“and as for the Doctor, there ain’t his equal anywhere that ever I see.
He’s a gentleman, if there is one, and a scholar too, for the matter of
that. What he don’t know ain’t worth knowing, I guess.”

“What’s _your_ name?” asked Haseltine boldly.

“Horace Hosmer. The boys, leastwise those who’ve been here any time,
call me Horace. I’ve done the driving for the school since it was first
started, and that’s a matter of close on ten years, now.”

“Much hazing?” inquired Jack presently, in what he intended to be an
indifferent tone.

Horace glanced sideways at his questioner before replying. “Fair to
middling,” he said gravely. “Two boys died from it last term; Doctor
called it chicken-pox; but I know better,” he added, with an ominous
nod. “I see them after they were laid out, and they were a mass of
bruises from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet.”

[Illustration]

Haseltine nudged Jack, who, it must be confessed, felt uncomfortable,
and who exclaimed, after a moment, “I shouldn’t think Dr. Meredith
would allow it.”

“Well, he does try to stop it, but some of them fourth-class boys
are dreadful hard to manage. There’s Jack Spratt and his Wife, for
instance,――I tell you they’d as soon break every bone in a new boy’s
body as not,” continued Horace confidentially.

“They were the two who sang last,” observed Jack, gloomily, to
Haseltine.

“There’s nothing really vicious about ’em,――they’re just playful,”
Horace went on to say. “But singing or no singing, if I were a new boy
I shouldn’t want to have ’em down on me. It’s hard to say which is the
worst, Spratt or his Wife.”

“What are their real names?” Jack inquired.

“Tobey and Donaldson; but no one ever calls ’em anything but Jack
Spratt and Wifey; that’s because they’re so thick together. Most of
the boys have nicknames of some sort, though there ain’t much sense
in ’em if you come to think it over. There’s the Spider and the Lamb,
and the Titmouse and the Shark, and ever so many more. But you’ll know
all about it soon, for here we are,” said their mentor, as the pair of
horses turned sharply.

They were borne swiftly through a gateway and along a smooth, graveled
avenue, under a vista of fine trees which had evidently once formed
the approach to a private residence. On either side an expanse of
level field stretched away, which was dotted with boys busy at play,
of whom Jack got a few glimpses as Horace, nodding to right and left,
exclaimed, “Lawn-tennis courts,――base-ball practice ground;” though a
bell pealing from beyond had mostly caused a cessation of the games,
and the boys in the field on the right-hand side had begun to throng
into the avenue, or to cross it into the other field.

“It’s supper-time,” Horace vouchsafes to inform his charges, who are
craning their necks in absorbed inspection of the score of young
fellows in white flannels, with tennis rackets in their hands,
advancing at an easy jog in detachments of two and three, in response
to the reverberating summons. It is shorter for those who have been
practicing scrub in the left-hand field to keep straight on, for the
avenue winds to the left along the top of that field, until it reaches
another arched gateway situated midway between two spacious dormitories
which form one side of a large quadrangle. There is a solid stream of
boys passing through this gateway on the way to their rooms to tidy
up for supper, which will be ready in fifteen minutes in the old
schoolhouse,――the original structure built by the founders,――which
faces Jack as he is driven into the quadrangle and finds himself
squarely within school bounds.

On his right stands the tasteful chapel, from the tower of which the
ten-minute bell is still ringing, and just beyond it the gymnasium.
Facing these, at the other end of the broad campus, is the building
devoted to schoolrooms, and still another dormitory, all exactly as
the prospectus, which Jack had read many times, described. Both the
extensive playgrounds, the one laid out for base-ball and the other
for foot-ball, lie deserted; for every one within the quadrangle has
hastened to welcome the victorious nine on the arrival of the barge,
about which a cheering throng is now collected in front of the old
schoolhouse.

“There’s the Doctor on the steps shaking hands with ’em,” exclaimed
Horace. “I tell you he’s proud to-night. Look at that now; it’s Ramsay
they’ve got.”

A cheer that does one’s heart good had preceded Horace’s last words,
occasioned evidently by some compliment which Dr. Meredith had paid
the modest captain, and thereupon a score of hands have seized Ramsay
and lifted him on to a phalanx of shoulders. “’Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah,
rah, rah, rah, rah!――Utopia-a-a-a!”

Off they go tearing like mad, bearing their laughing, struggling
burden, who is plainly protesting against so extravagant a tribute to
his prowess, to the ball ground and round the bases in fine style,
closely followed by another throng doing similar honors to Bedlow and
Goldthwaite, picked up together and transported side by side, each with
an arm round the other’s neck.

Horace has reined in his horses in order to give a satisfactory view
of the ovation, which is so demonstrative and engrossing that the ten
minutes’ grace before supper would more than have slipped away had not
Dr. Meredith and two or three of the masters interfered in time to send
every one off to his room just before the second bell rings.

It is pealing with a will when Jack and Haseltine alight and stand
hesitating on the steps of Granger Hall,――which is the name of the old
schoolhouse,――uncertain for a moment what to do. The entrance, in
front of which Horace has drawn up his horses, is on the hither side
of that where the Doctor was congratulating the nine a few minutes
ago, and leads into the domain of Betty Martin, as the housekeeper
is called, who has charge of the domestic management of the whole
institution, with headquarters at Granger. This is her wing, flanked
by the great dining-hall where the whole school breakfasts and dines
and sups together. The other wing is devoted to the Doctor’s private
apartments. A few boys still live in the old schoolhouse,――which not
so very long ago was dormitory, refectory, and class-room combined
in one,――but the mass have been relegated to the three new, roomy
dormitories, known, respectively, as Rogers, Fullham, and Dudley, after
the benefactors who gave the money to build them.

It is Mrs. Betty Martin herself who appears, smiling, on the threshold
to relieve the uncertainty of the two boys. She is portly and motherly
in appearance, and wins Jack’s heart at once by suggesting supper in
the housekeeper’s room, and a postponement of an introduction to the
Doctor until later. They feel a little weary with their long journey
and relish the fresh milk, the honest bread and butter, and the slice
of cold beef to which they sit down, immediately after they have
dipped their faces in a basin of water under her maternal supervision.
Meanwhile the whole school has passed into the main hall, and after a
short silence,――which Jack learns by and by marks the blessing asked on
the meal by the Doctor, who always eats with the school,――there begins
a distant clattering and chattering which is pleasant music in the ears
of the two new boys as they sip the hot chocolate which Mrs. Betty has
made to warm them. This goes on for nearly half an hour; then follows a
momentary creaking and scraping of chairs and shuffling of boots that
makes one think a menagerie has got loose, after which there is a rush
for the door, which is midway between the Doctor’s and Mrs. Betty’s
entrance, and the school comes trooping out again.

“Scrub one”

“Two”

“Three”

“Four”

“Five”

“Six”

“Seven”

Twice that number of applicants are disporting themselves in the
direction of the ball ground, which, though reserved at other hours for
the work of one of the regular nines, is free after supper to the first
comers. There is room on its ample surface for several games of scrub,
and as the tide of would-be players increases, the adjacent foot-ball
ground is usurped by some who prefer knock up, two or three big fellows
sending up sky scrapers for the benefit of the many scattered over the
field. A few pass ball, and, though it is not the season for foot-ball,
there are always boys so fond of it as to like to keep their hands, or
more properly their feet, in at all times of the year. A half dozen of
these practice kicking goals over the two bars which mark either end of
the foot-ball field. Although so soon after supper, a couple of boys,
who look as if they were cut out for runners, appear in tights and
start around the running track on time. On the terraces in front of the
various halls, a number more leisurely inclined indulge in ring-taw and
various other games of marbles, which make Jack think of his agates
and wonder if Haseltine has not, in their possession, the best of the
bargain.

All this is visible from Mrs. Betty’s threshold, where the two boys
establish themselves after supper while waiting for the Doctor to send
for them. Now and then small urchins――favorites of Mrs. Betty――slip
past them in search of a cooky, or a taste of jam, relying on the
good-nature of the buxom housekeeper, which is not altogether to be
counted on, however, for if for any reason the petitioner does not
happen to suit her he gets sent about his business in a most summary
manner and has to slink out again empty-handed. It is a lovely evening
with a promise of summer in the atmosphere, so enticing that the
Doctor’s wife is giving her baby an airing prior to putting him in
his crib, while her other child, a pretty girl of five, is skipping
about before their door like a young gazelle. Close at hand stands the
Doctor, watching contentedly the sports which nightfall must soon bring
to a close, smoking his cigar, and chatting to some of the masters
and boys. When a more than usually good bit of play on the ball field
takes his eye, he claps vigorously and cries, “Played, Longworth,”
“Well played indeed, Henshaw,” with genuine enthusiasm; and once when
the ball is knocked so vigorously that it runs out of bounds and along
the terrace up to the Doctor’s very feet, he picks it up and sends it
back again in a style that reveals abundance of muscle and a physique
second to none which any one of those whose master, guide, and friend
he is can boast.

It seems to Jack, whose ideas of masters are not rosy, so to speak,
wonderful that the boys and Dr. Meredith are on such evidently familiar
terms, suggesting an absence of awe on one side and the existence of
an almost fatherly interest on the other. To joke with the teacher
of one’s Latin lessons would have struck him an hour ago as akin to
merriment in church, or at a funeral; and yet right before his eyes
is a state of things which startles his preconceived notions most
effectually and makes him rub his eyes, especially when the head of
the school so far abates his dignity as to pass ball with a wren of a
boy no bigger than Jack himself. Albeit a great weight is removed from
his heart, he looks on puzzled and bewildered, half expecting to hear
at any moment the thundering tone of authority assert itself and prove
what he sees to be only a deceitful lull in the conventional relations
between masters and pupils.

But the only voice of authority which makes itself heard, scattering
masters and pupils alike, is the bell in the chapel tower, that breaks
in presently on the scene, but scarcely too soon, for the twilight is
at hand. It is time to go to the schoolrooms for an hour before the
day’s work is over. Thither the boys flock, and a few moments later
Jack and Haseltine are informed that the Doctor is ready to see them in
his study.

Jack’s heart is sinking as he walks along the corridor, but he keeps
before his mind’s eye the picture which he has just seen, in refutation
of his fears. He knocks timidly, and in response to a cheery “Come
in” enters. It is a spacious yet cosy room, a veritable study with
books lining the walls and scattered over the centre table, but bright
too with photographs on the mantelpiece, below which a wood fire is
sputtering and snapping gaily on the hearth, and pictures, busts, and
bric-à-brac betokening that a woman’s taste has helped to decorate it.

“This must be Hall; am I right? How d’y do, Hall? How d’y do, Haseltine?
Glad to see you both.” So exclaims the Doctor, rising to greet the two
timid youths, speaking so pleasantly, and giving them each so hearty a
grip of the hand, that they are kindled in spite of themselves and lift
their gaze to his.

How shall I describe the head master of Utopia School? A man in the
prime of life, not quite forty, tall, stalwart, and commanding, with
a sunny smile but firm mouth, piercing eyes before which a sneak or
liar might well quail, yet in which the sincere, manly boy, the forlorn
or puzzled boy, or even the mischievous, disobedient boy who owns his
fault, might find the sympathy, encouragement, or mercy which he needs.
One sees at a glance, which requires no discrimination, that there is
nothing small or petty about him, nothing of the pedant, the martinet,
or the ceremonious prig. It is, perhaps, beyond the imagination of
boys so full of misgivings as Jack and Haseltine, to appreciate all
this at once, but their awe gives way to surprise and their tongues
are gradually loosened under the influence of his reassuring words
of inquiry in regard to their journey, their families, and their
past lives, in the course of which his wife comes in and perfects the
welcome by her sweet voice. Haseltine is the first to thaw, amusing
them all by his quaint frankness, which includes a confession of Jack’s
and his experiences in the line of prize packages, at the mention of
which the Doctor looks a trifle grave, but forbears for the present to
utter a deprecating word, deeming, without doubt, that to check the
boy in his first confidences might work far worse results than could
possibly follow from the failure on his own part to point a moral.
Haseltine goes on to tell of their barter and exhibits triumphantly the
two agates, with the exclamation, “Which of us, do you think, got the
best of the swap, Dr. Meredith?”

This frankness amuses them all; and the Doctor asks Jack to let
them see the snake, which he produces shyly. The little reptile
vindicates――at least in his owner’s eyes――the wisdom of the trade by a
fine display of his wriggling powers; after which (the Doctor having
chosen to abstain from any expression of opinion as to whether he would
rather be in Jack’s shoes or Haseltine’s) the conversation goes on
easily for a few minutes. The Doctor’s wife, who regards Jack very
kindly, perhaps because he seems less at ease than his more forward
companion, questions him about his home and his mother, and makes him
promise that if he feels lonely he will come to her and let her know;
all of which is so contrary to what Jack had expected that he could
almost cry with pleasure. As for Haseltine, his relief is so great that
he prattles on like a mill-stream, to the evident entertainment of his
listeners, relating naively his impressions of his long journey from
the West, and his views of life in general, including his intention
to adopt base-ball as a profession when he grows up; an announcement
which causes Mrs. Meredith to put her handkerchief to her mouth to
avoid laughing outright. But it is no laughing matter to Haseltine, who
believes every word he is saying, and who proceeds to describe with
enthusiasm the exploits of the Rising Suns, and the standing of the
various players composing that formidable nine.

[Illustration: IN THE DOCTOR’S STUDY.]

“Base-ball is a fine game, and I don’t wish to speak a word against
it,” says the Doctor, when he sees a fair chance to get in a word. “I
dare say that you will be a great acquisition to our nine, in course
of time, Haseltine, and you too, Hall, though you tell me that your
specialty is foot-ball. That’s a fine game, too. You boys will have
plenty of chance to consider the matter during the next six years,
but I rather think that you will come to the conclusion, before you
leave us, Haseltine, that you would prefer to be in Congress, or the
manager of a railroad, or a merchant, or a lawyer, than a professional
base-ball player.”

There was a pleasant twinkle in the Doctor’s eye as he paused, but
though Jack felt that his master’s prophecy might, perhaps, come true,
Haseltine shook his head doubtfully.

“Both you little fellows are tired with so much travel, I know,” the
Doctor went on, a shade more seriously, “and I am going to send you
off to bed without much good advice. I shall take it for granted that
both of you are good boys, and anxious to obey the rules. You’ll be
told what they are to-morrow, when I decide upon the classes you are
to belong to. And now, before you go, I desire to say just two things:
the first of which is, that I wish to impress upon you at the start
to avoid falsehood and deceit. There are times when most boys are
tempted to lie; when those times come, be brave and speak the truth,
for, believe me, there is no vice more cowardly and degrading to the
character than any form of falsehood. It is mean, contemptible, and
unworthy of men. The principle of this school is self-government; my
desire is, as far as possible, to let the scholars govern themselves; I
trust to their honor largely, and I look to see that trust respected.”

Jack is listening with all his ears; the room seems very still, and the
Doctor’s wife is looking gravely at the carpet.

“The other is this,”――the Doctor glanced especially at Haseltine,
though what he is about to say is every whit as applicable to Jack’s
needs, if he did but know it,――“I believe enthusiastically in all manly
sports, and do my best to encourage a taste for them in the school;
but let me remind you that what you have been sent here for is not to
become good cricketers, oarsmen, foot-ball kickers, or even”――here he
smiled kindly――“base-ball players. To desire to be proficient in any
or all of these games is a laudable ambition, but I pity heartily the
boy who, during his stay here, thinks of nothing else; and I grieve
to say there are a few who do. Sport is an incident, not an aim of
life, even of a boy’s life. You have been sent here to learn to become
high-minded, upright gentlemen, with lofty aims and sterling good sense
in the first place; in the second,――and without this the first can
never be completely realized,――to acquire a good education by means of
faithful study. Intelligent scholarship is the promoter of many virtues
and the key to success in after-life. Do you understand me, boys?” he
asks, at the conclusion of these impressively spoken words.

“Yes, sir,” the two lads murmur, in faint succession.

“Then I will hand you over to Mrs. Martin, who will show you to your
dormitories,” he says, touching the bell. “Hall and Haseltine, I hope
you will each regard me as one of your warmest friends, and never
hesitate to ask my advice or assistance, if at any time you are in need
of either.”

“Nor mine,” adds his wife, drawing Jack to her and kissing him on the
cheek, which cheers him mightily.

“You must be good friends together, too,” continues the Doctor, looking
from one to the other. “Far East and far West! Remember we are all one
nation, and that no part of it can get on without another.”

While, as a consequence of this recommendation, the two boys are
exchanging smiles, which, though somewhat sheepish, express cordial
good-will, Mrs. Betty arrives, under whose guidance they take their
departure, after Mrs. Meredith has impartially bestowed a kiss on
Haseltine also, and the Doctor has shaken them both by the hand in
his hearty fashion. They pass out of the old schoolhouse across the
quadrangle to Fullham Hall, where Mrs. Betty tells them they are
to be lodged. A short climb up-stairs and a turn or two through a
corridor brings them to a spacious apartment running half the length
of the building, with rows on either side from one end to the other
of what seem to Jack, at first glance, like stalls in a stable. The
partitions dividing these stalls――which a second glance proves to be
sleeping-rooms large enough to contain a bed, a bureau, and a row of
nails for clothing――rise but ten or a dozen feet. The ceiling is far
above; two lines of windows let in abundance of light, and one has
only to breathe the cool air to feel sure that care has been taken to
make the ventilation all it should be. At the end which they enter is
the comfortable-looking study of one of the masters, into which they
get a peep as the housekeeper calls him to his door to introduce her
charges to him. They are to be quartered nearly opposite to one another
on different sides of the dormitory. Their trunks have already been
brought up and placed at the foot of their beds, which have a neat and
comfortable appearance. There would be just room inside to swing a cat,
if one should so feel inclined, and it is easy to see that there can be
no difficulty in producing the effect of great cosiness by an artistic
arrangement of photographs and knick-knacks. Jack looks into several of
the little rooms and is charmed at the taste and cleverness displayed
in this respect.

It is not quite bedtime, but a few of the little boys, tired out
doubtless by the excitement of the match, are already tucked up for
the night, or, partly undressed, are flitting between the dormitory
and the wash-room, into which Jack and Haseltine are next ushered
to be shown the excellent bathing arrangements. Each pupil has his
separate set-bowl and soap and towels, and there is a liberal number of
bath-rooms, in some of which a fine splashing is going on. At the doors
of two of these, Mr. Sawyer, the dormitory master, who has, perhaps,
made the arrival of the new-comers an excuse for an unlooked-for tour
of inspection, knocks sharply, exclaiming, “Time’s up, Rogers. Been in
that tub long enough, Dickson;” in response to which, two watery faces
peep out in respectful expostulation.

But now the chapel bell rings again, this time for prayers, to be
followed by a dismissal of all but the oldest boys to slumber. Mr.
Sawyer has to go, but Mrs. Betty remains to see Jack and Haseltine
snugly established in bed, where Jack is very happy to be, partly
because he is very tired, and partly because the hints on the subject
of Jack Spratt and his Wife, thrown out by Horace Hosmer, have filled
his mind with grim forebodings. He reflects that if he can conceal
himself from public view, he may yet be spared from torture for another
twenty-four hours, and makes haste accordingly.

Mrs. Betty has taken her departure only just before the boys who share
this dormitory come trooping in, making a din which puts sleep, for
the moment, quite out of Jack’s head. It seems that fifteen minutes
are allowed to undress, after which the lights are put out, all
talking is forbidden, and any one caught in another’s room is liable
to punishment. The master at one end, and one of the prefects――who
are certain of the older boys clothed with a share of authority――at
the other, keep a lookout for whispering or unlawful expeditions. By
degrees the tumult dies away, but before it has wholly come to an end
both Jack and Haseltine have ceased to notice it. The assurance, in
answer to an inquiry hazarded by Haseltine at the last moment of Mrs.
Betty, who must have wondered at the question, that Jack Spratt and his
Wife sleep in another dormitory, has done much to tranquilize them.
Though each listens intently in trepidation for some minutes, weariness
gets the better alike of fear and curiosity so soon, that Mr. Sawyer,
who draws aside their curtains to see that they are all right before
the watchman on his rounds puts out the light, is satisfied that they
are fast asleep. And so they are.

CHAPTER VI.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

How many of the fathers of the boys who are reading this story look
back on their school days with any great degree of satisfaction as
concerns the time spent in the schoolroom? Not a large number, it is
safe to assert, if the truth were known. You young fellows do not
appreciate your advantages, or, at least, you have small comprehension
of what lessons and masters were like twenty and thirty years ago.
Not that we were badly treated, in one sense. Even then floggings
were in tolerable disrepute; the birch was practically discarded,
and if the ferule was employed with some frequency in extreme cases,
its popularity as an educator was on the wane. Our teachers, though
rarely genial, intended to be just, and though strict were not harsh.
Stiffness and constraint were still deemed essential to secure decorum,
but the czar-like despotism which made the pedagogues of former
generations terrible had passed away.

On the other hand, we were one and all mere machines for the acquisition
of so much Latin, Greek, and mathematics; machines, of which some ran
faster than others and with a certain show of brilliancy, but the best
of which did their work in the mechanical, unintelligent way that
machines invariably do. Most education then was a grand system of
memorizing, of getting by rote whole pages of Latin grammar, and other
subjects, so as to be able to spin them off as fast as the tongue could
move without hesitation or mistake. If you made either, and were
ambitious, it meant disaster, for there was always some slick-haired,
pale-faced lad on the watch to pick you up anywhere and put you down a
peg in the class as a consequence. What feats of marvelous mechanism in
this line were daily performed with the dry bones of “Andrews &
Stoddard’s” and “Baird’s Classical Manual”! Ask your father, any one of
you, if he can repeat that memory-confounding list of adjectives which
have no superlatives. There are twenty-eight of them, beginning with
“_adolescens adolescentior_ young, _agrestis agrestior_ rustic.” If he
cannot, there was a time when he could, and when――at least if he were
what was called in those days a good scholar――he could rattle off,
besides, the twenty-six prepositions governing the accusative and the
nouns of the third declension with either _e_ or _i_ in the ablative,
not forgetting at the same time that “_occiput_ has only _i_, _rus_ has
either _e_ or _i_, but _rure_ commonly signifies ‘from the country’ and
_ruri_ ‘in the country’; _mel_ has rarely _i_.”

We were expected to divine, apparently, for few hints were given us
of the beauties of Cæsar and Virgil and Ovid, of the Anabasis and the
Iliad, of the manners, thoughts, and customs of the Greeks and Romans,
and the relations of the classic tongues to ours. But every one of
us was expected, when the master gave out from that gloomy little
compilation on ancient geography, “Baird’s Classical Manual,” _Sybaris_
for instance, to be able, if called upon, to answer like a flash:
“Proverbial for the luxury of its inhabitants;” and then to continue
in sequence: “_Thurii_ founded by the Athenians B. C. 443, with whom
were Herodotus and Lysias the orator. In the west also, on the coast
_Elĕa_, _Helĭa_, or _Velīa_, the birthplace of Zeno and Parmenides, the
founders of the Eleatic School of Philosophy;” and so on until bidden
to stop. It is no exaggeration to state that there were boys who, if
started at any point in its sixty closely printed pages, could recite
to the end without slip or falter, and yet who had no further knowledge
concerning the places or individuals enumerated than was contained in
the brief paragraphs of which those just cited are prolix examples.

It may have been noticed by the parents, if not by the boys who have
followed Jack’s experiences up to this point, that very little has been
said on the subject of his lessons, and that consideration has been
mainly given to his sports, his snow-ball fights, his mischief-making,
and what he did in general outside the schoolroom.

Let us look the matter squarely in the face and acknowledge that the
least said regarding his schooling before he went to Utopia the better.
But in justice to the masters who had to undergo the discouragement of
seeing their efforts to make him learn prove of no avail, it should
be stated that the fault lay neither in them nor seriously in their
system of teaching. Already the theory of cultivating the memory alone
at the expense of the other faculties had fallen into disrepute in
the public schools of his native city, and was being supplanted by
methods calculated to make boys and girls think for themselves instead
of developing into mere machines. But it is to be feared that up to
this time the advantages of living in an enlightened age had been lost
upon our hero, if the interest he took in his daily tasks be regarded
as evidence. To tell the truth, he had been incorrigibly idle; his
thoughts rarely kept themselves fixed for five minutes at a time on
any branch of knowledge disassociated with the Frog Pond, Ma’am Horn,
Joe Herring, or some one or other of the interesting localities or
personages whose acquaintance we have already made. It had always been
a moment of supreme happiness to him when the bell sounded, announcing
that he was at liberty to pitch his dog’s-eared, pencil-marked books
into his desk and to depart for the day, and the hours preceding that
welcome summons were too apt to drag heavily unless relieved by oases
of mischief. It is no easy task, be the master ever so conscientious,
to engage the interest of those boys in a large class who count the
school hours in much the same spirit that a prisoner counts the weeks
which must elapse before he is free. To one fond of his calling and
ambitious to have his pupils shine, the good scholars must inevitably
commend themselves, and he is only too likely to let the rag, tag, and
bobtail shift for themselves, feeling, doubtless, that time and energy
spent in endeavoring to make them fond of their books cannot fail to
be wasted. It was to the rag, tag, and bobtail emphatically that Jack
had belonged. With three or four other boys, among whom was the ever
faithful Dubsy, he had disputed the doubtful distinction of being at
the foot of his class, and the monthly reports which he had brought
home to his mother were monotonous in their uniform lack of excellence.

It will, therefore, be seen that the good advice, regarding the purpose
for which he had been sent to Utopia, delivered by Dr. Meredith on
that first evening, was peculiarly adapted to Jack’s needs, and should
have sunk deep into his heart. But just as one swallow will not make
a summer, a single homily will rarely suffice to change an idle boy
into an industrious one. If the truth must be told, there is reason to
doubt whether Jack gave that part of the Doctor’s lecture――although it
impressed him greatly for a moment, I dare say, and made him inwardly
resolve to be very diligent for the future――a second thought after he
went away under the wing of Mrs. Betty. And if he neglected to consider
the matter further that night, he certainly did not think much about
it in the morning, when, having escaped molestation from Jack Spratt
and his Wife, he awoke and found himself face to face with, and fairly
entranced by, the great school world. No wonder that the master who
examined the pair after breakfast, with a view to discovering their
acquirements, held up his hands in horror upon making his report to Dr.
Meredith, and observed, pathetically, that he was at a loss to decide
which of the two had made the worse showing.

“They both seemed bright boys when I saw them last night,” answered the
Doctor.

“Oh, they’re bright enough,” said Mr. Percy. “I judge, however, that
neither of them has ever been made to study.”

“Then we shall have to begin at first principles,” was the reply.

Accordingly Jack and Haseltine were enrolled in the lowest of the six
classes into which the school was divided, but in the first of the two
divisions composing the class. As they were not to take their places
until the following morning, they were free for the rest of the day
to look about them. They were left pretty much to their own devices
during the forenoon, for until half an hour before dinner time the
whole school was busy with recitations and study. So they improved
their opportunities, to begin with, by wandering around the large
quadrangle, peering up at the buildings, stepping for a moment into
the chapel, where they admired, with bated breath, the carving and
the stained-glass windows, and bringing up finally at the gymnasium.
Here they spent some time in the inspection of the bars, weights,
rowing-machines, and other apparatus, the use of which was explained
very kindly by the superintendent, Dr. Bolles, who introduced himself
to them, and who, at the close of his instructions, invited them into
his private office that he might take their measurements. After they
had stripped themselves to the skin, Dr. Bolles――having entered their
names, age, and birthplace in a large ledger, a separate page of which
was devoted to every boy in the school――proceeded to tap their bodies
and to listen to their lungs and hearts, in a very attentive manner.
Then he weighed them, ascertained their height, and the number of
inches they measured round the chest, forearm, biceps, hips, and calves.

Haseltine, who was the first to go through the ordeal, looked a bit
lanky, stripped, and somewhat flat-chested. There was not much flesh on
his bones, as was apparent from the manner in which his ribs stuck out.

“You must learn to hold yourself up straight, and not to stoop,
Haseltine,” said the superintendent, scrutinizing him critically.
“You’ll become round-shouldered if you don’t have a care. You should
use the upright bars every day. Appetite good?”

“First rate,” answered Haseltine, looking rather crestfallen at this
depreciation of his physique.

“Food runs to muscle, then. No spare flesh here,” he observed, passing
his hand over the little fellow’s frame. “Pretty wiry. Sound as a
trivet; but those chest-muscles need strengthening; we must build you
out. Good arm, very good,” he added, as Haseltine doubled up his
biceps with a smile of conscious pride. “Base-ball, I suppose; yes,
out of all proportion to the left; I thought so. Ever been examined
before?” Haseltine shook his head. “I suppose not. You’ve come here
just in time. We’ll make a man of you yet. Now Hall.”

Jack was all of a tremble. In the first place, the stethoscope business
was rather alarming and suggested all sorts of possibilities in the
way of broken wind and heart-disease, and then he did not relish at
all being picked to pieces before Haseltine. He wondered whether he
looked equally scraggy, and derived his first ray of consolation from
the complimentary expression of Dr. Bolles’ eye, as the superintendent
(after taking several measurements in silence) stood off and surveyed
him with evident complacency.

“Ah, Carlisle, good morning,” Dr. Bolles exclaimed to a delicate
appearing boy who had just entered the office. “There’s a good all
round fellow for you to model yourself on. No dyspepsia in him. He
doesn’t know what nerves mean. If you don’t grow up into a healthy,
well-formed man,” he continued to Jack, “it’ll be your own fault.
You’ve got a good start; you can’t be a Hercules, there’s not enough
of you for that, but you’re cut out for health if you take care of
yourself. You’ve been looked after at home, evidently. That’s all.”

Jack put on his clothes again, feeling proud as a peacock, and entirely
reconciled to the fact that Haseltine’s biceps was bigger than his own.
The boy addressed as Carlisle, who was sauntering about in the office
quite at his ease, gave Jack and Haseltine a critical glance from his
handsome dark eyes, and then examined for a few moments the doctor’s
entries in the ledger regarding them. He was a striking-looking lad,
with an intelligent and at the same time attractive expression, and
though he was slight and evidently far from robust, there was nothing
effeminate either in his appearance or manner.

“How are you, to-day?” Dr. Bolles inquired of him.

“Oh, I’m better; I feel like a fighting-cock,” was the reply.

“You look better. But now, my dear boy, pray give yourself a chance.
You can’t do everything,――be a ball-player, good oar, crack sprinter,
and the head of your class, all at the same time, with your present
physique, and keep well. Hall and Haseltine,” the superintendent
added, “let me make you acquainted with Louis Carlisle, our champion
short-distance runner, and poet laureate. He has been in the infirmary
for the past fortnight because he wouldn’t take care of himself. I dare
say that if you two boys are so inclined, he will stroll with you up to
the lake to show you the boat-houses and enlighten you a little as to
how we live at Utopia.”

“I shall be very glad, I’m sure,” answered Carlisle politely. “The walk
will do me good.”

He was half a head taller than either Jack or Haseltine, and evidently
two years their senior. In a tone not unduly patronizing he proceeded
to make a running commentary on what they saw, as they accompanied him
a few minutes later on the projected tour of investigation.

“What dormitory are you in?” he inquired at the start.

“Fullham,” said Jack.

“That’s mine, too. I’m to go back in a day or two. It’s dreadfully
lonely in the infirmary when no one else is sick. I caught cold after
winning the hundred-yard dash, and Dr. Bolles says I was threatened
with typhoid. There’s the infirmary,” he added, pointing to a
good-sized cottage in the field behind Granger Hall. “You can just see
it. Every one who is sick is sent there. A year ago there were eighteen
cases of measles at the same time. Can either of you leg it any?” he
inquired, eying them each in turn with a scientific air.

“I used to run pretty fast at prisoner’s base,” said Jack.

“I’ve practiced stealing second a good deal,” replied Haseltine.

“There’s the track,” continued Carlisle, indicating the flagged
half-mile course which surrounded the foot-ball field. “Like to see it
near to?”

The boys assented and followed their guide over the terrace for a few
yards, until they came to a kind of stand not unlike a witness-box,
to which they ascended. “Here’s where the judges sit and where we
finish,” he said. “We have athletic sports, that is, running and
jumping, and all that sort of thing, twice a year, once in the spring
and once in the autumn. The spring meeting comes off in about a month.
The hundred-yard dash, which I won, was an extra match got up by the
backers of Coleman, Junior. His brother, Coleman, Senior, who went to
Harvard last year, was champion of the school for three years, and he
is trying to follow in his brother’s footsteps.”

“Were you ever licked?” asked Jack, looking up in the crack runner’s
face with respectful admiration.

“Oh yes, often. Coleman, Senior, licked me right along until the last
time, when I beat the school record. I dare say Jessup’ll make it warm
for me before long. He’s only in the fifth, but I’d almost back him
to-day against Coleman, Junior. Are you both in the sixth?”

The boys nodded.

“I’m in the third; quite a patriarch, you see. There’s no reason why
both of you shouldn’t make good sprinters if you give your minds to it.”

This prophecy sounded agreeable to Jack and Haseltine as they trotted
along, one on either side of him, on their way to the lake, passing out
of the quadrangle through the same arched portal by which they had
entered it the night before, and so over the base-ball practice field
to the main road, from which Carlisle presently diverged to take a cut
across the meadows. He explained to them, among other things, that
every one had to be inside the quadrangle at the close of the curfew,
as the supper-bell at half-past six was called, on pain of an interview
with Dr. Meredith.

“Are you on the nine?” inquired Haseltine, who had been burning to ask
the question.

“Not on the school nine. I was on the dormitory nine, but I’ve decided
not to play this year. I’m trying not to spread my butter too thin, as
Dr. Bolles calls it. He thinks I do too many things,” he added by way
of explanation. “You know each of the dormitories has its separate nine
and foot-ball team, and there’s great rivalry between them. Fullham
beat Dudley the first match of the season last Saturday, and plays
Rogers this afternoon.”

This announcement was very interesting. Before they reached the lake,
Carlisle had also informed them that there was a cricket eleven, a
weekly newspaper called “The Utopian,” of which he was one of the
editors, a glee club, and four eight-oared crews,――the Atalantas,
Orions, Nimrods, and Mohicans. “There are, besides, ten single-scull
shells and several pair oars,” he said, leading the way into one of the
two tastefully built boat-houses, perched side by side on the bank of
the broad lake, each with a covered piazza in front.

The main space in the centre, as they entered, was filled by the
eight-oared racing-boats, the sight of which lying side by side
delighted and almost awed Jack, who had never examined anything of the
sort, and who straightway made the resolution that, no matter what
else he did or did not do at Utopia, he would go in for rowing. He had
often heard his mother tell that his father had been a famous oar in
his day, and he himself was entirely at home in a dory, and able, in
his own opinion, already to scull nearly if not quite as well as the
fishermen at Nahant and Swampscott, whose companion he was wont to be
in the summer time on their expeditions after cod and haddock. He had
often wished to look at a paper shell near to, and now his ambition
was gratified. There were rests on each side of the building, reaching
nearly to the ceiling, along which the small boats were arranged in
tiers, and in one corner was a snug little room hung with flags, and
photographs of winning crews and crack oarsmen, and furnished with a
round table and chairs, where, Carlisle said, the meetings of the club
were held. In the adjoining boat-house were more boats, including an
eight-oared barge, of which, as Carlisle told them, Mrs. Meredith was
the coxswain whenever she was willing to go out on the lake.

“It’s great fun here a little later in the season,” observed their
guide as they sat down to rest on the piazza after everything had been
inspected. “On a pleasant, still afternoon there are sometimes more
than twenty boats out, of one kind and another.”

“Who’s the fastest rower?” asked Jack.

“The Doctor is the crack single sculler.”

“The Doctor? Does he row?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. He came pretty near being beaten, though, last year.
Whitehead crawled up on him so that there wasn’t more than half a
length between them at the finish. You never saw such excitement.”

“Wasn’t he mad?” inquired Jack, to whom the idea of a master being
beaten by one of his scholars seemed most extraordinary.

“Who, the Doctor? Not a bit of it; he’s a true sport,” said Carlisle.
“There was no one more pleased than he at being forced to pull for all
he was worth.”

Further inquiry revealed that the Atalantas were for the time being the
champion of the eight-oared crews; and after a score more questions,
which Carlisle answered most good-naturedly, the boys retraced their
footsteps so as to get back in time for dinner. Seeing that their
mentor was so well disposed, Jack took occasion on the way to impart a
little of what Horace Hosmer had dropped regarding Jack Spratt and his
Wife, which Carlisle listened to at first with no other comment than an
occasional sidelong glance, which struck them as far from reassuring.
Once Carlisle started to speak, but some impediment in his throat
checking him, he seemed to change his mind, until Haseltine’s remark
that they were fortunate in being in a different dormitory from the
formidable pair drew out the laconic observation, “That won’t help you
much.”

“Why?” asked Jack.

“Those fellows are all over the lot,” was the answer. “They’d think
nothing of snaking a new boy out of bed in the small hours of the
morning, no matter where he was.”

“But I wonder the Doctor allows it,” said Haseltine, hoping for a more
satisfactory response to this exclamation than it had elicited from
Horace.

“Who’s to tell him?” cried Carlisle sternly, looking straight at
the offender. “You boys may count on one thing, and that is that
tale-bearing doesn’t go down at Utopia. Any fellow who told tales here
would be hustled out of the school, and the Doctor’d be the first to
avoid him.”

The decision with which these words were spoken caused Jack and
Haseltine to hang their heads guiltily, and presumably to reflect that
the couplet――

“Tell-tale tit,
Your tongue shall be slit,
And all the dogs in the town
Shall have a little bit,”

formed a no less important part of the code of youth than of childhood.

“It’s hard on new boys, I admit,” continued Carlisle, after a moment,
in a contemplative tone, “and if those fellows keep on in their cruel
ways they’ll kill somebody next.”

“Horace Hosmer told us they did kill two boys last term,” said Jack, in
a stage whisper.

“Yes,” exclaimed Haseltine; “it was reported to be chicken-pox, but he
says he helped to lay them out after they were dead, and they were a
mass of bruises from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet.”

Carlisle looked very grave and nodded his head with an ominous air. “I
didn’t suppose Horace knew about it,” he said; “it was kept very dark.”

“Then you knew of it?” asked Jack.

“Bless you, yes. It ought to have taught Tobey and Donaldson a lesson,”
Carlisle added gloomily, “but it didn’t. They’re just as bad as ever,
this term.”

“What is the best thing to do if――if they should ever happen to fix on
us?” asked Jack presently, with a slight gulp.

Carlisle whistled reflectively. “I’ll be doggoned if I know,” he
replied at last. “I’d keep a stiff upper lip, if I were you, and be
as sandy as you can. They’ll let you off easily, perhaps, if they see
you’ve got grit; but if you funk, I wouldn’t give much for your chances
of getting through with a whole skin. I’ll say a good word for you in
advance. It may save you a broken leg or arm.”

After the delivery of this speech, Carlisle indulged in a short,
hysterical laugh, which seemed to his listeners quite out of keeping
with their own feelings. But it was evidently a mere spasmodic
expression of sympathy, for his countenance immediately regained the
expression of deep gloom which it had worn ever since the subject of
Spratt and his Wife had been introduced.

“Thank you very much indeed,” answered each of the boys in turn.

“Not at all――not at all. I fear that my words cannot avail you much,”
he responded.

They were now within school bounds again, and there was only just
time to go to their rooms before dinner. Carlisle, in keeping with
his previous kindness, announced that as it might be advisable to say
what he had to say to Tobey and Donaldson at once, he would take his
dinner with the school. Accordingly, assuring the boys that he felt
well enough for this exertion, he started off at a lively jog for the
infirmary so as to be on hand.

Jack and Haseltine had been given provisional seats at breakfast, but
Mrs. Betty, who presided over the younger boys, now assigned them to
places not far from one another at her own table. It was an impressive
moment, and one could have heard a pin drop while the Doctor asked a
blessing in his clear, manly tones on the repast spread for his two
hundred hungry pupils, who stood behind their chairs in long lines up
and down the big hall waiting for the signal to fall to, which they
did with a vengeance you may be sure, when they got it. Dr. Meredith
and his wife, the married masters, and a few of the prefects occupied
a table on a platform at one end of the room at right angles with the
others and overlooking them all. There was a master at the end of each,
who did the carving and kept good order.

The dinner was simple but extremely good. A clear, honest soup well
flavored with vegetables; ribs of roast beef carefully basted and
neither done to death nor so distressingly blue as some cooks are
capable of sending it up from the kitchen; potatoes, tomatoes,
macaroni, light bread, sweet butter, and for dessert a cup of baked
custard invitingly served. Everything was clean and neat, thanks to
the vigilant eye of Mrs. Betty and her assistants, and thanks, first
of all, to the founders of Utopia, who laid it down as one of the
principles of the school that so everything must be. No extravagance,
no rich dishes, no wine or beer, but plenty of blood-making,
sinew-strengthening, bone-building food, fresh, appetizing, and
unspoiled.

I have seen school tables, and between you and me private tables also,
at which such a dinner as that just described was made thoroughly
unpalatable by the manner in which it was prepared; where the soup was
a thin, unseasoned, straw-colored fluid, the beef ruined by one of
the extremes of cooking already referred to, the vegetables greasy,
the bread clammy, the butter rancid, and the cup of custard pale
and watery. There are persons who do not think such matters worth
considering, who believe that any time devoted to making our daily
repasts savory is misspent, and that young people, boys in particular,
should eat what is set before them without asking questions, thankful
that there is anything to eat at all.

It is easy to perceive that such doctrines are thoroughly pernicious
and unsound, if you reflect that our capabilities as men and women are
chiefly dependent on what our bodies permit us to be, and that the
component parts of these bodies are determined in the main by the food
we eat, the air we breathe, the clothing we wear, and the sleep we get.
There is no greater mistake in the world than to disregard the laws of
health under the plea that they are not worthy of notice; and if they
are thus important for those of us who are grown up to bear in mind as
essential to human wellbeing, how much more vital is it that the young
should be given every opportunity to fit themselves physically for
the battle of life. Bear this in mind, boys, and when you are served
with slovenly, unwholesome cookery, protest with all your might. Do
not be ashamed to know and recognize good things to eat. The temperate
enjoyment of the pleasures of the table is a legitimate and important
element of happiness.

Meanwhile our young friend, Jack Hall, has been enjoying his dinner
mightily, though it is no better, in truth, than what he has been
accustomed to at home, which is not surprising if we recall the
double devotion of his mother and the faithful Hannah, whose hearts
are doubtless pretty sore at this time. When his hunger is somewhat
appeased he ventures to gaze about him a little, exchanging a few shy
words with the boys near him, all of whom seem friendly and willing to
receive him as a companion. He makes the acquaintance of Buck on one
side of him, Horton on the other, and Travers, Bailey, and Cunningham
across the table. Horton, who is a plump, talkative little chap of his
own size, points out to him the various school celebrities, including
Ramsay, Bedloe, and Goldthwaite of the nine; Burbank, the stalwart,
bearded captain of the fifteen; and little, active-looking Bobby
Crosby, who, as Jack knows, is expected to take Burbank’s place next
year; Hazelhurst, the stroke of the Atalantas and champion oar of the
school (always excepting the invincible Doctor) now that Whitehead has
graduated; and Carlisle, who nods across the room in a friendly manner
from his seat with the big second-class boys, so that Horton asks with
interest, “Do you know him?”

“I was introduced to him this morning at the gymnasium,” replies Jack.
“He showed Haseltine and me to the boat-houses.”

“He’s the smartest boy at Utopia,――first rate at games, head of his
class, and champion sprinter. There’s Coleman, Junior, sitting with the
third next to Jumbo,――his real name’s Blair, but every one calls him
Jumbo because he’s so fat,――he can run pretty fast, and it’s neck and
neck between him and Jessup, that boy on the right of Mr. Sawyer, but
neither of them can catch Carlisle. You ought to hear Jumbo sing; he’s
the best tenor we’ve got.”

Most of this information is not new to Jack, but he is glad to hear the
heroes catalogued again at a time when he can take a good peep at them.
He feels proud of his acquaintance with Carlisle, and glances from
time to time in that direction, for he has not forgotten his senior’s
promise to speak a good word for him.

“I wonder what’s up at the second form table,” says Horton presently.
“Some one or other keeps turning round and laughing. There must be a
gag on you,” he adds, turning to Jack, who has already noticed this
tendency on the part of the boys in the vicinity of his benefactor.
“Have you done anything fresh?”

“Not that I know of,” answers poor Jack, who is feeling far from
comfortable.

The dessert is finished, and in another minute dinner will be over. All
of a sudden Carlisle gets up, and after saying a word to the master at
the head of the table, crosses to one of those occupied by the fourth
class, and stoops to speak to two boys sitting side by side, whom Jack
recognizes instantly as Tobey and Donaldson, the redoubtable Spratt
and Wife. He has not perceived them before, though he has been on
the lookout for them, and now that he takes a glance at them they do
not strike him as very terrible in appearance. They are good-natured
looking enough, but appearances are deceitful in this world, as Jack
very well knows, and he quails as he observes the gaze of the trio
rest on him and Haseltine alternately. Carlisle’s eyes sparkle as he
talks, and he keeps his hand to his mouth so that Jack cannot judge
much by its expression. Spratt and Wifey listen for a moment or two
in judicial silence, then a broad, convulsive smile, which suggests,
at least to Jack, the hilarity of a hyena, overspreads the features of
each, only to be succeeded by a look of glowing fierceness, which seems
to the unhappy lads――for Haseltine is no less conscious of it than
Jack――to argue ill for the future. While they are still beneath its
spell the school rises from table, and the two boys are swept along to
the terrace, where Carlisle presently joins them, but only to draw them
aside and whisper the ominous tidings, “I’ve done my best for you, but
they think you look too cocky,” an announcement which makes them both
feel very miserable.

Just then a big boy, bat in hand, and wearing a large =F=
embroidered on the bosom of his shirt, accosted their mentor with the
eager inquiry,――“Won’t you help us out, Carlisle? Dobson has a game
knee and can’t possibly play.”

“Wish I could, Chalmers, but I’ve promised Dr. Bolles to let up on
base-ball for the rest of the term. I’m only just out of the infirmary.”

“Yes, I know; but it’s mighty tough lines on us to have so many of our
best men knocked up. Potts had word this morning that his mother is
sick and started for home before dinner, and Plummer bust his finger
against the Stars yesterday.”

“What’s the matter with Cochrane?”

“Oh, Cochrane’s no good. He’ll fan himself out every time, cock sure,
on Bedloe’s pitching. We’re hard up for third base, and Cochrane’s
useless except in the field. They’ve got their strongest team,” said
Chalmers impatiently.

“What is it?” whispered Haseltine to Carlisle.

“Fullham against Rogers.”

“I can play third base,” continued Haseltine, to Jack’s infinite
astonishment.

Carlisle laughed gayly. “Here’s your chance, Chalmers,” he said. “This
new Fullhamite says he’s an artist.”

“What’s your name?” asked Chalmers, scanning Haseltine from top to toe.

“Frank Haseltine.”

“Have you played much?”

“I’ve played third base on the St. Louis Rising Suns for two years.”

“Are you in practice?”

“First rate.”

There was an assurance about the applicant that evidently impressed
Chalmers. “Would you try him?” he asked Carlisle.

“He talks well.”

“Talk is cheap,” growled Chalmers. “Well, be on hand, then,” he said
to Haseltine. “Get into your togs as soon as you can. The game’ll be
called in fifteen minutes.”

Haseltine looked radiant with delight as the large boy strode away. “Do
you think he’ll let me play?” he inquired beseechingly of Carlisle.

“I guess so; he’s captain of the Fullham nine. It’s a big chance for
you, youngster, to show what you’re made of. Now run along and get
ready.”

Jack felt rather envious, but not so much so as not to be thoroughly
glad of his friend’s good fortune. Indeed, as he sat by while Haseltine
got into his flannels, he was very well pleased to think that he was
not going to play himself. It was pretty evident from the way Haseltine
had spoken of the Rising Suns the day before, that they were a much
superior nine to the Massasoits, of which club Jack knew that he had
by no means been the strongest player, a conviction which helped to
reconcile him to being left out.

CHAPTER VII.

HASELTINE MAKES HIS DÉBUT.

It has been, and still is, the fashion in certain circles to decry
base-ball, and to hold up to the youth of the country the superiority
of cricket, as a pastime. The arguments, such as they are,――chief
among which is the plea that cricket is a more gentlemanly game, for
the reason that one can play it with exceeding comfort after leaving
school and college as well or nearly as well as before,――need not be
reiterated, inasmuch as there is no longer room for argument. The case
is closed. The boys have heard what was to be said on either side, and
have come to a final conclusion in regard to the matter. Base-ball is
undeniably the national sport from one end of the land to the other,
and no amount of chafing on the part of those who think the decision
unwise can make the long cherished cricket of our English cousins
widely popular on this side of the water. And after all, if we examine
the reasons, the boys are not far out. Be it said with bated breath
and yet clearly and unequivocally, that it requires more skill, far
more skill to excel at base-ball, as it is played to-day, than at any
other sport. Talk of muscle, nerve, wind, quickness and correctness
of eye, fleetness of foot, temper, bottom, and grit,――what one of
these qualities is not put in training when two closely matched nines
meet to play ball? Try it, gentlemen of England, for yourselves and
see. You will have to come to the conclusion――take my Yankee word for
it――that there is more in our game than you think; and what is more,
you will know in your hearts, though you will never acknowledge it,
that an all-day cricket match under the trees, relieved by respites
for beef and beer and dawdled the whole time,――for you take things
pretty leisurely after every “over,”――is a tame affair, though a very
gentlemanly and delightful one, compared with what we are able to show
you under the head of ball-playing. Don’t mistake us, gentlemen of
England: we know that cricket is a grand old game, we have watched it
often (though it is a trifle dull to watch), played it, too, and we
continue to play it at times, but when you come to talk about muscle
and nerve and temper and bottom and grit, and all that, as we have said
already, we are ready to back our national game against the world.

Chalmers and Hackett, the captains of the rival dormitory teams, are
tossing up to see which nine shall go in first, as the two new boys
arrive on the scene. Fullham wins and sends its opponents to the bat.
“Game called!” cries the umpire, and Haseltine has just time to throw
off his jacket and get into position at third base before Rainsford,
who is to pitch for the Fullhamites, enters the box. Rainsford is
known as “the kid” because of his slight appearance. He is only in the
fourth, but his drop balls have proved successful teasers ere this.

See how every player on the fielding nine has his nerves taut as Billy
Douglas steps to the home plate to lead off, and poises his bat!
They are boys, of course,――they have not the experience and sinew of
professional or college teams,――but they are sturdy fellows for all
that. They mean business: so does Billy; there is blood in his eye; he
hopes to start off with a three bagger.

“One ball!” cries the umpire.

“Two balls!”

That won’t do, Rainsford; you can’t afford to let him get his base on
balls. Carefully now.

“One strike!”

Ah, that’s better; the kid is settling down to his work. Now another!
A hit, a palpable hit! Away scuds Douglas with all the vim of his
Scotch forefathers, to get to first before the ball. No use, Billy;
Goldthwaite has it at second easy enough and pops it to Maitland, who,
as every one knows, is pretty sure to hold on to anything that comes
within his reach. A shout goes up from the Fullhamites, who to the
number of a score or more, including Jack, are grouped together on
one side of the catcher, which is answered by a bracing cheer from a
similar posse from the rival dormitory at the other side.

Pousland, the next striker, makes a base hit, but not to much purpose,
since Hackett knocks up an easy fly for the kid to absorb without
difficulty, and Johnson succumbs on a foul tip to Chalmers catching
under the bat in his iron mask and padded gloves with an eye to second
which Pousland is hoping to steal. But the third out settles that
question, and down goes a goose-egg for Rogers.

The formidable Bedloe is a brawny lad to look at, and he has to back
him Bobby Crosby at left field and Harry Ramsay at first, making three
of the school nine against only Chalmers and Goldthwaite on the side of
Fullham. Chalmers goes to the bat to give his team courage, and sends a
sky scraper to centre field which is captured cleverly. The kid falls
a prey to an easy grounder to short stop, and it looks as though the
innings would pan out poorly for the Fullhamites. But one can count on
nothing at base-ball until the last man is out; in testimony to which
Hamlen, who comes next in order, is given his base on called balls,
steals second by a judicious slide, and is sent to third on a fumble of
a hot liner,――a corker,――which Jackson hits to second, getting his base
thereby. Then Goldthwaite comes to the bat amid great applause, and
some one cries out, “Now for a grass-mower, Goldy!”

Goldthwaite proves worthy of the confidence reposed in him. Two strikes
are called on him while he waits for a ball just in the right place.
He gets it at last, when Bedloe, hoping that the umpire will call
another strike (for until this year you know three strikes was the
limit), eases up and throws in a slow one. Goldthwaite swipes with all
his might and sends the ball between left and centre field, but clean
out of reach of Crosby and Plympton. A home run! No, not quite, only
a three bagger. Goldthwaite holds his third, but Hamlen and Jackson
have scored. Two runs to a goose-egg; not bad to start with. But there
is Ogden out on a foul and the innings over with Goldthwaite still on
third.

Three innings more on either side do not vary the lead, for while
Rogers gets a run in the third, Fullham caps it with a single in the
fourth, and the score is three to one. No chance now for a complete
whitewash, which some of the enthusiasts among the lookers-on,
encouraged by the start, have hoped for. On the contrary, the shrewder
mind knows that it will be all Fullham can do to hold her lead. Rogers
has been settling down to work. Bedloe is in fine form, and is being
backed up bravely. They are getting on to the kid, too, and pound
him for a run and two base hits in the fifth, being prevented from
tying the score only by a magnificent double play of Goldthwaite and
Maitland. Then they put the Fullhamites out in one, two, three order.

Haseltine has been doing fairly well, though as yet he has had but
two chances in the field, the first of which, a fly, went up a
moderate distance and fell so plump into his hands that he did not
have to budge. The other, a gently ambling grounder, shot between
his legs just as he thought he had it; an error which elicited from
Horton, who was sitting beside Jack, the unflattering exclamation,
“Beastly butter-fingers!” However, there is a style and general air of
knowingness about him which has attracted attention, and Chalmers has
so far continued his own confidence in him as to fling twice to third
in order to frighten men who were off their bases, on each of which
occasions Haseltine got on to the ball, and once came very near putting
the too daring adversary out. He is evidently no green hand, as he has
further shown by the way he handles the bat. Though apparently too
small to be a very formidable willow-wielder, his first whack sent the
ball far to right field, where it was taken into camp very prettily,
it must be owned. The second time he got his base on balls, but was
put out trying to steal second, in spite of a most admirable slide on
his stomach for several feet. The decision of the umpire displeased
the crowd of Fullhamites, who manifested their resentment by crying
“Not out, not out!” vociferously, and applauded Haseltine as he came
in from the base crestfallen and covered with dust. It had been in the
next innings that he muffed the grounder, and he was now feeling very
much dissatisfied with himself and eager to wipe out these spots on his
record by some brilliant stroke.

The sixth innings adds another goose-egg to each score, in spite
of hard hitting on both sides, and the seventh begins amid a hush
of suspense. Jack can scarcely sit still, he is so nervous with
excitement, and he is hoarse with spelling out at the top of his
lungs, after every favorable play, “F-U-L-L-H-A-M! Fullham!” which is
the dormitory yell. It is anybody’s game, as Rainsford, the kid, well
knows, and he plants his feet in the box with the air of one aware that
the least let-up or carelessness will be fatal. Pousland is at the bat
again, and whacks at the first ball. It flies whizzing in Haseltine’s
direction, but out of reach, and a shout from the Rogers crowd rends
the air. But it is short-lived, for the umpire, who is watching
carefully, cries, “Foul ball!” Whereupon Pousland, who is halfway to
first, has to retrace his steps in a melancholy fashion. Had it but
struck just the other side of the line, it would have been good for two
bags. He poises his bat again viciously.

“One strike,” calls Prendergast, the umpire, who is captain of Dudley.

There is a roar from Fullham, and the striker, glancing round at the
umpire sulkily, strikes the tip of his bat against the ground and grits
his teeth as he makes ready for another ball.

“Foul,――out!”

The tick is plainly audible, and Chalmers’ gloves have closed firmly on
the ball. Pousland drops his bat and walks away in disgust. His place
is taken by Hackett, who strikes at the first two balls without hitting
either, but sends the third over second base skimming to centre, where
Ogden jumps a little and holds it above his head,――a pretty but not
very difficult catch, whereat the welkin rings.

“Here come Dr. and Mrs. Meredith,” says Horton to Jack, as the uproar
gradually subsides.

Sure enough, they are close at hand, having come down expressly to
see the end of the match, and are given good seats on one of the few
benches supplied for such celebrities. Several of the masters have been
watching the contest since the beginning, but the presence of the head
of the school is evidently a new incentive to every player to good
work, if any were still needed.

Johnson is the third man at the bat. Prendergast calls one ball on
the kid, and Johnson swipes the next. It somehow or other gets past
Goldthwaite, and before Hamlen can field it to Maitland the striker is
safe at first. It is now the turn for Rogers to howl, which it does
with a vengeance,――“R-O-G-E-R S! Roger-r-rs!”

Ferguson is to strike now. He is third base and one of Rogers’ heaviest
sluggers. Hackett goes down behind first to coach Johnson and tell him
when to try to steal second.

“One strike!”

“One ball!”

“Two balls!”

Johnson, meanwhile, is bobbing up and down hesitating whether to run or
not. The kid, just as he looks ready to pitch the fourth, turns and
makes the gesture of hurling to first.

“Look out!” bawls Hackett, and Johnson rushes back to the base and
plumps one foot on it.

There is no need for so much exertion, as it happens, for Rainsford’s
throw is make-believe. He has only pretended to fling the ball.
Whereupon he turns and pitches rapidly.

“Go!” holloas Hackett, excitedly. “Go-o!”

“Three balls!” cries the umpire.

Johnson is scooting for second at the top of his speed. Although the
pitch was a trifle wild, the padded gloves are in the right place,
and Chalmers slams it to Goldthwaite, who claps it on to Johnson, and
holds up his hand claiming an out. But Prendergast, who has run forward
nearly to the pitcher’s box in order to see distinctly, shakes his head
and waves Johnson to hold his base, amid deafening cheers from the
Rogerines, and groans from the Fullhamites.

Let me say right here, boys, that the trick of “downing” umpires is
cowardly, and smacks of the blackguard. Be careful, to begin with,
whom you select to act; but when your choice is made, be men enough
to keep your temper and accept his decisions without kicking. It has
come to be the fashion among the great crowds that attend base-ball
matches over the country, to abuse umpires in language worthy only of
Billingsgate, and even to threaten them with personal violence. It is a
mean and contemptible method of bullying a man in a position where he
is powerless to defend himself, and at a time when he needs to have all
his faculties bent on the game, and no gentleman will take part in it.

Johnson holds his base, and the kid prepares to pitch again.

“Four balls!”

Rainsford must be getting nervous.

“Five balls!”

This will never do.

“Two strikes!”

Ah, there! Now or never!

“Six balls! Take your base.”

Ferguson trots leisurely to first, and his place at the diamond is
filled by Plympton, the centre field, who hits the first ball for
a clean single between short and second, letting in Johnson, and
advancing Ferguson a base. The score is tied, and the hubbub is very
disheartening to the backers of Fullham.

“Looks sort of sick for our side,” Jack hears some one say to Carlisle,
who is squatting not far from him.

“Game’s young yet,” is the cheery answer.

It is Bedloe’s turn now. He advances confidently, and in imitation of
Plympton’s example lifts the first ball and drives it to left field,
where Jackson gets under it, and――sad to chronicle――drops it. Ferguson
comes in, of course, and Plympton too, although he should have been
out; but Chalmers fails to hold Goldthwaite’s swift throw from second.
Five runs to three! Those muffs were very costly.

Bobby Crosby hits an easy grounder to Haseltine, which the little
fellow picks up neatly and throws to first. Maitland holds it, and the
Rogerines are out at last.

Jackson is at the bat first. He hits hard, anxious, doubtless, to atone
for his error; but Hackett is on deck at second and fields beautifully
to Ramsay. There is a flutter of anticipation as “Goldy” steps to
the front. Like several of his opponents he swipes at the first ball
pitched. “Hurrah! Look――look――is it a home run?” Everybody is on his
feet following the ball to left field. Bobby Crosby, there’s your
chance. Gently now, or it will be over your head. It is going faster
than it seems. Oh, well caught, well caught, youngster, and well
judged, too, which is more than half the battle! Right over your left
shoulder and on the full run, too! O-U-T! Everybody is cheering, for
even Fullham can afford to applaud a play like that, and the Doctor,
shouting as loud as any one, waves his hat and cries, “Well caught,
Crosby!” Hard luck, Goldthwaite. It was a good crack, but not quite
elastic enough. Who’s the next victim?

It is Ogden, who pops up a fly which falls into Bedloe’s hand, snug as
a bug, and the side is out.

“Confound it!” says Horton, a sentiment which Jack echoes at heart.

Ramsay begins the eighth with a single to right field. Pousland goes
out on a foul tip once more. Hackett takes a base on balls. Johnson
hits to Jackson at left, who does not muff this time. Ferguson, the
slugger, swipes hard and misses.

“One strike!”

“Two strikes!”

Ramsay is on third and Hackett on second, so that if Ferguson can make
a safe hit there is a good chance for two more runs.

“F-E-R-G-U-S-O-N! Ferguson-n-n!”

The kid examines the ball and puts down his head to pitch. The slugger
does not move.

“Three strikes!” cries the umpire. “Out!”

This is better, and revives somewhat the drooping courage of Fullham.
Carlisle proposes three cheers for the kid, which are given with great
enthusiasm.

“Now, Maitland,” says Chalmers.

Charley Maitland waits for two called balls and one strike before he
gets the one he is hoping for. Then he hits with all his might a driver
to the inner centre field, where there is no one to catch it, and takes
his first. The kid, who receives another round of applause as he steps
to the plate, knocks one to Johnson at short, who lets it by him this
time.

There are two on bases, Merriman. A good deal depends on you. Pshaw!
straight into Ramsay’s hands. Run, Rainsford; run, if you do not wish
to be cut off at second. Safe! but only just in time. If Ramsay had not
waited so long you were a sure out. The Rogerines are taking a turn at
muffing. Next striker.

It is our friend Haseltine. He glances across at Jack as he goes in.

“One strike!” calls Prendergast, though Haseltine has not moved.

“Don’t get flustered; take your time, youngster,” says Chalmers kindly.

“One ball!”

This gives the ex-Rising Sun hero courage. Charley Maitland and the kid
are edging off their bases ready to proceed the instant the ball leaves
the bat.

All of a sudden there is a terrific roar, and every one starts up
again, craning forward to see the third base line.

“Run!” bellows Chalmers to Haseltine, who cuts away for first. But
before he reaches it, the umpire, who has shaded his eyes with his hand
so as to make no mistake, cries “Fair ball!” and on Haseltine dashes to
second and again to third. Here Chalmers stops him with an emphatic
“Hold your base!” Meanwhile, Maitland and the kid have come home.
The score is tied again, and the uproar is prodigious. Panting but
thoroughly happy, Haseltine waits at third, and Captain Chalmers takes
his turn at the bat.

We are viewing the game through Jack’s eyes, to whom every safe
hit and every good bit of fielding seems marvelous; but though the
standard of play may be higher among some of you older boys, there
can be no denying the absorbing interest inspired at Utopia by these
yearly contests for supremacy between the respective dormitories,
second only to the occasional contests with nines from other schools.
The thrill felt by Jack as Chalmers takes his position to strike is
shared by every one of the two hundred boys and their masters present.
For by this time there is scarcely a soul in the school who is not a
spectator. Even Horace Hosmer is squatting at the further end of the
field beyond the possible reach of the ball, and Jack can see him clap
his big hands in honor of Haseltine’s three bagger.

But Chalmers is at the bat.

“One ball!”

Haseltine evidently has it in mind to try to steal home, for if
Chalmers does not get his first the side will be out; but “Goldy,” who
has taken the captain’s place as coach, cautions him with “Steady now,”
and “Bide your time, youngster,” not to stray too far from the base.

“One strike!”

Pousland, the catcher, hurls to third to intimidate Haseltine, who
dodges back in time to get his foot on the bag before Ferguson can
touch him.

“Two balls!”

Well done, Chalmers! Another shout, this time louder and more
star-striking than any yet evoked, bursts forth from the Fullhamite
ranks. There is ample reason for it, too. Both Bobby Crosby and
Plympton are in full career after the ball, which is bounding beyond
them at a fearful pace. They make superhuman efforts to overtake it,
and Bobby returns it magnificently, but to no purpose, for Chalmers
has made a clean round of the bases and is safely home. As for
Haseltine, he has trotted in comfortably and is sharing with the
captain hand-shaking and back-slapping from a score of palms. He knows
that the score is now seven to five, and that he has wiped out his
early errors. His happiness, already complete, is made ecstatic by the
congratulations of the Doctor, who comes up to him just as he is on
the point of going over to Jack and says, “You’re beginning bravely,
Haseltine; if you go on at this rate you will be in training for the
school nine before long.”

“The school nine!” Could there be a more enviable compliment to a new
boy on his first day at Utopia? He sees Mrs. Meredith smile at him from
her seat and clap her hands. He touches his cap in sheepish fashion,
and with cheeks aflame is glad to get down beside Jack and, riding his
bat, watch Hamlen strike.

“Ah!”

This time the cry of triumph is premature. The ball goes afield
grandly, but Billy Douglas is under it before it falls, and Hamlen
makes the third out.

The Rogerines are rather quiet. They have only this inning in which to
win the game. But the nine is not going to give in without making a
hard fight for it, you may be certain. Two runs will tie and three put
them ahead. Not so very many to get, if fortune favors them and they
can work in a batting streak.

Plympton is the first on the list of strikers. He is a determined-looking
fellow, with a bull-dog sort of jaw.

“One strike!” cries the umpire.

The Fullhamites shout, but the batsman, whatever his feelings, never
winks an eye. He is dangerously cool.

Whack! One can hear the sound all over the field. The bat is split as
completely as ever oak was riven by the lightning. But now Rogers has a
right to shout. Another home run just in the same place as Chalmers’,
and just as perfect. The din is deafening, and the prospects for a
tenth inning look very favorable.

“One more in the same spot will tie them,” exclaims Hackett, as Bedloe
nods at the kid to show he is ready.

“One ball.”

“Two balls.”

“One strike.”

“Three balls.”

“Four balls.”

“Five balls.”

“Six balls; take your base.”

Rogers howls once more. Bedloe has a level head, and knows enough to
play a waiting game. Perhaps he has reasoned that the kid is young, and
may lose his head in a tight place. It looks a little like it, now; if
he does, there are sluggers enough on the nine to knock him out of the
box.

It is Crosby’s turn next to have a hack at him.

“One ball.”

He hits the second. It is a scorcher to short stop, which strikes one
of Merriman’s feet and bounds into the air. Merriman looks in one
direction and the ball comes down in the other. Before he can collect
himself Bedloe is safe at second and Crosby at first.

Now, Harry Ramsay, captain of the school nine, is your chance. A
rattler from you like that you struck yesterday, ought to win the game.
One could hear a pin drop, it is so still. The excitement is almost
painful.

“One ball,” calls Prendergast.

“One strike.”

“Ah-h-h!”

That cry is because Bedloe has stolen third and Crosby second.
Chalmers, a little bewildered it may be, has hesitated until too late
which to throw to.

Ramsay has hit the third ball. What a paste! Where is it? Where has it
gone? He is tearing to first. Great heavens! what is the matter? Is the
game over? Everybody on the Fullham side is dancing and screaming and
waving like mad. The crowd is mixing with the players, and Crosby and
Bedloe and Harry Ramsay are coming in from the bases with a shamefaced
air.

“What is it? I don’t understand,” asks Jack of Horton, who is shouting
loud enough to burst a blood-vessel. Jack knows that Haseltine has
stopped the ball and done something big, but it was all so quick, he
cannot quite make out what.

“A triple play――all three out,” Horton answers.

“H-A-S-E-L-T-I-N-E――Haselti-n-n-n-e!”

A moment later Jack understands it all. The ball from Ramsay’s bat had
gone straight into Haseltine’s hands, and though it had almost knocked
the little fellow over, he had managed to hold it, to step on to third
before Bedloe, who had started for home, realized the situation, and
then, keeping his wits still about him, put it in to Goldthwaite, at
second, with all his might, just in time to cut off Bobby Crosby, who
was between the bases. Three out――side out at one fell swoop. Bull
luck, as the Rogerines said, in speaking of the game afterwards.

It was luck, of course, that the ball went just where it did, making
such a combination possible; but many an opportunity in life, no less
favorable than Haseltine’s, is lost every day by the inability of man
or boy to avail himself of it. The ex-third base of the Rising Suns was
equal to his emergency when it came; though, between ourselves, it was
always a wonder to him that the ball had stuck in his hands. He had
caught it before he knew it.

So the dormitory match was over, and Fullham champion for another year,
by the close score of seven to six. It was a proud moment for Haseltine
when Harry Ramsay, the great school captain, went out of his way to
shake him by the hand and tell him that he was sure to make a strong
player in a year or two. He received quite an ovation, and made the
acquaintance on the spot of most of his own dormitory, and many from
Rogers and Dudley. Jack stood by thoroughly satisfied with his friend’s
success and proud to be the bearer of his jacket. Really, to rejoice at
another’s triumphs is quite as sterling a trait of character as to bear
modestly one’s own.

As the two boys were returning to their dormitory in company with
several others, they were overtaken by Carlisle, who, after a few words
of congratulation on Haseltine’s play, brought a host of fears, which
the excitement of the afternoon had banished, back to the minds of both
of them by observing in a low tone,――

“I’m sorry to say Jack Spratt and his Wife will be all the more down on
you after this. They are Rogerines, and it’s the cockiest thing a new
boy has done for a dog’s age.”

This was very depressing, and took the edge decidedly off the happy
frame of mind in which they would fain have remained. The game had
consumed most of the afternoon. There was an hour and a half of
recitation remaining before supper, the practice at Utopia being to
have recitations from nine until half-past twelve, and from half-past
four until six, during all but the last two months of the school
year, in order to let the boys have the best hours of sunshine on the
playground. In another week the rule was to change, and study would
follow dinner, as the afternoons were growing long and favorable for
sport.

When supper was done there was singing twice a week, and this was
one of the evenings. All the school gathered informally in the big
schoolroom, where, sitting round anyhow and anywhere, masters and
boys mingled together, chatted, and listened to songs supervised by
the singing-master, Mr. French, but entirely spontaneous. After the
singing was over, there was a short lee-way before bedtime, and every
one was left to his own devices. Most of the boys went back to their
dormitories, but the sixth class had the run of Mrs. Meredith’s parlor
during half an hour, where there were quiet games and puzzles of
various kinds to amuse them.

In returning to Fullham from this last-named entertainment, it was
necessary, of course, to traverse the quadrangle. When Jack and
Haseltine were about fifty yards from Granger, proceeding without
suspicions, they became suddenly aware of several figures in masks
and long cloaks, looming up ahead. At the same moment their feet were
tripped up from behind, a rope quickly and strenuously twisted around
their bodies, and a large hand compressed upon each of their mouths.
They had no time to cry out. After a few frantic, futile efforts to get
free, Jack ceased to struggle, and permitted himself to be bound by his
captors, whom he assumed with a sinking heart to be no other than the
notorious Spratt and Wife. A bandage had been fastened over his eyes
almost immediately, and, helpless as a dead man, he was borne along in
silence for a considerable distance, as it seemed to him, at a slow jog
trot. Presently the procession stopped, confronted by some obstacle,
and Jack was able to distinguish the voice of Carlisle remonstrating
with his persecutors. He heard him say distinctly, “They are good
fellows, both of them, I assure you; let them off this time.”

“They’re too beastly cocky,” was the reply, in a shrill, hyena-like
tone.

“That’s so,” broke in another with a no less bloodthirsty modulation,
whom Jack judged to be Wifey. “I vote we smash every bone in their
bodies.”

“On to the torture chamber,” continued the first speaker, a sentiment
which was received with an approving Ah-h-h! by the others present.

“I’ve done all I could to save them,” observed Carlisle, with a gloomy
sigh of resignation.

Jack, who had been laid upon the ground during this interlude, now
felt himself being carried up a flight of winding stairs and along a
corridor, to an apartment where, after some whispering on the part
of those about him, he perceived that he was being lowered into a
narrow box. This, it suddenly occurred to him, was a coffin. A fear
which brought the perspiration out in cold patches seized him. At its
height the cover was pressed down, and he was left to his own gloomy
reflections, which included the expectation of stifling. But though the
space was contracted and the air hot, he experienced no real difficulty
in drawing breath.

Here he lay for what seemed an eternity, listening to the preparations
which were evidently going on around him. He could hear the hum of
conversation and occasionally a smothered laugh, but the voices
had all the shrill, fiendish pitch of those which had replied to
Carlisle’s protestations. What were they going to do with him? Was he
dead already, and was this his funeral? He stirred one of his legs a
little and pinched himself to make sure that he was alive. Yes, he was
still in the flesh. The torture, then, was yet to come. Well, whatever
happened, he would die bravely. Not a groan, not a cry for mercy, would
he utter. He would be game to the last, and his tormentors should not
have the satisfaction of seeing him funk while they were breaking his
bones. A tear did come to his eye as he thought of his mother, and how
she would miss him; but he braced his nerves as he felt it trickling,
unwilling to be guilty of weakness, even under the shelter of the
coffin-lid.

At this moment he was lifted, box and all, and placed on what might be
a table. Immediately the cover was raised, and in spite of his bandage
the fact that the room was lighted became apparent to him, while a low
chorus of groans suggestive of animals eager to slake their thirst in
human blood vibrated on his imaginative and frenzied hearing. Then
there was a hush preliminary to the dreadful remark which proceeded
from the foot of the coffin, “Are the irons red-hot?”

“They are, your Mightiness.”

“Let the neophyte’s arm be bared.”

Jack, though ignorant as to the meaning of the word neophyte, did not
doubt for an instant that he was referred to. He was seized straightway
on either side and raised to a sitting posture. The rope was unbound
from his right arm and those in charge of him were about to roll up the
sleeve of his jacket, when the voice of his Mightiness enjoined,――

“Let the left be seared instead of the right, for in case the neophyte
chance to survive the operation he will thus not be disabled in his
base-ball arm. It is fitting that mercy should temper justice.”

This piece of executive clemency was scarcely reassuring to poor Jack,
for the reason that there was evidently occasion to believe that he
would not outlive the torture about to be inflicted on him. He gritted
his teeth to avoid trembling, and tried to show no signs of fear, while
the assistants bared his forearm well up to the elbow. Just when they
had completed their task there came a loud knock at the door, and
whoever went to answer it announced, after a moment’s delay, with a
chuckle of exultation, “The other neophyte is dead.”

A savage yell of pleasure followed this announcement, which was a
dagger, as it were, in the bosom of our hero. Haseltine dead! He had
been tortured, doubtless, in another chamber and had not been able to
endure the agony.

But there was no time for reflection. A powerful wrist had grasped his
arm and was holding it out at full length. Then something which felt
like a glowing coal was pressed down on it with force and imbedded
in his flesh. Jack knew that it was the red-hot iron. The pain was
terrible and he was tempted to cry out, but by biting his lips he
managed to restrain himself. Somehow or other the suffering did not
increase after the first few moments, and as he was wondering at
the circumstance he was astounded to hear, “Let me go! let me go!”
uttered in a voice of agony close at hand. The conviction that it was
Haseltine’s voice eclipsed the consciousness of pain, and in another
instant his arm was let go, the bandage snatched from his eyes, and
Jack found himself in a blaze of light, surrounded by a host of
laughing countenances which greeted him with a roar of laughter.

At first he was completely dazed and unable to credit his senses; then,
as he gradually took in the situation, he perceived that he was sitting
upright in an old shoe box lined with a shawl and supported by a table.
Not more than a yard away sat Haseltine in a similar predicament,
with his left sleeve rolled up, and looking extremely sheepish. On a
throne――an arm-chair surmounting a pile, the component parts of which
were concealed by a table-cloth――was perched Jack Spratt, wearing a
paper crown, bearing a cricket bat as a sceptre, and sharing royalty
with Wifey at his side in female attire, intended to simulate a queen,
but suggesting to practiced eyes a gown borrowed for this occasion only
from Mrs. Betty Martin. A row of Apollinaris bottles, in each of which
was a lighted candle, blazed along the edge of the dais, at either wing
of which stood a score of schoolboys shaking with merriment at the
appearance of the two unfortunates.

Jack’s first reflection was one of self-congratulation that he had not
cried out. Then it occurred to him to glance at his arm, a proceeding
which was the cause of another burst of laughter. To his surprise,
there was no mark of any sort beyond a slight redness which was
scarcely noticeable. But his skin looked somewhat wet, as though water
had been brought in contact with it.

After a moment, his Mightiness, having induced silence by a wave of his
sceptre, exclaimed with great seriousness, “The chief executioner will
read the indictment against the neophytes.”

Whereupon, to Jack’s intense surprise, that functionary stepped forward
in the person of Louis Carlisle, fantastically attired in a black
Oxford gown and carrying a meat chopper as the symbol of his office.
Having bowed to their majesties, he gravely drew forth a manuscript and
addressed the two bewildered lads as follows:――

“Know all men by these presents, that you, John Hall, of Boston,
Massachusetts, and you, Frank Haseltine, of St. Louis, Missouri, are
greener than the grass when it flourisheth in the early days of summer,
fresher than paint just after it is spread on the door of a mansion,
more guileless than the kid which gambols in the pasture beside its
female parent. You have been sent here with your mouths wide open and
ready to swallow anything that is stuffed into them. Such innocence
is praiseworthy in the extremely youthful, but a time comes in the
experience of us all when it is meet to be undeceived even at the
expense of dire mortification.

“Learn of me and be wise. Firstly and foremostly, you have been made
sport of――victimized――fooled, or, to speak more succinctly, sold. You
have been made egregious asses of, and led to believe that you were
to be the victims of physical violence, to have your bones broken,
your heads punched, and what not. You expected to be hazed and we did
not like to disappoint you; hence the midnight seizure, the rope, the
bandage, the coffin, the red-hot iron, the branding. You have been
taught to tremble at the blood-curdling names of Jack Spratt and Wifey.
Behold them in the flesh and bow before them! You came here stuffed
with old women’s yarns, and Horace Hosmer has loaded you up to the
muzzle with a fresh supply. Poor little lambkins!”

As Carlisle paused in his sarcastic peroration the audience broke into
another shout of laughter, which caused Jack to blush vividly. He
appreciated now for the first moment that he had been the victim of a
huge practical joke.

“Secondly,” continued the orator, with a wave of his hand, “let whoever
will search the universe from one end to the other, and I defy him
to produce two more thoroughly mild and amiable specimens of the
genus _homo_ than Tobey and Donaldson, who have been made to figure
as monsters of cruelty for your edification. In justice to them,
neophytes, I bid you approach them. Exhume yourselves, so to speak,
and go up to examine them. You will perceive that they are perfectly
harmless, and even unusually good-natured fellows. You may touch them
without fear that one of your bones will be dislocated. Approach,
neophytes, they are prepared to embrace you.”

Again everybody laughed, while Jack and Haseltine looked at one
another, at a loss, not unnaturally, to know whether the order to leave
their coffins was to be taken seriously. But this uncertainty was
solved when his Mightiness reiterated, at the same time removing his
crown and assuming an exaggerated expression of meekness, “Approach,
neophytes, we are prepared to embrace you.”

In a shamefaced manner, but doing their best to enjoy the laugh against
themselves, which now made the room ring, the two boys clambered down
from their boxes and walked toward the throne. Its grinning occupants
sat for a moment enjoying the confusion evinced by the poor lads before
them, then Jack Spratt put out his hand and said,――

“Shake, neophytes. My bark is worse than my bite.”

“Me, too,” piped Donaldson, in semblance to a female falsetto, which
elicited a roar.

“Thirdly and lastly,” exclaimed Carlisle, after Jack and Haseltine had
finished this hand-shaking and been relegated to their coffins, on the
edge of which they were permitted to sit,――“thirdly and lastly,” he
repeated, “there is a moral to all this, without which our efforts in
your behalf might be misunderstood, and that is, don’t be too English.
You boys――for I address you no longer as neophytes, but as Utopia
boys――must get out of your heads that an American school is just like
an English one, for it isn’t. You’ve come with the idea that we have
fagging and hazing and all that sort of thing, but it’s a mistake.
There isn’t a fag at Utopia, and if a big boy wants anything done he
has to do it himself. Every tub stands on its own bottom here, and a
sixth-class boy is just as good as a first. No running errands――no
cleaning out studies――no cuffing! That may be English; but it isn’t
American, is it, fellows?”

“Not much,” answered several voices.

“We’re all equals here. There may be a bully or two,――I don’t say there
is,――but there may be in any school. There’s no system of bullying,
though, and no boy thinks he has the right to order others round. If he
tried it on he’d soon find out his mistake.”

“That’s so.”

“And now, fellows,” continued Carlisle, whose satirical tone had
changed to a pleasant seriousness, “I tell Hall and Haseltine, in
all our names, that we’re glad to have them at Utopia; and some day
they’ll bring credit on the school, for they are both plucky boys. Hall
didn’t whimper once to-night; he was game from the word ‘go’; and we
Fullhamites haven’t forgotten that triple play of Haseltine’s, and we
shan’t for a good while to come.”

Whereupon the chief executioner, having divested himself of his robe
of office, emphasized the plaudits of the roomful of boys by coming
forward in easy, smiling fashion to grasp the two victims of his
oratory by the hand, in which example he was being followed by every
one, when a knock at the door introduced Mr. Sawyer, the dormitory
master, who had come to ascertain the cause of the merriment. He stood
on the threshold looking round the small study――it was Carlisle’s
own――packed with boys, quite unable, it was evident, to explain the
signification of the boxes, blacking-bottles, and various paraphernalia
of royalty which met his sight. Some of the participants seemed rather
disconcerted by his appearance, but there was a general disposition to
laugh, and one boy exclaimed,――

“You ought to have heard Carlisle, Mr. Sawyer; he was really as good as
Dr. Meredith.”

This necessitated an unfolding of the whole affair, which was listened
to somewhat dubiously until it appeared to the master’s satisfaction
that no real harm had been done, and that the moral deduced to justify
the high jinks was not without its value. Mr. Sawyer was fain to laugh
himself at the villainous traits ascribed to Spratt and his Wife, and
took occasion to clinch the lesson imparted by saying, as he patted
Jack on the head by way of sympathy for his discomfiture,――

“So you expected to be a fag, did you, my little man? We have nothing
of that sort here, you may take my word for it. Come,” he added, “it is
time for prayers and bed.”

While they were undressing, half an hour later, Haseltine whispered to
Homer, “What was it they put on my arm which stung so?”

“A lump of ice, you loony.”

CHAPTER VIII.

SETTLING DOWN.

The remaining weeks of the school year passed very rapidly with Jack.
Indeed, before he had become accustomed to his new life they were gone.
After Carlisle’s peroration the two new-comers were allowed to drop
into the obscurity which befits small boys, and to find their natural
level among their associates. They made friends easily, and Jack in
his letters home described Utopia in glowing terms. The lack of a
wherry of his own seemed to be the only drawback to his happiness. So
picturesquely did he lay this want before his mother that she wrote
back that if he made a fair showing in the way of scholarship by the
end of the term he should have one, with the consent of Dr. Meredith.
Poor Jack little knew his own propensities in imagining that he would
find slight difficulty in fulfilling this condition.

But as there were several wherries belonging to the school, he was
able within a very short time to gratify his ambition to handle the
sculls. He and Horton went down to the lake before breakfast one
morning, especially to engage two crack boats for the afternoon, as
there was a great demand for them at this time of the year. Jack
started off confidently, hoping to dazzle the occupants of the float
by the knowingness of his style, but at the third stroke caught a crab
which nearly upset him and made him extremely cautious henceforward.
After paddling about a little he managed to get the knack of keeping
his balance in the cranky concern, but he had to own to himself that he
knew very little about rowing, and must begin to learn all over again.

This was rather a come-down for Jack, but he was not alone in his
discomfiture. In spite of Haseltine’s brilliant performance against
Rogers, his place on the Fullham nine was filled by convalescent
players, and he had to endure the mortification of becoming one of
the herd who practiced scrub. It galled his pride to be unattached.
That the ex-third base of the Rising Suns should be shunted off to
find equals among the mass on the practice-field wounded him to the
quick. However, he went in hammer and tongs to improve his game, with
a determination to be satisfied with nothing short of the captaincy
of the school-team at last. It did not take him long to convince the
younger boys that he was an authority on base-ball matters. He knew the
standing of every team, and the record of every player in the country,
and once a week he received from home a newspaper devoted to the
interests of the national game, every item in which he could repeat by
rote.

There is a certain number of people who argue that it makes very little
difference after all whether a boy studies at school or not, provided
he is turned out at the end of the curriculum an upright, honorable
gentleman, with a clean mind, a manly tone, and generous instincts.
While, as between the alternatives of inferior training in the way of
books and neglect of the moral character, one could scarcely hesitate
which to avoid, the parent content to have his or her son graduate
merely a good-natured, well-mannered, easy-going athlete has sadly
misconceived the proper relation between master and pupil. Indeed,
it may be said that nothing can be more deplorable than a system of
education which does not stimulate excellence in scholarship, unless
it be one that promotes it at the expense of high principle. We often
hear it said that the chief benefit of school or college is the effect
on character. Very good; but surely it is no error to maintain that
the character of the boy untrained to use his mind intelligently is
not highly to be extolled. This idea, boys, of becoming easy-going and
nothing else is a very unfortunate one to entertain, especially in our
country, where every man is expected to contribute in some way toward
making the world more civilized, and a sweeter, happier place to live
in. We need to-day the services of keen, disciplined minds in active
life, and in its quiet walks those who love learning for her own sake,
and are ready to devote patient days to the pursuit of ripe scholarship.

Fortunately for Jack――though he was slow to think it fortunate――Dr.
Meredith was determined to have as few dunces as possible at Utopia. He
was a fine scholar himself, and had to help him a corps of enthusiastic
instructors, most of them men fresh from some university. Experience
had already taught him that chronic idleness and dislike for study
cannot be cured in a fortnight. Hence he and his assistants were
content to peg away at incorrigible pupils without expecting to work
wonders all at once, but never yielding an inch nor losing ground once
gained.

This studying business was the only part of the school programme which
Jack did not thoroughly enjoy. He started off in his old way by merely
glancing at his lessons and floundering through them as best he could,
never doubting that after a lecture or two on the subject of idleness,
he would be permitted to lag along at the foot of the class without
remark. He was used to being brought up with a round turn once a month
or so, and after the scolding was over knew that he was safe to relapse
until the next time. But he could count on that comfortable condition
of affairs no longer. The continual pegging away referred to, of which
he was now the victim, was inexpressibly irritating. His masters――he
had a different one in almost every study――excited both his resentment
and his wonder by patiently trying to make him take an interest in his
tasks. Instead of being ordered in a peremptory tone to “sit down,”
after an egregious mistake, he was kept upon his feet and not only
told the answer (generally from the lips of some other boy), but asked
to repeat it, and to remember it too at the next recitation. This was
harassing, especially so when he found himself obliged to spend part of
the afternoon in the schoolroom instead of on the playground, because
he persisted in considering his lessons of no account. His little soul
was fairly in a ferment of indignation. What was the use of study, he
would ask himself. As for books, he would be glad for his part never to
see another, unless, of course, one of adventures on the sea or in the
far West. Would Latin or arithmetic make him a better oar or a surer
short-stop? Not a bit of it, he was certain of that; and so, masters or
no masters, he was disposed to let his lessons slide.

Accordingly, Mrs. Hall was made to feel badly by receiving, soon after
Jack went home for vacation, a report of his progress as a scholar very
far from satisfactory, accompanied by a few lines from Dr. Meredith,
calling attention to the fact that her son was inclined to be lazy, and
urging her to use her influence to correct this failing. She did, and
so persuasively, that Jack promised with sobs――and he was thoroughly
penitent――to turn over a new leaf when he went back. He got his wherry,
too, in spite of not deserving it, for his mother had not the heart to
disappoint him, which gives one the opportunity to suggest that perhaps
Jack had been a little spoiled ever since he was a baby. However, if
our mothers did not make light of and forgive our shortcomings, who
would? Nevertheless, I think he had been sent to Utopia School none too
soon for his welfare.

There were changes, of course, when he returned in the autumn. Harry
Ramsay, Bedloe, and Goldthwaite of the nine, Burbank captain of the
fifteen, and Hazelhurst the champion oar, were gone and their places
as leaders filled by others. Bobby Crosby was, on the whole, cock of
the school, being captain of the foot-ball team and a rousing fellow
generally. The kid, who was only in the second, had been promoted to
pitch for the school nine, and Chalmers the old captain of Fullham had
succeeded Harry Ramsay, which left two vacancies on the dormitory nine,
for one of which――right field――Haseltine was selected, an unusual
honor for so young a player.

Both he and Jack felt quite like old boys in coming back as members
of the fifth class, and entered upon the new year in the best of
spirits. Foot-ball was the school game just now, at which neither
of them was slow in acquiring some proficiency. Early in November
the autumn athletic meeting was to take place, and there was much
training among the competitors for the various events. The school
interest which had been much exercised over the two-hundred yard dash
waned greatly, however, when it became known that Louis Carlisle
had withdrawn, thereby giving a walk-over (according to the general
opinion) to Coleman, Junior. Rumor was loud in some quarters in
describing Carlisle’s action as a “squawk,” and Jack found difficulty
in understanding the reasons which the champion gave for his refusal to
run.

It is not easy to explain the origin of friendships, but ever since the
evening when Jack had acted so pluckily in not crying out when he felt
what he believed to be the branding-iron on his arm, Carlisle had shown
an interest in him. If this were not the cause that had attracted the
older to the new boy, it may have been the lack of jealousy which our
hero had showed at Haseltine’s success against the Rogerines. At any
rate, for some reason or other Carlisle had taken to him from the very
first, evincing a liking by superintending Jack’s rowing on the lake;
asking him to walk on Sunday afternoons; and, now that as a member of
the second class he had a study to himself, by inviting his young crony
to share its comforts whenever he might see fit to do so. The good will
thus shown was duly appreciated, and the intimacy between them became
marked and firmly established.

At first Jack was chiefly absorbed by and grateful for the instruction
in the way of handling the oars, and of making progress in the
various sports in which he was interested, which he received from
his new friend, so that he thought of very little else; but he found
it pleasant, nevertheless, to establish himself from time to time in
Carlisle’s cosy apartment and listen to his mentor prattle on about
whatever happened to be in his mind at the moment. Carlisle had a way
of ignoring the youngster’s presence and of talking as though he were
all alone, merely appealing to Jack in much the same way as one will
appeal to an imaginary second self, not expecting an answer. Indeed,
Jack was quite incapable of answering the conundrums proposed to him
in this manner, and much of what he listened to was very perplexing
to him. He enjoyed it, however, though he found it very difficult to
understand how anybody could spend so much time over books and study
as Carlisle did. His amazement found voice when, early in the term,
Carlisle announced his intention not to try for the school nine, and to
knock off from exercise of every sort except a daily row on the lake to
keep himself in condition.

“What, not go in training for any of the running races?” asked Jack.

“No.”

“Why not? You’re sure to win.”

“I think I am,” Carlisle answered, with a smile. “There’s no one that I
know of who’s come up since last year.”

“There’s Coleman, Junior,” said Jack doubtfully. He did not suspect his
friend of funking, but the remark popped out in spite of himself.

“Yes, I know. Some of the fellows will say I’m scared. Well, let them.
I don’t care. As I’ve told you before, Jessup will beat Coleman, if
nothing happens. I can’t afford to waste my time merely to please a few
fellows.”

Jack could not understand speaking of winning the championship of
Utopia on the running track as a waste of time.

“Shan’t you kick foot-ball either?” he went on.

“No; I’ve had my fill of games for the present,” Carlisle answered, in
his soliloquizing way. “I’ve made up my mind that it pays to do a few
things well, and to stick to them instead of straying all over the lot.
I’ve kept going at full pitch in sixty different directions ever since
I was your age, and it’s time to quit. I can’t stand it, that’s the
long and short of it. ‘Je plie et ne romps pas,’ is a motto that can be
run into the ground.”

“What does that mean?” asked Jack. “I suppose it’s French.”

“Tough on my accent,” responded Carlisle, with a grin. “Yes, it’s
French, and means ‘I bend and do not break.’ But bending is about as
uncomfortable as breaking, in the long run, youngster.”

“What _are_ you going to do then?” continued his interrogator, for
Jack like most American boys was not to be deterred from obtaining
information for lack of persistence in asking questions.

“I’m going to study, chiefly.”

“Study?” Jack stared aghast. “I shouldn’t think there’d be much fun in
that,” he added, after a pause.

“Because you don’t know anything about it.”

“I hate study,” observed Jack dogmatically.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“I tell you I do. I detest it!”

“Oh, no, you don’t, for you have no conception what it is,” replied
Carlisle, laughing. “I don’t believe you ever did an hour’s real study
in your life.”

This view of the case had not occurred to Jack, and he was not prepared
to gainsay the statement. Something prompted him to glance around the
room at the rows of books nearly covering two walls of the den, and
the three or four poetically conceived pictures in tasteful frames to
which he had never given a second thought before. On the table were
writing-materials and other paraphernalia suggestive of a student.
“You see,” continued Carlisle quietly, “I’m fond of study. I really
enjoy Latin and Greek and history. We’re just beginning Homer, and
there are parts of it that are delightful. I don’t care much for
algebra, but they say it strengthens the mind. I shan’t go in for
anything very desperately, though, this year,” he added. “I’ve been
thinking over Dr. Bolles’s numerous lectures to me on the subject, and
have decided to limit myself to three things,――study, the school paper,
and rowing,――and not to overtax myself at any one of them. If I don’t,
Dr. Bolles says there is no reason why I shouldn’t grow rugged. It’ll
be pleasant to feel at the end of each day that I haven’t used up every
spark of vitality I possess.”

To Jack, whose ideas of responsibility were at this time excessively
vague, this sort of talk must have sounded almost unintelligible.
However, it soaked in with everything else that was part and parcel of
his daily experience; and whatever he may have thought of the views
expressed, he lived to see Carlisle’s prediction regarding Coleman
verified by Jessup’s comparatively easy victory in the two hundred yard
dash at the athletic meeting in November.

These half-yearly meetings were great occasions at Utopia. In addition
to the foot-races, which included both long and short distances, there
was rope-climbing, fence-vaulting, standing and running high jumps,
sparring and wrestling in three classes,――feather, middle, and heavy
weight,――and a tug of war between teams from the several dormitories to
end up with. Altogether the scene was decidedly Olympian. There were
so many events that almost every boy felt that he had a chance in one
direction or another. Jack entered for the feather-weight wrestling,
but only to be thrown, after a savage tussle, flat on his back, and
to have his shoulders pinned to the ground by Carpenter, who, though
a year older, was just about his size. It was a very even contest,
though, everybody admitted. He also was one of the field of seven who
contested with Jessup the two-hundred yard race, having been advised by
Carlisle to go in just to show what he was made of, and he was rather
proud at coming in fifth, being beaten by Hopedale, of the next higher
class, only by a shave. Haseltine, who also entered, was sixth, which
was a considerable comfort to Jack.

But the contests with the gloves were what took his fancy more than
anything else, and he was fired at once with the desire to learn
boxing. This was easy to do, for Dr. Meredith was decidedly of the
opinion that boys should understand the art of self-defense, which was
accordingly taught at the gymnasium by Dr. Bolles and his assistant,
to all who desired to receive instruction. There were a good many
competitors for distinction in this line, and the rivalry resulted in
some hitting and receiving of tolerably hard knocks, which now and
then bore fruit in the shape of a bloody nose or black eye in spite of
well-padded gloves. And yet, notwithstanding all this emulation, it
was very rarely, if ever, as Jack soon realized, that the combatants
had occasion to make practical use of the knowledge thus acquired,
so long as they were at Utopia. Indeed, it may almost be stated as a
general truth that the American boy does not go in for the deliberate
slugging contests one reads about as common among the youth of the
Mother Country. Unless from a spirit of sheer imitation, it is unusual,
I believe, for you young fellows to settle bad blood by a cut-and-dried
fight after the manner of “Tom Brown and ‘Slugger’ Williams,” with
whose thrilling set-to you should all be familiar. Plenty of you get
mad and in the heat of the moment slap a fellow’s face, or slang him
until he cuffs you; and then there is give and take for a few moments,
in the course of which science may get in an upper cut or some such
telling stroke; but your friends are almost certain to drag you apart
before much damage is done, and hold you back until you have cooled
down. The idea of forming a “ring” with backers and sponges “to fight
it out” doesn’t seem to occur to either of you, or, if it does, public
opinion――and by that I mean school opinion――is against you. I rather
think that any boy, whether a Utopian or otherwise, can count on the
fingers of a single hand the number of regular out-and-out fights in
the course of his school-days he has either participated in or been
present at.

There must be some reason for this, and you do not need to be told that
American boys are neither effeminate nor afraid to use their fists when
occasion requires. Lack of pluck is not a national failing. We stood
up at Bunker Hill against bullets long enough to convince our enemies
that there was mettle in us, and there are graveyards within walking
distance of every lad under the stars and stripes who may read this
story, in which can be noted the tribute of posterity to those who died
in defense of their country. There is no sort of doubt that our boys
can hit straight from the shoulder whenever it is worth their while to
do so.

I have an idea――it may be a mistaken one, though I am fatuous enough
to have faith in it――that the world in growing older has grown wiser,
and less cruel and brutish. We elders proscribed duels long ago on
the score that they were unmanly and inconsistent with the requisites
of Christian character; and dreadful as are the preparations which
even to-day are going on in so many countries of the globe with an
eye to deadly strife, there can be no doubt that civilized nations
are much less ready to plunge into war than they used to be, and much
more inclined to submit their differences to arbitration. There are
cynics――at least they seem such to me――who maintain that there must
always be wars until the end of time, if for no other reason than
to dispose of the surplus population, and that national reluctance
to engage in them proceeds from economic rather than humanitarian
scruples. But those of us who still believe that mankind is surely,
even if slowly, making progress toward a higher state of civilization,
cannot but be of the opinion that wholesale resorts to force to
settle disputes must inevitably become less and less frequent, from
the growing conviction among human beings that they are a relic of
barbarism. Already has this conviction made such headway that the most
autocratic governments would hesitate at the present day to declare war
without first invoking the aid of referees, if the matter at issue were
capable of peaceable solution.

In like manner it is fair to believe that the doctrine of forbearance
is so much in the air that you boys have become inoculated with its
spirit, and have learned to abstain from blows until every other remedy
has failed. There is no cowardice in such a policy. Mere fighting for
the sake of fighting savors of the brute, not of the gentleman. But
this is to be borne in mind notwithstanding, though I have no doubt
that you do not need the prompting: when you _are_ struck, hit back
with all your might. Be slow to strike the first blow, or to provoke
assault, but beware of letting forbearance outrun its usefulness as a
virtue. Sunday-school teachers may argue as they will, but the world
will never learn to applaud or to respect the man or boy who allows his
rights to be trampled on without stubborn resistance.

December brought with it ice and snow, coasting and skating, which for
the time being overruled all other sports and interests for Jack. For a
good four months the school was face to face with winter, which means
in this country something worthy of the name,――genuine stinging cold,
which makes boys’ cheeks glow if they move briskly, but numbs their
fingers if they sit still; and a roaring fire in the great schoolroom
in the evening, around which it is the fashion to group and sing. At
this last-named trysting-place serviceable friendships are formed, and,
in the case of Jack, an old one is renewed. December brought with it
Bill French, the same Bill as of yore, and yet developed, as it were,
in that he is no longer the street urchin of a year ago, indifferent
as to his clothes and hair. Bill has spruced himself eminently, and
is quite the little gentleman now in his cut and manner. He does not
take much part in sports himself, but he knows all about them, and is
eager to back this sprinter or that oarsman for anything from a nickel
up to five dollars, which is a fabulous sum at Utopia, as you may
well imagine. He has at the very outset created a profound sensation
by managing to retain greenbacks to the amount of five times that
sum about his person, in spite of the school rule that all money,
save a very small stipend for the pocket, is to go into the Doctor’s
strong-box for safe-keeping.

“How did you manage to hold on to it?” whispered Jack, whose admiration
for Bill’s cunning ways is still deep.

“Didn’t give it to him, that’s all.”

“Didn’t he ask you for it?”

“What if he did? It’s my money, not his. Father gave it to me, and I
mean to spend it as I choose.”

This deliberate springing in the teeth of authority was something new
at Utopia, and, like most novelties, gave its originator notoriety
at once. Jack felt proud at being on such terms with the new school
favorite, who before long took upon himself the airs of a leader
among the younger boys, with revolt as a motto. The Doctor was all
very well, but he, Bill French, was not going to bend the knee to any
Doctor, no matter how wise and good. He had come there to have a good
time, and he meant to have it.

It took Bill some months, naturally, to raise his standard. His
methods, as you know, were for the most part underground like the
mole. He did not believe in being found out, and he had no intention
of getting into open trouble with the powers that were, if he could
help it. His fad was for managing and directing, and he was content
to suggest, and to let others work out his theories without asking
for more than a tithe of the glory. Great schemes must move slowly to
insure success.

So Bill to the ordinary eye appeared rather a desirable addition than
otherwise to the make-up of the school. He had always been rather quick
at his books, and found no difficulty now in taking a respectable
place in Jack’s class, where he kept his head above water easily,
thus hoodwinking one of the eyes of Argus. Where Bill really showed
himself in his true kidney was about the aforesaid fire on cold winter
nights, when he had an opportunity to fascinate the circle snuggled
around him by hints as to what might be done if one only dared. Many
listened, and Jack most eagerly of all. Were they not Americans? Bill
argued. And when did a true-born patriot, whether man or boy, put up
with being hedged about with laws which he despised? As a proof of what
might be accomplished in the way of resistance without difficulty,
the arch-conspirator excited the envy of all whom he took into the
secret by exhibiting on his return to school at the beginning of the
fourth-class year a pair of white mice in the corner of one of his
bureau-drawers. Nor was Bill stupid enough to let them remain there
long enough to fall under the eagle eye of Mrs. Betty, who was liable
to come prowling round at any time with power paramount to overhaul to
her heart’s content. When the little creatures, a month later, presided
over a family,――another triumph for their proprietor,――it was in the
pocket of a pair of trousers hanging harmlessly from a peg.

The influence of genius such as this was hard to resist, and had
it stopped here, authority might justifiably have been disposed to
regard it without concern; but Bill was not always so happy in his
infringements of the law. He was wont to exhibit with pride a small
silver case in which reposed real cigarettes,――no blood-sucking
rattan subterfuges, but the genuine aristocratic article, which he
was in the habit of smoking when he could safely do so with the air
of a thorough-going sport, as any one at Utopia who witnessed the
performance would agree. At such times Bill was a decidedly agreeable
companion. In the first place he could talk knowingly by the hour on
dogs and horses, a subject which was imperfectly understood at Utopia
prior to his arrival. All the cant phrases of the stable were at his
command, and he replenished them by the perusal of a weekly sporting
paper to which he subscribed, and which put Haseltine’s base-ball sheet
completely in the shade. In his opinion, life at the school was tame,
and stood in need of thorough reorganization.

Much as Jack admired Bill, he was not really surprised to hear Carlisle
observe, some weeks after the first appearance of that wily youth, “I
don’t care much for your new friend, youngster.”

“Why not, Louis?”

“I guess he’s sneaky, isn’t he? Looks it, any way.”

“He’s mighty smart,” answered Jack evasively.

“I dare say.”

“You ought to like him,” pursued Jack, “for he’s a first-rate scholar.
He could stand a good deal higher if he chose to study.”

Carlisle laughed. “I set store by study I know,” he said, “but it isn’t
a free pass to my favor, as you appear to think. Strange as it may
seem, I prefer you, idle as you are, to your industrious friend. And by
the way, Jack, you have been worse than ever, lately. You must brace up
or you will have the Doctor down on you.”

Both were silent for a moment. It was something new for Carlisle
to lecture, as he would have called it. He had always shrunk from
preaching to his friend deliberately, intimate as were their relations,
preferring to indicate by chaff and indirect suggestions what might be
in his mind regarding Jack’s needs. But these few words were spoken so
seriously that the culprit looked at him astonished.

There was a reason for them. Dr. Meredith, having great faith in
the influence for good which the larger boys at a school like Utopia
can exert upon their juniors, lost no occasion to impress upon his
favorites their duty in this respect. Only the day before he had
chanced upon Carlisle strolling down toward the river alone, and had
joined him.

“You’re looking better, Louis, I’m glad to see. Your more sober life
agrees with you.”

Somehow or other the Doctor knew the imperfect joint in the armor
of every one of his pupils, and he was no less prompt to seize an
opportunity to speak a word of encouragement, than he was courageous in
probing a weakness to the core.

“I’m in first-rate condition, sir. Gained five pounds this term.”

“I wish, now that your hand is in, you’d see what you could do with
Hall,” the Doctor had continued. “I am disturbed at the way the boy is
going on. He seems a manly, spirited fellow, and I like him, but he
won’t study. In fact, he’s getting more of a shirk every day.”

“Yes, sir, he doesn’t study much, that’s a fact,” observed Carlisle.

“A word from you, Louis, might do an immense amount of good. He’d
listen to you when he wouldn’t to me.”

Carlisle had hung his head and remained silent. He knew very well
what Doctor Meredith meant, for had he not observed Jack’s idleness
with increasing regret, and yet been content to pass it off with an
occasional jest? All his talk during their intercourse had been about
himself, concerning which he could discourse glibly enough; but such
speculation as he was wont to indulge in, however suggestive to an
intelligent listener, was scarcely the sort of pabulum by which to
convert a hobble-de-hoy offender like Jack. He had been conscious for
some time of what with his disposition to call things by their right
names he considered his own selfishness and self-absorption, and this
solicitation of the Doctor’s thrust them forward into the light.

“I know what you would say,” his master had continued. “You have a
horror of sermonizing. You don’t wish to spoil your relations with him,
as you think, by being serious. You are right, Louis, in that. But I
don’t believe, if you look at the matter squarely, that you would drive
Hall into his shell by letting him see that you don’t approve of his
present way of going on.”

“He knows I approve of study.”

“Yes, for yourself,” had answered the sagacious Doctor. “Let him
understand thoroughly that it is just as imperative for him.”

“I’ll try, sir,” the older boy had answered, after a pause.

“I shall be infinitely obliged to you; and while we are on the subject,
what sort of a boy is this William French? I understand that he and
Hall are old cronies. Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” had added
the Doctor, who sympathized with the code of honor which prompts a
schoolboy to abstain from speaking ill of one of his companions.

“He doesn’t seem to me very straightforward,” had blurted out
Carlisle, instigated perhaps by a desire to protect Jack from the evil
machinations of the new-comer.

“Indeed! That is not a pleasant trait. Thank you, Louis. Such boys as
you can do a great deal to help me, if you only will, without in any
way impairing your obligations as ‘good fellows.’”

The first result of this conversation has been indicated. Carlisle’s
words, limited as they were, came at a moment when Jack was sorely
in need of them. Although he made no comment at the time, other than
to look grave, and though he sought to brush the remembrance of them
away as speedily as possible, he was nevertheless face to face with
the consciousness――a consciousness of which he had caught occasional
glimpses before of late――of dissatisfaction with himself. What was
more, it enthralled him like a net, and the more he struggled held
him the tighter. Vague lack of content with one’s own career is not
synonymous with an intention to reform, but it is a step in the right
direction. Jack would never be able to feel again, except through utter
callousness of soul, that satisfaction in wrong-doing which exists
before the sense of responsibility is awakened.

There is little further to chronicle regarding the second year of
Jack’s school-life, which sped along from week to week without
revealing much outward change in his daily routine of duties and
pleasures; the former endured with unwillingness and neglected so far
as was possible, the latter participated in with untiring enthusiasm.
In the class-room he was the same mischief-making, idle urchin as
ever, distinguished for his dog’s-eared, caricature-lined books of
study, and an utter ignorance of their contents. On the playground
every faculty seemed alert, and all his energy centred in excelling at
whatever pastime he was for the moment fascinated by.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BIG FOUR.

As a fourth-class boy Jack fairly felt his oats, and with justice, if
one considers what a satisfactory status was meant by that term at
Utopia. A fourth-classer had nothing to learn, so to speak. He knew all
the ropes. He had at his fingers’ ends every thing connected with the
ways of the school, and was entitled to regard himself as untainted by
greenness of any description. Pride and some bumptiousness were the
result, but more particularly a rattling way of doing things as though
those engaged in whatever was in hand had unlimited confidence in
themselves, as indeed they had. To be a fourth-classer, if one were a
prominent fellow, was the same as being one of the cocks of the lower
school, and a person to be deferred to whenever any matter was mooted
concerning the more juvenile half of the body politic.

Taking the list by and large, there were no more prominent
fourth-classers in their year than the quartette who trained together
under the pseudonym of “The Big Four.” These were Jack, Haseltine,
Bill French, and Horton. In justice to Bill, his name should have been
written first, for it was he who had conceived the idea of welding
into one compact body the best material in the class, with a view to
coöperation in various directions. To his brain was due the origin of
the mysterious secret society, of which he and his three pals were the
units. At Utopia, where there had never been a secret society up to
this time, whoever referred to “The Big Four” spoke with bated breath,
as of an organization very little understood, and in awe of which it
was incumbent to stand.

Bill came back after vacation full of the scheme, and found little
difficulty in making its merits apparent to Jack. After some cogitation
the number was swelled by the election of Haseltine and Horton. The
constitution was a sort of cross between the Declaration of Rights
and such an instrument as a community of bandits might have drawn for
mutual protection. It began as follows:――

“ARTICLE I.

“This society is organized to secure to free-born American citizens the
enjoyment of their natural liberties.”

A sentiment distinctly praiseworthy, at least on the surface, and broad
in its scope. After this general definition of usefulness and certain
provisions as to name, membership, and grip, appeared a few by-laws,
embodying a most salient code of behavior, among which was the third,
to wit:――

“No member shall, on pain of expulsion, kiss any female except his
mother.”

To cap and clinch the whole, thus heading off treachery at the start,
it was laid down,――

“Whoever shall at any period of his existence divulge, or in any manner
make known, the secrets of this society, or shall with or without
malice-aforethought break its laws or abandon its principles, shall
suffer death with torture, to be inflicted by the members for the time
being, except as otherwise herein provided.”

This joint production, for each of the four had a hand in its
composition, was solemnly signed and sworn to at midnight in the
lavatory where the whole society assembled by concerted action. To
make the oath more binding, the pen was dipped in the blood of the
successive signers, at Haseltine’s prompting, who fully believed at the
time that whoever should violate it could not escape a lingering death.
He even went so far as to suggest that a burning-glass focused upon the
abdomen would probably produce as exquisite suffering as any of the
appliances known to inquisitorial or savage torturers. To Jack belonged
the credit of devising the already quoted clause relating to women,
the reception of which was unequivocally enthusiastic, and seemed to
them to stamp the organization at once as a manly body, proof against
Delilahs, or all feminine influence except that prescribed by early
piety.

“I hate girls; they’re silly little things,” continued the originator
of the by-law in question.

“I’d like to see one of them try to kiss me!” said Haseltine.

The latter idea did not seem so repulsive to Bill and Horton, though
they acquiesced in the provision as smacking of wisdom, on the whole.
Indeed, almost from the start, there was a difference of opinion,
scarcely perceptible at first, but constantly growing wider, as to the
real functions of “The Big Four.”

To Jack and Haseltine it stood for freedom, and defiance of authority
in any form, and especially defiance against the Doctor, to be
evidenced by disobedience, as the spirit might move, whether in the way
of marauding expeditions or midnight feasts. Caution, more than was
absolutely necessary, was disregarded by them, and concealment was a
policy which they despised. They were indifferent, not only as to what
authority might think, but even as to whether authority was aware of
what they were up to. War to the knife, without mercy or compromise on
either side, was what they craved, proudly confident of their ability
to trample authority in the dust.

But the other two were wiser in their generation, with the wisdom of
the serpent. They believed distinctly in lying low, and in masking the
countenance both metaphorically and literally. “Do _wrong_ by stealth
and blush to find it fame,” would have seemed to them an admirable
epitome of their views. And just as their methods savored of craft and
underhandedness, so their favorite acts of defiance――for in throwing
off authority all were united――were apt to be such as would not bear
the light of day. Vice is a parasite that flourishes best in the shade.
There Bill French’s whisper sounded most seductively, and his “I say,
fellows, I know what let’s do,” was least easy to resist.

Such was the attraction of this new interest that Jack thought of but
little else. Not only did he begin to neglect Carlisle, but he ceased
to feel his old ambition to excel at games. At the spring athletic
meeting of the year before he had followed Carlisle’s advice to hold
off for another six months, but when the time came the following autumn
he failed to make as good a record as when he had first appeared on the
track. He was only seventh this time in a field of eight, being almost
distanced by Hopedale, whom he had pressed so close on the previous
occasion. Such were his disgust and mortification that he thereupon
had his name scratched from both the feather-weight wrestling and the
feather-weight sparring, in each of which events he had intended to be
a competitor. He felt thoroughly angry, and the secret cause of his
anger was the consciousness that it was all his own fault. He had not
taken the trouble to train, so certain was he in his self-conceit of
sweeping all before him. Now, like Achilles in his tent, he preferred
to sulk. He would cut sports altogether. The game was not worth the
candle. But in his heart was a sore spot. He had meant to win that
race. He could see Carlisle’s eyes fixed on him gravely as he slunk
away panting――and fairly blown――at the finish, and recalled his
friend’s subsequent reproof.

“The trouble with you is that you want the earth, Jack. You can’t
expect to win without buckling down to it beforehand.”

“I’m in first-rate condition,” Jack had growled.

“Over-trained, then, perhaps,” had been the sarcastic answer.

Even in rowing――his pet hobby――he could not boast of having made any
marked progress. Although in the two upper classes there was no aquatic
luminary at the moment, a very clever oarsman was developing in the
person of Tom Bonsall of the third, a clean-cut, well-shaped fellow,
some ten pounds more beefy than Jack, and at once his secret admiration
and despair. To watch Tom row, fairly goaded him into fury. He was
only a year ahead of Jack, and yet he was in the Mohicans, and, what is
more, was able to boast, after the autumn races, that he belonged to
the champion crew. The long victorious Atalantas, weakened by the loss
of Hazelhurst, were a poor second. Then and there Jack vowed, when he
realized what had taken place, that he would from this moment have but
one object in life: to transfer the laurel from his rival’s brow to his
own.

A very pretty sentiment, and quite at variance with the cynical
communings of a fortnight earlier, when he had resolved to renounce
sport utterly. But it is one thing to make vows, another to carry them
out. Jack had not overestimated, even in his inner consciousness, his
lack of condition, both physical and moral. When one is distinctly
flabby in body and soul alike, a good resolution is too apt to resemble
one of these rockets that flare up grandly and gaudily for a moment,
only to leave the night the darker through their inability to last.
To feel virtuous and heroic during a transcendent hour is not much to
boast of, unless one has the grit to stand firm when face to face once
more with the commonplace and the every-day, those disarming begetters
of temptation.

But one must not be too hard upon poor Jack because his vows proved
no more stable than do those of all of us at some time or other. For
at the worst he was not a very hopeless case. Even when sitting up in
the lavatory into the small hours of the morning, sipping beer and
playing “penny nap,”――the height of schoolboy dissipation,――one who
could have seen into his heart would not have despaired of him. It was
something that he did not smoke,――not because of the harm which Bill
French’s cheroots might have done him, but because he could not forget
that he had promised his mother not to smoke anything, be it rattan,
sweet-fern, or tobacco; and to break his word, and most of all to break
it to her, was synonymous in his mind, as it well should have been,
with a very abandoned moral condition. And yet curiosity in part, and
in part an unwillingness to be left behind in “knowledge of life” by
the other members of his illustrious society, induced him to follow
in whatsoever directions he was led, in spite of the fact that this
new and daily more troublesome factor in his general make-up, his
conscience, pricked him, and took away much of the satisfaction of his
discreditable doings.

What would his mother have said if she could have seen him at one of
these cunningly devised nocturnal parties? Her constant prayer has been
that her innocent boy may not become prematurely old in the so-called
ways of the world,――a knowing little gentleman, rotten before he is
ripe, without enthusiasm, without heart, and without hope. Is there a
parent who will not sympathize with this mother’s petition to heaven?
Civilization is regarding with increasing alarm the menaces of the
uneducated poor; but its invocation rather should be, “God save us
from the educated rich,”――educated and graduated in the sloth and vice
which eats into the soul as no other canker can. Rich men’s sons who do
nothing for humanity but sneer, are a harder burden for Atlas to bear
than all the host of the starving unemployed.

But even in his present stage, when it seemed as though Bill French’s
wisdom carried all before it in the councils of the Big Four, Jack
much preferred the life of the border ruffian to that of the sly
voluptuary. Bill’s fun, though he had his part in it, appeared tame
as compared with the ecstasy which proceeds from more obvious peril.
To carry away a quart of lager under one’s waistband, to go in debt
to the amount of half a dollar if one’s luck was bad, and to show up
next morning sallow and watery-eyed, but very spruce and stylish as
to one’s collar and tie, proud as the distinction was, did not set
Jack’s veins a-throbbing as he delighted to have them throb. If Bill
had been consulted in the premises he would doubtless have maintained
that his friend was not yet educated up to the point where he could
appreciate at their proper value the advantages open to him. To this
juvenile Epicurean the plots which the two more boisterous spirits
were constantly unfolding involved a needless waste of vitality, from
which he shrank more and more in proportion as the serpent’s wisdom
became his own. It was not policy, however, even if it were possible,
to resist at all times the expressed desire of half the society. As a
consequence, vitality ran riot in minor manifestations, such as the
pilfering of neighboring hen-roosts, the sealing up of the lock of the
schoolroom door, the firing of a tar-barrel in front of the Doctor’s
very window, and panted for more. Every one――by which is meant school
opinion――was delighted, and with finger on lip whispered mysteriously,
“Big Four.”

As for Jack and Haseltine, they trod the earth with the demeanor of
gods, and after dark put their heads together. Presumptuous youth is
slow to be content with moderate glory. Had Phaeton escaped destruction
he would have wearied of driving his father’s horses in a fortnight,
and been thirsting for a fresh exploit. Our heroes, who had up to this
time escaped detection, were harassed by the feeling that authority
took too little heed of the cuffs they administered to it. The bonfire
had been put up with almost calmly. The next act of defiance should
be such as could not be passed over without exposing their enemies to
ridicule.

It was not altogether easy to hit upon a device worthy of their prowess
and yet within the pale of permissible barbarity. For undoubtedly
nihilistic as were Jack’s and Haseltine’s designs, there was a limit
which they were not prepared to overstep. Although it might be that
in the estimation of them both hanging was too good for the Doctor
and his assistants, any plot endangering human life was, perchance
regretfully, but none the less firmly, discarded. On the other hand,
to burn the head master in effigy, a proposal which emanated from the
seething brain of young Horton, struck the conclave as a superficial
bit of mischief, which, however showy from its impertinence, would
nevertheless inflict no real suffering on him at whom it was aimed.

Bill French, as was apt to be the case, even in matters outside of his
own department, so to speak, settled the question finally.

“I say, fellows, I know what let’s do,” he said one evening, after they
had been sitting silently racking their brains for a considerable
time, “let’s blow something up.”

“Blow what up?” queried Jack, somewhat scornfully, thus showing that
gunpowder and nitroglycerine had already entered into his day-dreams,
but had been renounced for lack of suitable material on which to
experiment.

“The tool-house.”

“Great Cæsar!” ejaculated our hero with enthusiasm, “the very thing!
Why have we never thought of it before?”

Whereupon Jack, by way of further ecstasy, began to execute a muffled
clog-dance to a low whistling accompaniment.

“Sh! You’ll have Sawyer down on us like a thousand of bricks if you
don’t let up,” objected Bill.

The quarters of “The Big Four” were no longer in the lavatory, where
their only light had been the proverbially capricious splendor of the
moon, and where no whisper was too low for safety. At the beginning of
this school year one of the studies occupied by the two upper classes,
which had become vacant owing to the illness of its proprietor, had
been boldly appropriated by the society. A piece of cloth over the
keyhole and other appliances along the floor-line prevented the rays of
the solitary candle which illumined their meetings from betraying them;
and there they sat like four young ghouls, with masks upon their faces,
or close at hand ready to be donned at the first signal of danger.

[Illustration]

The tool-house referred to was a modest structure behind the gymnasium,
which served Horace Hosmer for the use which its name suggests, and
was besides a general storehouse in which to stow odds and ends out of
place elsewhere. It stood in a position well adapted to shelter from
discovery the mooted scheme on the fulfillment of which the energies of
the Big Four were now resolutely bent. To obtain the needful ammunition
required time; but on returning to school at the close of the spring
recess the united accumulations of the conspirators’ pockets were found
to be two small cans of powder, a bunch of cannon-crackers, a piece of
slow-match, and several fuses. The last-named were especially valuable
for the reason that, to insure the safety of the society, a sufficient
period must elapse between the touching off the mine and the explosion
to allow those participating to cross the quadrangle and be hauled up
again in the basket which was to be let down from the study where their
meetings were held.

This does not look much like reform, Master Jack. Seeing you in such a
guise at twelve o’clock at night――though no one would ever recognize
you in your ferocious mask with the flowing horsehair mustache and
your coat-collar muffled about your ears――makes one wonder whether
you were really in earnest when you made your vow not to rest until
you had defeated Tom Bonsall at the sculls. No use in our moralizing
now, however, for wild horses would not keep you from your part in
the tragedy. And indeed there is something rather winning, almost
exculpating as it were, in the proud though mistaken consciousness of
a righteous cause resplendent in your every movement and gesture. One
sighs to see such energy and ardor of spirit expended in so mean a
task. Even _you_ would admit, if squarely taxed on the point, that you
have no real grievance against the Doctor except that he is determined
to make you study and to make you obey. “Yes, but that is the point
at issue,” you would doubtless answer. “We prefer idleness and
insubordination. Why should we obey?”

On the night selected for the explosion, duly at the appointed hour
the four boys crept on tiptoe from their respective dens in the
large dormitory to the usual spot without disturbing anybody. Each
brought with him part of the necessary paraphernalia. They proceeded
immediately to draw lots to decide which two should perform the actual
deed. The other pair were to remain behind to lower the basket down and
pull it up again. It was solved by the process known as “freezing out.”
Each took a cent from his pocket and laid it on the table. There were
three heads and one tail. Bill French’s was the tail. He was therefore
by previous agreement to be one of the home-guard. With trembling hand
Jack deposited his coin for the second time. Not to be able to light
the fuse himself would rob the affair of half its sweetness for him.

His was a head.

“A head,” said Haseltine.

“So’s mine,” said Horton.

“No choice, then,” said Bill. “Toss again.”

This time Jack got a tail. He leaned forward feverishly and perceived
that Horton had one also.

“A head,” said Haseltine.

“You stay with me, then,” said Bill, who was quick-witted in
emergencies. “Let’s get to work. Sooner it’s over, the better.”

Jack’s heart gave a bound. It would have suited him to have had
Haseltine with him, and he whispered in the ear of his favorite pal
some words to that effect. It was everything, however, to be going
himself, and he was well aware that Horton was no slouch on such an
occasion.

It takes but a few moments to adjust the rope, and the two lads, after
stowing the combustibles in their pockets, are ready to descend.
Jack is the proud bearer of a small dark lantern, which gives him an
additionally burglarish air. He flashes it once or twice playfully in
Bill’s face, much to that worthy’s dissatisfaction, who is even more
nervous than usual, going now and again to the door to listen after
enjoining silence by an agonized “sh!”

But everything is as still as the grave. Being finally satisfied on
this score, Bill proceeds with an air of gravity to uncork a couple of
bottles of beer from which he fills four glasses, the property of the
society and kept in a cupboard in the corner.

Each of the Big Four having doffed his mask lifts one of these from the
table and surveys his fellow-members with dignity, waiting for the word
of command from the Pater Primus, as the presiding genius is styled,
before putting the beaded beverage to their lips.

“Brothers of the Big Four,” begins Bill. “Once again we are met
together to maintain justice and to resist tyranny. Here’s success, and
destruction to our foes.”

“Success, and destruction to our foes.”

As the voices echo his words the four glasses softly clink against one
another. Then the heroes drink. It is a solemn rite to Jack. His blood
is all on fire.

“We will die game,” he utters grandiloquently, as he drains the last
drops, and slips back his mask over his face much as a warrior would
have replaced a helmet.

He goes to the window and tries the rope. It is strong enough for six
times the necessary weight. He is putting one foot into the basket――a
large clothes-basket filched the day before from Mrs. Betty’s
department――when Bill again enjoins silence and bends his ear.

“It’s all right, Bill,” whispers Jack.

“I don’t half like it,” replies the Pater Primus. “If we’re caught, it
means expulsion cock sure.”

“Who’s going to catch us? It isn’t the time to squawk now.”

“Who wants to squawk?” protests Bill.

“Lower away.”

Down goes the basket slowly but surely with its living freight.
Practice in former exploits has made the descent seem less ticklish
than at first to the young aëronauts.

Jack and Horton having reached the earth in safety walk cautiously but
rapidly across the part of the quadrangle which lies between them and
the gymnasium, pass behind that building, and a moment later are in the
tool-house. So far as danger to other property is concerned there is no
reason why the tool-house should not be blown up: a reflection somewhat
comforting to Jack, who in spite of his elation is conscious of a qualm
or two as he realizes what he is about to do. No one can possibly be
injured, he argues, and the tool-house is really of no use.

By the light of the dark lantern they arrange the cans of powder in
such a manner as to be most effective, and lay the fuse. Then Jack, who
has lighted a bit of slow match, after taking a peep outside to make
sure that all is clear, sets fire to the train, which has been timed
to burn for ten minutes, so as to permit every one to get back to bed
before the shock comes. This done, the two imitators of Guy Fawkes slip
out into the darkness and make a bee-line for home.

Somehow or other there is very apt to be some little flaw capable of
ruining all, even in the most skillfully arranged plot, and, happily
or unhappily, as you choose to regard it, the one in question proved
no exception to the general rule. Moreover, it was through the
carelessness of our friend Jack that matters did not turn out wholly as
was expected. Although quite aware that Argus in the person of Horace
Hosmer slept in an L of the gymnasium, the window of which commanded a
view of the premises doomed to destruction, Guy Fawkes was rash enough
not to close his lantern until just after stepping into the open
air, so that a few rays managed to shoot themselves directly into the
watch-dog’s eyes with the effect of rousing the vigilant sleeper from
his couch and inducing him to take a peep outside. It was all dark now,
but suspicion once awakened is not easily allayed in a faithful soul,
and Horace’s was of the faithful kind. Hastily pulling on a pair of
boots and diving into an overcoat, he vaulted over the window-sill, and
put in an appearance on the other side of the gymnasium before the boys
were more than two thirds across the quadrangle.

Trepidation has eyes in the back of her head, as we well know.
Consequently this new presence on the field of night was spotted by
Horton even before Horace’s well-known stentorian voice broke in upon
the stillness with,――

“Come, now, what’s your business?”

There was no time for parley. Increased speed had forestalled the bark
of Argus, and increased speed answered it. The wings of fear vibrated
fiercely in the darkness. The pursued had this advantage that they knew
that unless they reached the basket in time to get clear of _terra
firma_ before the janitor was upon them they were “gone coons.” Not
a word was spoken by either of the terror-stricken incendiaries, but
their flight was that of those who have but one hope.

[Illustration: AN ESCAPE.]

Jack was the first to arrive. Happily for the hunted, their companions
had not been napping, but were keenly on the watch for them. The
basket was ready. Guy Fawkes leaped into it and squatted down, closely
followed by his mate.

“Pull for all you’re worth.”

Those above, quick to perceive that there was mischief in the wind,
set themselves to their task with such good will that the aërial car
fairly bounded from the ground in its ascending course. But none too
soon. Hardly was it beyond the reach of a tall man when the cause
of all this undignified haste came tearing round the angle of the
dormitory. Horace made one desperate leap in the air, only, however, to
scratch his nails against the bricks in falling back. By the time he
had regained his balance the basket was at the top, and he could only
catch a confused impression of grotesque faces surmounting youthful
bodies before the masqueraders were safe indoors, and fleeing like
stealthy deer to their respective quarters, where they lost no time
in slipping off their clothes and getting into bed. So precipitate was
their flight that they neglected to return the beer-bottles and glasses
to the cupboard in which they were ordinarily concealed, an oversight
which filled the nervous Bill with dismay when it occurred to him after
his head was on the pillow. As for the basket, it fell backward from
the window-sill the moment it was empty, almost on to the head of the
astonished Horace, who examined it curiously.

“Well, well,” he muttered, “these are fine doings. My eyes ain’t what
they used to be, but I’ve a pretty decided notion as to who you are, my
young masters, all the same. What in time were you up to, I wonder? Ha!
what’s this?”

Horace, from a constitutional habit of thoroughness, had been passing
his hand over the bottom of the basket, and his last exclamation was
due to the fact of its coming in contact with a small article which on
inspection proved to be a pocket-knife.

“H’m,” he chuckled, “Heaven sends biscuit to them as has no teeth, as
the minister used to say.” After which pertinent observation the honest
fellow slipped the treasure trove into his pocket and was taking up
the basket again with a view to appropriating it as evidence, when a
loud crash proceeding from the direction of the gymnasium awoke the
echoes of Utopia.

“Holy Moses!” ejaculated the janitor, as he turned just in season
to behold a column of smoke and rubbish rise in the near distance.
Whereupon he started as fast as his legs could carry him to the new
scene of action.

Needless to say, the four conspirators heard with mingled sensations
of joy and anxiety the reverberation which informed them that their
efforts had not been in vain. To Jack at least the noise, though
clearly perceptible, was not so loud as he had hoped and anticipated.
It had been his ambition to have not only the whole dormitory awakened,
but authority itself startled from sweet slumber and forced to put
its head out of doors in search of cause and effect. He experienced,
therefore, some little disappointment from the fact that only two or
three boys within reach of his own observation were awakened, and
even they turned over to sleep again after listening for a moment
for further developments. He was much too wide awake himself to
sleep, but lay revolving in his mind the probable consequences of
Horace’s untoward interruption. Had Argus recognized them? That was the
all-important point, uncertainty as to which was far from pleasant to
Jack, despite his boasted indifference to authority. Visions of being
dismissed from Utopia floated with disagreeable persistency before his
mind’s eye. What would his mother say? He might well ask himself that
question.

Although the repose of authority was not disturbed, authority heard
with amazement on the following morning the news which Horace had to
tell it immediately after breakfast; and Jack could have no reason
this time to complain that authority was slow to take notice, if the
buzz of rumors floating about the school were any index of authority’s
state of mind. The impression produced on the youthful mind itself by
the announcement of what had taken place was profound. There was an
exodus at once to view the ruins, over which the faithful janitor was
presiding with a sphinx-like grin that to Jack, who had strolled down
with the rest to behold the result of his handiwork, did not seem
reassuring.

At the first opportunity the guilty parties held a hurried consultation
for mutual encouragement and the comparing of notes. Nothing was
forthcoming except that the Doctor, after visiting the scene of the
explosion, had granted an audience to Horace Hosmer, with whom he was
still closeted. Meanwhile the ordinary school programme was going on
as usual. Such suspense, though wellnigh unendurable, was relieved in
due time. Late in the afternoon a summons came that French, Horton, and
Hall were to go to the Doctor’s room at once, but separately, and in
the order named.

There was only time for a passing word between the trio.

“Mind we tell the same story and stick to it,” whispered Bill in Jack’s
ear before he followed the messenger. “We never knew anything until we
heard the explosion.”

Jack stood watching the receding figure of the Pater Primus with a
troubled air. The situation seemed decidedly perplexing. Authority,
for some reason or other of its own, saw fit that those coming after
should have no opportunity to hear what was in store for them from
friendly lips. Consequently the third conspirator on the list was
ushered into its injured presence without knowing what had been the
experience of his predecessors.

Doctor Meredith, who was alone, greeted the culprit gravely and said,
after a moment’s hesitation, in a composed but serious tone: “During
the last six months, Hall, there have been a number of very troublesome
bits of mischief perpetrated in the school. The property of people in
the neighborhood has been molested, fireworks have been discharged in
the yard without permission, and a general disposition to break rules
on the part of a certain number of individuals has been apparent. I
have been very slow to take notice of this, hoping that the matters
complained of were merely the result of the high spirits natural to
boys. But I have been very much annoyed by it, for up to this time I
have had to deal with nothing of the sort at Utopia.”

During the pause which elapsed before he continued, Jack was able to
congratulate himself that his previous endeavors had not been so much
ignored as he had at one time feared.

“Last night,” his inquisitor proceeded, still more gravely, “as you
must be already aware, the tool-house was blown up by some malicious
person or persons. Doubtless it was done as a practical joke, and I
am willing to believe that whoever was engaged in the affair did not
appreciate the serious character of the act committed. But all the same
it was an abominable piece of mischief, and one which it is my duty and
intention to investigate thoroughly, with a view to putting down, once
and for all, the spirit of reckless insubordination which it is now
evident to me has broken out here.”

Once more the Doctor paused, as though he expected some observation
from his auditor, who, having none to make, sought refuge from his own
discomfort and his master’s penetrating eye, by looking down at the
floor.

“I have sent for you, Hall, to ask if you were concerned in the affair.”

The room seemed painfully still to Jack, and the silence which followed
this inquiry oppressive. How should he answer the question? If the
Doctor knew all, why had he not taxed him directly with having blown up
the tool-house, instead of asking him if he was concerned in it? The
doctor evidently had suspicions merely, and was groping in the dark.
What was there to prove his guilt except his own admissions?

During the brief interval in which these thoughts were passing through
Jack’s mind, he was conscious of his interrogator’s eye bent on him
searchingly――yet beseechingly, as it were.

“You have not answered me, Hall.”

“Yes, sir; I was.”

Jack was too self-absorbed to notice the sigh of relief which the
Doctor gave vent to. One could have heard a pin drop.

“I am very sorry to hear it. You were not alone, I judge,” added his
master, after a moment.

“I lighted the fuse myself, sir,” was the diplomatic reply.

“I see that you do not choose to name your associates.”

“I have not said that I had any,” Jack answered stoutly.

“I respect your views on that point, and shall question you no
further in the matter. As for your own conduct, there is but one
word to characterize it,” continued Dr. Meredith,――“shameful. I do
not understand what motive you can have had to destroy the property
of the school. What _was_ your motive?” Jack looked sheepish. “I
suppose it was sheer love of mischief,” pursued the Doctor, as though
soliloquizing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you not always been well treated here? Have you any cause of
complaint?”

“No, sir.”

“What in one sense is even a more serious matter, empty beer-bottles
and glasses were found this morning in the vacant study. They belong to
you, I take it?”

Jack bit his lip. This charge was harder to assume the entire
responsibility for. But he was in for it now and must face the music.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, rather dejectedly.

The Doctor was silent for a moment. “Hall, I am very much disappointed
in you,” he said, in a manner so unexpectedly genuine that somehow or
other the words cut like a knife into the sensibilities of poor Jack,
and in a sudden flash he saw his own conduct almost in its true light.
“This is not the first time, by any means, that I have had occasion to
be disturbed at your conduct. I cannot have at this school,” he added,
“boys who drink beer on the sly and blow up buildings. I have not quite
decided what action I shall take in your particular case. You may go
for the present. When I want you I will send for you.”

Jack stood hesitating. “May I ask a question?” he said.

“What is it?”

“How were we found out?――er――that is, how did you know it was I?”

“The janitor thought he recognized you; but he was not sure. If you had
seen fit to tell a falsehood you might have escaped. I thank God, my
dear boy, that you had courage enough to resist that far worse fault
than the faults you have been guilty of.”

There were tears in the Doctor’s eyes, and a strange tremor in his
voice, that brought drops to Jack’s own, of which he became conscious
when he was outside the study-door. He had never felt so miserable in
his life, and yet knew that he was proud of the course he had taken.

A few minutes later he was eagerly confronted by his associates.

“He doesn’t know anything, does he?” exclaimed Bill.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t let on, of course? He asked me if I had anything to do with
blowing up the tool-house, and I told him no. So did Horton.”

“But you did,” said Jack.

“Do you mean to say you gave us all away?” shrieked Bill.

“Your names weren’t mentioned. I wasn’t going to lie about it. The
Doctor asked me if I wasn’t concerned in it, and I said I was.”

“Hang me if you aren’t the biggest flat I ever struck!”

“That’s so,” said Horton, who, as you must know by this time, was only
an echo of Bill, which is a pretty feeble kind of part to play in life,
as parts go.

“If you had only kept your mouth shut we’d have been all right. Horace
only guessed at us,” continued the irate Pater Primus. “I’d back you
for a flat against the world.”

“That’s so.”

“Shut your head!” growled Jack. “I don’t want to hear any more guff
from either of you. I wasn’t going to lie for you or any other fellow,
Bill French.”

“We’ll kick you out of the society, see if we don’t. You’ve broken
the oaths, and you’ll be mighty lucky if we don’t vote to make cat’s
meat of you,” persisted Bill, who, when his imagination got working,
had a nasty tongue, as the saying is. This last fling so enraged our
hero――who has become, I think, just a little bit of a hero in spite
of his shortcomings――that he made a dash at his chief insulter with a
view to slapping his face. But the prudent William had made sure of his
distance before venturing upon so exasperating a speech.

Jack was in no frame of mind to pursue his maligners. He felt very much
down in the mouth. Now that the prospect of being sent home in disgrace
was imminent, the advantages of remaining a Utopia boy seemed very
great. He could not bear the thought of being expelled, and yet he knew
that he could scarcely hope for any less serious sentence. The others
would get off, and he would have to bear the brunt of it all.

In his agitation he started off at a rapid pace without heeding where
he was going. Chance led him toward the lake, and a few moments later
he was in his wherry pulling fiercely from sheer desperation over the
tranquil water. There were not many scullers out this afternoon, but
he recognized in the distance the shapely figure of Tom Bonsall, whose
clean-cut, sweeping stroke it was not easy to mistake. Jack ground his
teeth as he reflected not only that he and Tom could not at present
be regarded as rivals, but that they now never could become so. Stung
by the bitterness of the thought, he plied the oars savagely with a
reckless expenditure of energy. When at last he gave in for a moment
from sheer exhaustion, his shell shot close past another, narrowly
escaping a collision.

“Whoa, there! Hold your horses!” cried a well-known voice.

It was Carlisle’s. At any other time Jack would have been only too
glad of his friend’s company; now his inclination was to get away from
everybody. Without remark he began rowing again with lightning speed,
evidently to the surprise of Carlisle, who, after watching him for a
moment, proceeded to follow in his wake, taking it quietly, but pulling
a long, steady stroke. Jack was determined to throw him off, but though
he struggled with all his might, his pursuer crept up on him inch by
inch without seeming to make any special exertion. So frantically did
he work to keep the lead that he soon began to splash, and finally,
to his utter disgust, caught a crab just as Carlisle was lapping him.
Before he could recover himself they were abreast.

“My dear youngster,” began his friend without observing Jack’s face,
“you will never learn to row if you spend yourself so soon. You can’t
keep that stroke up. It’s simply suicidal.”

“Why can’t you let me alone? What right have you to follow me?” was the
fierce reply.

Naturally Carlisle looked completely bewildered. “No right, if
you don’t want me to,” he said quietly. Then he added, with kind
solicitude, “What’s up, Jack? Are you ill, old fellow?”

Jack shook his head after a moment. He was looking the other way to
hide his welling tears.

“Tell me what’s the trouble. Perhaps I can help you,” said Carlisle
presently.

“It isn’t one thing: it’s everything,” sobbed Jack. “However, there’ll
be an end of it to-morrow,” he continued enigmatically.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It was I who blew up the tool-house last night.”

“You, Jack!” Carlisle exclaimed, aghast. “How could you!”

Then realizing instantly that this was not the occasion for reproof, he
hastened to ask, “Does the Doctor know?”

“Yes,” said Jack, who had turned his face to observe the effect on his
friend of the first announcement.

A few words made Carlisle familiar with the whole story. Jack did not
hesitate to inform him just how matters stood, knowing that his senior
would be in honor bound not to mention to others the conduct of Bill
and Horton.

“There can be only one end to it,” he said, in conclusion. “He’ll make
an example of me for the good of the school. Well, let him,” he added,
his voice again breaking, “_I_ don’t care.”

“Yes, you do care. The cowardly sneaks!” ejaculated Carlisle.

“If they had owned up, there would have been three instead of one,
that’s all. It wouldn’t have helped me any. I’m glad of one thing,
Louis: Horace didn’t spot Hasy.”

The other was silent a moment. “It’s all my fault,” he burst out at
last. “I ought to have protected you against that fellow. I marked him
as a low-lived beggar before he had been here a week. The trouble is, I
am so miserably selfish that I am taken up with my own affairs all the
time.”

“Indeed, that is not true, Louis. On the contrary, you’ve been at me
all the time trying to keep me straight. It’s no one’s fault but my
own. I see it plainly now. I’ve made an ass of myself, and the result
is I shall break my mother’s heart by being expelled.”

“Time enough to talk in that style, youngster, when it happens. I’ll
see the Doctor myself,” continued Carlisle. “Perhaps he’ll be willing
to give you another chance. There’s no harm in trying, at any rate. If
he can be made to believe that you’re ready to turn over a new leaf,
I know he’ll let you stay. But you must promise me, Jack, that if he
does, you will make a fresh deal all round,” he added, earnestly. “I’m
slack enough myself, Heaven knows, and not fitted to give advice to
any one, but I’ve lived two or three years longer than you; and have
learned at least that a fellow can’t do everything that he wants in
this world. One has to recognize it sooner or later. The trouble with
you, as I told you once before, is that you want the earth. You can’t
have it, and the sooner you make up your mind to the fact the better
for you.”

“I will do my best, Louis, I promise you. I wish though I thought that
there was ever a chance of my being half so good as you.”

“Nonsense, youngster. You’ve no idea,” he added, “of what a poor thing
I am.”

“You are looking in first-rate condition this term,” responded Jack,
with a just perception of how to please his friend. “I never saw a
fellow improve so in appearance as you have in a year.”

“It’s Dr. Bolles’ lectures,” said Carlisle, with a gratified smile. “I
owe it all to him.”

“And if I ever improve,” observed Jack quietly, “I shall owe it all to
you, Louis.”

CHAPTER X.

UP-HILL.

Three days later the whole school was called together directly after
breakfast to hear a communication from Dr. Meredith. No one knew
precisely what was in the wind, but all sorts of rumors had been
floating about ever since the morning subsequent to the explosion. The
only one of these that appeared to have substantial foundation was the
report which had gained currency within the last twenty-four hours
that Horton was to leave for good. The reason was not known beyond a
general suspicion that his departure was connected with the destruction
of the tool-house. When it was ascertained that he had actually gone
early in the morning without bidding good-by to anybody, the excitement
was at fever heat. What added to the mystery was that Jack Hall, whose
confession of the daring deed had leaked out, still remained.

Utopia was puzzled, to say the least, and was very prompt in filing
into the schoolroom to listen to the expected solution of the enigma.
Thither the Doctor came too, on the stroke of the hour, looking sad,
and accompanied by all the masters, who ranged themselves about him
as at one of the school exhibitions. Before him on the desk lay a
suggestive ferule, the unaccustomed sight of which caused expectancy to
stand on tiptoe.

“Boys of Utopia School,” said Dr. Meredith with solemnity, “as you
all know, an unpardonably malicious piece of mischief was committed
against the school property a few days since. It was the last and most
offensive in a series of deliberate acts of insubordination which have
caused me much annoyance, and which I have put up with too long, I
am inclined to think, for the best good of those concerned in them.
By chance,” continued the Doctor, after a moment’s delay, “suspicion
fastened itself on certain members of the school, who were sent for
by me and questioned on the subject. One boy confessed to having
been directly connected with the explosion; the others denied all
knowledge of it. As it happened, the evidence possessed by us was not
definite enough to convict as against his own word any one of those
suspected, with a single exception, and I will add that at the time
I had no knowledge which of the boys summoned this exception applied
to. The janitor who pursued the incendiaries on the night in question
found in the basket, which was left by them hanging from the window,
a penknife. This penknife,” said the Doctor slowly, “was proved to
belong, I regret with deep sorrow to state, to one of the boys who had
denied in unqualified terms any knowledge of the outrage which had
been committed. That boy is no longer a member of this school. I have
written to his parents to remove him, and early this morning he left
Utopia.

“If there is anything that is odious to me,” he continued presently,
after the murmur which followed this announcement had subsided,
“and which I am determined to root out of this school at any cost,
it is falsehood. I made a point to caution each one of you against
it, my dear boys, at the time you entered Utopia, and my constant
prayer is that your souls may be kept clean from this deadly foe to
character. What is most threatening to-day in the outlook for the noble
development of this great democratic country of ours is the tendency
to condone too easily embezzlement, breaches of trust, bribery, and
other forms of public and private dishonesty, the kernel of which is
deceit, and in the fostering of which lies national ruin. If,” he said,
looking round the schoolroom, “there is any boy here to-day who is so
unhappy as to have a lie on his conscience, I beseech him as his master
and his friend to let it be there no longer. Any punishment that he may
be called upon to bear will be as nothing compared with the evil which
concealment will work upon his character and life.”

As the Doctor paused and seemed to be waiting for some one to step
forward, each boy glanced at his neighbor, wondering for the most part
who was meant. Jack, who had been listening with feverish impatience
to every word, refrained from looking directly at Bill, but managed to
take a peep at him sideways. To all appearances the Pater Primus was
completely at his ease and indisposed to follow the hint thrown out to
him. No one stirred, and the silence, which became oppressive at last,
was broken by the master, who resumed rather sadly:――

“When the boy who was manly enough to confess his wrong-doing left my
presence the other day, I thought that it would be necessary for me in
order to maintain the dignity of the school to inflict the most serious
punishment in my power――that is expulsion. I should have hated to do
so, for I like the boy, deeply as I deplore the rank insubordination
and gross idleness of which he has been guilty since he came to Utopia.
I am ready to believe that it will be more for his good to remain among
us than to be sent away in disgrace; and I am heartily glad that the
greater fault committed by another enables me to exercise leniency
in his particular case. I have been given to understand by those
interested in him,” pursued the Doctor, “that he is sorry for his ill
behavior and anxious to turn over a new leaf. I shall give him the
chance to do so; but I am obliged nevertheless not to pass by without
serious notice the wicked breach of discipline which he committed in
wantonly destroying the property of the school. There was no excuse for
the act whatever, and it was singularly unprovoked and impertinent.
Therefore I am compelled to have recourse to a form of punishment
which, except in the most extreme cases, should not be employed by a
master. I am glad to say that never before while I have been at Utopia
has it been necessary for me to whip a pupil. I am about to do so now
because of the unusual nature of the offense of which he has been
guilty.――Hall, you will come forward to receive a public whipping.”

There was a painful silence, and then poor Jack, who had been sent for
by the Doctor late on the previous evening and informed as to what
was in store for him, arose and walked down the aisle. His blood was
boiling with shame and anger, but at the same time he had made up his
mind to submit to the flogging and to bear it without flinching, in
acknowledgment of the kind words of encouragement and friendship which
his master had spoken to him when he told him what his punishment was
to be,――words which made Jack see more clearly than before how reckless
and foolish he had been, and resolve with bitter tears before he went
to sleep to try once more to resist temptation. Now, galling as was the
ordeal, and though the tears of mortification welled into his eyes in
spite of resolute biting of the lips, he walked quietly up to the desk.

Dr. Meredith had risen and stood ready with the ferule.

“Hold out your right hand, Hall.”

Jack obeyed.

Down came the blows――one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen;――no love pats,
but genuine hard stinging blows which were meant to hurt, and which did
hurt.

“Now, the other hand.”

Fifteen more followed no less scorching than their predecessors.

“That will do. You may take your seat.”

Jack, whose only consolation at the moment was that he had not winced,
got back to his desk somehow or other, and heard as in a daze the
faltering voice of his castigator in conclusion:――

“I hope to heaven, my dear boys, that it will never be necessary for me
to do such a thing again. I would much rather, believe me, that every
one of those blows had been on my own hands. The pain would have been
far less than what I suffered in inflicting them.”

A moment later Jack knew that the school had arisen and was pouring
out of the room. He had covered his face with his hands and bent his
head upon the desk. Sob followed sob in quick succession, and his heart
seemed to be bursting. Carlisle, who had remained behind, stood over
him and stroked his head gently. After such an experience, a nature
strong and virile as Jack’s must needs find a vent for its pent-up
anguish. But bitter as were his feelings, he knew in his heart that he
had deserved his punishment.

It was many weeks before Jack recovered his spirits. At first he walked
about with a crestfallen air, like one in disgrace. He kept apart by
himself, and instead of the spirited leader of old, seemed subdued
and unimpressionable. He did not enter for the spring events either
at the athletic meeting or on the lake, and was judged by many to
have lost all interest in sports. His changed demeanor gave a chance
to Bill French to circulate the opinion expressed at the time of his
confession, that he was a flat, and such is the tendency of boys to
deprecate what they cannot understand that there were some who in their
surprise at his apparent listlessness adopted Bill’s view of the
case. Even Haseltine was staggered at his friend’s lack of enthusiasm
over the prowess of the school nine, which, under the captaincy of the
“Kid,” had been plucking unexpected laurels from visiting and visited
teams, and rallied him on it. Hasy, by the way, had been very sore at
heart himself that Jack alone should have had to bear the brunt of the
tool-house escapade. Accordingly, after musing over the matter for a
fortnight, he had gone one day to the Doctor, without mentioning the
matter to any one, and made a clean breast of his own participation
in the affair, with the expectation and almost with the hope of being
made to suffer for it. But, quite to his astonishment, Dr. Meredith,
after hearing his story and thanking him for having had the courage
to own up, which was unquestionably the manly thing to do under the
circumstances, declined to take advantage of the confession further
than to talk to him kindly for half an hour on the desirability of a
little more steadiness and more interest in study on his part.

“If only you felt half the concern regarding a poor recitation that
you do about muffing a fly, you would be at the head of your class,
Haseltine,” the Doctor had said genially,――a proposition which to his
listener had seemed to border almost on the ludicrous. As if, forsooth,
comparison could be made as to the relative importance of the ability
to hold on to a difficult sky-scraper and any excellence in the
class-room under the sun!

Hasy’s opinion on this point was so unqualified that a certain
disposition to take his lessons more into account, which Jack was
beginning to show, struck the young base-ball enthusiast as stronger
evidence than any other adduced of his friend’s unnatural condition.
Not that he for a moment went over to Bill French’s faction,――indeed,
his contempt for that worthy’s behavior had been quite in proportion
to Jack’s,――but as he found it impossible to understand how his crony
could derive satisfaction from this new habit of trying to learn his
lessons beforehand instead of letting them be hammered into him in the
schoolroom, he was naturally puzzled and felt almost provoked. Indeed,
his disapproval of his friend’s behavior was so sweeping that he failed
to perceive that Jack in a quiet way was getting into very good form on
the river by force of daily practice under the tutorship of Carlisle.
Because Jack did not spurt, and appeared indisposed to tackle any
and everybody, the impression was current that even in rowing, as in
everything else, he was down on his marrow-bones.

So far as his own feelings went, it cannot be denied that Jack was far
from cheerful during the weeks intervening between the date of his
punishment and the end of his fourth-class year; and when vacation
was at hand, he looked back on his efforts at improvement with a
glum heart. Secretly and almost sullenly he had tried hard to redeem
himself; but though others might see indications of progress, it seemed
to our hero as though he was just as much in the slough as ever. He
had always entertained the fancy that if at any time he should take
it into his head to do well at his books and become a pattern of
exemplary conduct, he would find it a perfectly simple matter to do
so. Accordingly the poor fellow was now learning the lesson which so
many have to learn, that continued neglect and frowardness can only be
atoned for by humiliation and despondency.

These were principally experienced in regard to his lessons, as he
found slight difficulty in avoiding flagrant breaches of the rules now
that the meetings of the Big Four were discontinued. The illustrious
society had never been actually disbanded; but the transportation, so
to speak, of one of its choice spirits, and the lack of cordiality
existing between at least two of those remaining, had caused a hiatus
in its proceedings which still gaped. An overture on the part of
the Pater Primus to meet and talk matters over was rejected by Jack
and Haseltine with scorn; and though Bill would have liked to get
together by himself, as the saying is, and expel his mates with a
view to reorganization, he probably had some doubts regarding the
constitutionality of such a proceeding, or else was afraid of having
his head punched, for he abstained from action in the matter.

But keeping up to the mark in his Latin and history and algebra was a
very different affair, as Jack realized as soon as he tried to buckle
down to work. He scarcely knew what to do in order to study, and it
seemed at first as though he used to make a better showing when he
trusted to luck, the prompting of those beside him, and the various
other straws at which struggling dunces clutch when floundering in
recitation. The exhibitions of ignorance which he made, now that he
was bent on distinguishing himself, covered him with confusion in the
presence of his instructors, and his hopeless attempts beforehand to
compass the mysteries of irregular verbs, subjunctive clauses, and
other grewsome obstacles in the pathway of learning, reduced him to
despair. He detested study more than ever, and felt as though he should
never be anywhere but at the foot of his class, struggle as he would.
Pegging away seemed to make no difference. Could any one, he asked
himself, tell from their respective showings in the schoolroom which
had prepared his lesson in advance, Haseltine or he?

When a boy has acquired a reputation for idleness, it naturally takes
time to convince those in authority over him that he is trying to do
better. Some masters of course are quicker than others in noting the
symptoms of change, which, as has been intimated in Jack’s case, are
not apt to be obvious at the start; and the masters at Utopia were no
exceptions to this rule. Although several of them had discrimination
enough to recognize in the poor boy’s halting, blushing efforts the
germ of awakened ambition, there were one or two who, with his recent
whipping in mind, judged these signals of distress as indications
that he was obstinately continuing in his old ways. Consequently
his mistakes were treated by them with severity, which took the
form, according to the disposition of the master, of stern reproof
or of sarcasm. It was in vain that Jack’s eyes filled with tears on
such occasions, for his misguided tormentors saw in them merely the
simulated grief of the crocodile or unrighteous anger.

The cup of his bitterness was filled to overflowing one day just
previous to the end of the term, when Mr. Opdyke, his Latin master,
called him up to recite in Virgil in the presence of some visitors. Mr.
Opdyke, though ambitious that his class should make a good appearance,
being also a very conscientious man, felt obliged to conduct the
recitation just as he would have conducted it had no stranger been
present, and consequently to call up a sprinkling of poor as well as
of good scholars, in order to give a just impression as to the general
average.

Jack trembled in every limb as he heard the unwelcome words:

“Hall, you may go on.”

The class was reading the third book of the Æneid, and the passage
which had fallen to Jack’s lot began with the five hundred and
sixty-first line:

“Haud minus ac jussi faciunt; primusque rudentem
Contorsit lævas proram Palinurus ad undas;
Lævam cuncta cohors remis ventisque petivit.
Tollimur in cœlum curvato gurgite, et idem
Subducta ad Manes imos desedimus unda.
Ter scopuli clamorem inter cava saxa dedere:
Ter spumam elisam et rorantia vidimus astra.”

Jack managed to scan it through tolerably well, and then began to
translate.

“Not less than commanded they did”――

“Mind your tense, Hall.”

“Er――do”――

“Go on. ‘They do not otherwise than commanded.’”

“At first”――

“Well? What does ‘primus’ agree with?”

“Palinurus,” says Jack at length.

“Correct. ‘And Palinurus was the first to turn,’ or, literally,
‘Palinurus first turned.’ What is ‘contorsit’ from, Hall?”

“Contorgo,” essays Jack valiantly.

“Nothing of the sort.――Anybody?”

“‘Contorqueo,’” cries a small lad, who has shot up his hand.

“Correct, Barrows. ‘Contorqueo.’ Go on, Hall.”

“And Palinurus was the first to turn the rudder”――

“Where do you find anything about rudder?” inquires Mr. Opdyke, with
the irony of desperation.

“‘Rudentem.’”

“Indeed! Barrows, tell Hall what ‘rudentem’ means.”

“A rope,” suggests the youth named, too elated evidently by his first
success.

“Timmins?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Brown?”

“Roaring.”

“That’s right. What part of speech is it?”

“Present participle, accusative case, from ‘rudo.’”

“Correct,” says Mr. Opdyke. “‘Rudens’ means ‘a rope,’ Barrows. Some
authorities ascribe its derivation to ‘rudo’ on account of the rattling
noise made by a rope. Conjugate ‘rudo,’ Barrows.”

“‘Rudo, rudire’”――

“Haseltine?”

“‘Rudo, rudare’”――

“Brown?”

“‘Rudo, rudere, rudivi, ruditum.’”

“Correct; ‘rudire, to roar, bellow, bray, rattle.’ ‘Rudentem proram,
the hissing prow.’ Quite the other end of the ship to what you thought
it, Hall. You may continue.”

There is an audible titter, which enrages poor Jack, who remembers that
he had spent a good ten minutes the night before in trying to arrive at
the meaning of “rudentem.” He staggers on through the next line by dint
of Mr. Opdyke’s explanation that “remis ventisque” means “with oars
and sails,” and is a regular phrase for “using every effort.” He gets
a little heart by successfully conjugating “tollimur” and explaining
the metaphorical use of “Manes,” his knowledge of which is directly
traceable to study, if his master did but know. He gets a cropper,
however, in endeavoring to struggle with “desedimus,” which he had
looked for in vain under the heads of desedo, desedeo, and disedeo.
When the omniscient Brown tells him that it is the preterit of desido,
Jack is ready to kick himself in his disgust.

Only two more lines remain, over which Mr. Opdyke, believing, perhaps,
that the context is a little difficult to master, is disposed to assist
him, as, for instance, by explaining that “cava saxa” refers to “the
rocks at the bottom of the sea,” and that “ter spumam elisam,” which
Jack has not incorrectly rendered “the foam thrice dashed to pieces,”
is significant of the mariners’ seeing the sky through a curtain of
foam.

“By the way, Hall, give the principal parts of elisam.”

Jack flushes proudly. Again hard work is its own reward.

“Elido, elidere, elisi, elisum.”

Mr. Opdyke may be surprised, but he does not show it. He is the sort of
man who expects his pupils to know their lessons, and displays emotion
only when they fail. Besides, “elisam,” though a revelation to Jack,
had several times made its appearance before during the year. He merely
says shortly,――

“Well, finish.”

[Illustration: “RORANTIA ASTRA.”]

“We see,” starts off Jack, with confidence, but he is brought up short
with another “Mind your tense.”

“We saw the foam thrice dashed to pieces and the roaring stars.”

“What?”

“The foam thrice dashed to pieces”――

“No, no; translate ‘rorantia astra.’”

“Roaring stars,” answers Jack, a trifle less assuredly than the first
time. He had felt morally certain when he was preparing the lesson that
this must be the meaning of the phrase from the look of it.

“Indeed!” comes again with withering scorn from his master’s lips. “Did
you ever see a star roar, Hall? I have heard of boys roaring, but never
of stars.”

A shout of amusement from the class, which Mr. Opdyke is not very
prompt to suppress, greets this somewhat significant sally. When it has
subsided, poor Jack, who is scarlet with confusion, having been told,
“That will do,” after taking his seat hears Brown once more correct his
error by explaining that “rorantia” is the neuter accusative plural
present participle of “roro,” from “ros, dew,” and that “rorantia
astra” means “dripping stars”; as, to quote the after-remark of Mr.
Opdyke for Jack’s especial benefit, “any boy might have found out by
looking in the lexicon.”

Jack’s heart, as he sat down, was sore within him. The visitors,
smiling in spite of themselves, had evidently heard enough, for they
now rose and began to thank profusely Mr. Opdyke, whose impassive calm
boded no good, as the class well knew, to those who had been found
wanting. In the midst of the leave-taking the bell rang, which was
the signal for the close of the recitation, and a moment later the
master turned and said, “Next time we will stop at line six hundred and
eleven. I wish to speak to Hall a moment.”

When every one else was gone Jack approached the desk with compressed
lips and with every disposition to break down and sob. He had studied
his Virgil hard, as he thought, and though the passage which he had
been called upon to translate was the last in the lesson, he was not
conscious of having shirked it. He had done his best, and what a
pitiful showing his best was! However, although his doll seemed very
full of sawdust, he was not going to give old Opdyke the satisfaction
of perceiving his complete unhappiness.

Accordingly the Latin master, who believed himself an adept in
reading youthful character, conceived the sullen air of determination
manifested by the culprit before him as consistent with a purpose to
remain a dunce, and, acting on this presumption, regarded the offender
sternly, and said:

“My patience is exhausted, Hall. I have put up with your negligence
until I can do so no longer with any respect for myself or regard for
your good. I shall report your case to Dr. Meredith forthwith. There
is nothing you can say which will alter my determination,” he added
sharply, as Jack seemed about to speak.

“Very well, sir,” Jack answered.

Mr. Opdyke gathered up his books and was gone without bestowing a look
on his unhappy victim, who, led by that which he had just heard to
foresee his dismissal from school, went sadly to his room, bewailing
his unlucky stars――“rorantia astra.” The Doctor would surely take in
very bad part this report of neglected studies coming so soon after
his former disgrace.

In his unhappy plight he decided to go to Carlisle, to whom he told the
story of his misfortunes and from whom he obtained the sympathy he was
in need of. For Carlisle had not failed to observe Jack’s efforts to
overcome the difficulties of the Æneid in spite of his young crony’s
unwillingness to come to him for help, and was able with sincerity to
support the dejected lad’s protestation that he had really studied hard.

“Studied! You have studied like a Trojan, Jack. It’s an outrage in
Opdyke to accuse you of negligence. It serves you right, though, for
not letting me tutor you a bit. ‘Rudentem, the rudder,’――and what was
the other? Oh, yes,――‘roaring stars.’ Excuse my laughing, old fellow,
you outdid yourself.”

“I don’t care so much what Opdyke thinks,” said Jack ruefully, “but I
can’t bear to have the Doctor suppose I’m the same old quarter of a
dollar. It’s no use my trying to learn anything, though. The harder I
work the worse exhibition I make. When you’re gone next year, I don’t
know what’ll become of me.”

“But I shan’t be gone. I’m going to remain another year.”

“Really?” exclaimed Jack jubilantly. “What has induced you to change
your mind? When did you decide?”

“Only this morning. I’ve been talking it over with Dr. Bolles, and
he thinks it would be more sensible of me not to go to college for
another year. There’s no hurry, for I’m only seventeen, and though I’m
feeling first-rate he believes that by waiting I should build myself up
completely. So I’m to pass my entrance examinations this June and come
back to the school as assistant in Latin next fall. It’s all arranged;
and you’ll have to mind your P’s and Q’s, I can tell you, when you’re
reciting to me, youngster.”

These last weeks of the school year were always busy ones in every
sense. Beside being examination time, at the close of which was the
annual exhibition day when the parents and friends of the boys came
often from a great distance to see their sons declaim or recite
in public, they were busy also in an athletic way. On the morning
preceding that on which the prize declamation was held it had become
an established custom for the four eight-oared crews to compete
together and subsequently for the best single scullers at Utopia to
demonstrate by a two-mile contest which could pull the fastest. During
the same week also the school nine endeavored to pit itself against the
most formidable base-ball team that could be lured to Utopia.

This year, as you already know, Jack took no active part in either
of the aquatic tussles. He saw, as was expected, the Mohicans again
crowned cocks of the lake, chiefly owing to the dashing stroke set them
by Tom Bonsall, and heard with a feeling akin to envy the statement
go the rounds that Tom was to have a walk-over in the single-scull
contest. There were no entries against him, and by paddling over the
course he would have the right to claim the silver cup annually put up
as a prize by a generous patron of the school. Somehow or other there
was just at this time a dearth of fast scullers among the boys of the
first two years, and here was a third-classer sweeping all before him
without opposition even.

The single-scull race had been fixed for as late as possible in
the afternoon, in order to give any one who had taken part in the
four-oared contest time to get rested. But, naturally, as few foresaw
any amusement in watching Tom go over the course alone, interest in
the event was very slight until the rumor got abroad shortly after
twelve o’clock that Carlisle was going to have a try for the cup.
It had already been announced early in the day not only that he had
come out at the head of the school, but that his standing in the way
of scholarship was proportionately higher than that of any previous
Utopian. No one was surprised at this; but the news of his entry for
the single sculls caused a veritable sensation, which found voice in
a general prediction that he would be beaten. As for Jack, when he
heard it, he waved his cap above his head and shouted himself hoarse.
He had such faith in his friend’s ability to do anything that he tried
to do, that, as astounding as the announcement was, even to him, Jack
would not permit himself to doubt the result. The odds were ostensibly
against Louis, it is true, for Tom was the pink of condition and was
open to slight criticism in the way of style, as Jack was very well
aware, and I don’t think our hero was quite able yet to appreciate to
the full the value in such an affair of steady, systematic training
void of splurge or notoriety, although familiar with the fact that his
friend was in excellent practice. And yet, notwithstanding, Jack had a
hope which from the first amounted almost to conviction that Carlisle
would win.

It was a great race――that battle royal between Tom Bonsall and Louis
Carlisle, and properly is recorded among the famous rowing matches of
Utopia School. If this book was not devoted chiefly to the experiences
of another hero, I should like nothing better than to describe in
detail how the two oarsmen, who were well matched in point of size,
pulled an even race to within a quarter of a mile of the finish at a
pace but little below that of the best school record; how the younger
boy in his desire to overcome his antagonist increased his speed and
gained a lead of half a boat’s length, to the delight of his backers,
only to get blown and yield his advantage, inch by inch, until the
rival shells were once more abreast; and how Tom in his distress then
lost his head and began to splash, giving an opportunity for his
senior’s steady, thoroughly digested stroke to bring him to the fore
and win the race with comparative ease amid the vociferous cheers of a
rapturous crowd, among whom there was no one more wild with transport
than our friend Jack. It was a fit ending to the victor’s career at
Utopia,――a career which had won him no enemies, and gained for him
the respect and affection of masters and pupils alike, most of whom,
however, as they admired him walking up to the boat-house, apparently
still fresh and a picture of ruddy health, had but little appreciation
of how largely he owed his great increase in vigor to knowledge of
his own needs and to self-restraint――qualities whose value in the
foundation of character it would be difficult to overestimate.

But for lack of space I might doubtless narrate also with abundant
circumlocution, and not fear to tire those of you most fond of
base-ball, how the Stars won a victory by a single run――a ten innings
game――from the school nine in spite of the stimulating presence of
applauding friends――some of them of the gentler sex――decked with
the Utopia color; and despite, too, the fact that the “Kid” was in
magnificent form, and our friend Hasy had been within a fortnight, on
account of his brilliancy at the bat and in the field, made permanently
a member of the team in the position of third-base man, which you will
remember was the same proud position he filled when with the formidable
Rising Suns. How the defeat came about it was not easy to explain, as
every one had felt sure of the game, which suggests that we are very
apt in this world to come to grief when we despise our adversaries. It
was a good thing for the “Kid,” however, and for Haseltine too, to have
the conceit knocked out of them, as I have no doubt the Doctor thought
also, seeing that the nine had carried all before it hitherto during
the term. It does not do for boys, or for men either, who wish to hold
their own and to go on improving, to get too cocky.

Notwithstanding these diversions, Jack could not help feeling very
nervous in regard to the outcome of Mr. Opdyke’s report to the Doctor,
of which he had heard nothing, although a fortnight had now elapsed
since his pitiful recitation in Virgil. Since then he had been in to
the yearly examinations in the various subjects allotted to boys of his
year, but without feeling much encouraged to believe that he had made
a good showing. It was a new experience to him to be worrying as to
whether or not he had answered this or that question correctly, and yet
he was so wrapped up in trying not to be at the foot of the class that
he could think of nothing else. It seemed to him as though he could no
longer bear the thought of being regarded as an idle, lazy fellow.

Before breakfast, on the morning of the school exhibition, he received
word that he was to go to Dr. Meredith’s study, a summons which made
him feel sick at heart, for he believed that he knew what was in store
for him. Greatly to his surprise he was greeted by the head master with
a pleasant smile, and could scarcely believe his ears as he listened to
these words:――

“Hall, your work during the past term has been a great improvement on
what you have done before. There is great room for improvement yet, my
dear boy, but if you continue as you have begun there will soon be no
cause to complain of you.”

There can be little doubt that Jack went home for vacation with a light
heart, especially when I add that he had the satisfaction of being
assured by Carlisle, just before they parted for the summer, that if he
would only stick to his present stroke and not try to get on too fast,
he would certainly in time give that rising young oarsman, Bonsall, all
he could do to keep his laurels.

“I’ve taught Bonsall a lesson, though, that he’ll be quick to profit
by, if he’s the clever fellow I judge him to be,” said Carlisle.
“You’ve no child’s play cut out for you, youngster; it’ll be nip and
tuck between you, and all I can say is, let the best man win when the
time comes. I hope I shall be on hand to see the struggle.”

CHAPTER XI.

NIP AND TUCK.

With the beginning of the third-class year Jack entered upon the
second half of his life at Utopia. One day early in the new term he
dropped into the more spacious study to which Carlisle, in his capacity
of assistant in Latin, had been promoted, and falling into a chair
exclaimed, “I say, Louis, I would like something to read.”

“To read, my dear fellow? With all my heart. What shall it be?”

“That’s what I’ve come to you to tell me. I’ve never read anything and
I want to begin.”

As you have doubtless noticed, Carlisle had hitherto in his intercourse
with Jack kept in the background his most cherished tastes, and
rarely, if ever, made allusion to books or other kindred interests,
feeling sure that he would not find a sympathetic listener. But from
this time forward the scope of their friendship was greatly widened.
It was a simple matter for the older boy to gratify the desire of
his interrogator, and before many weeks had passed by Jack had become
an eager devourer of literature, held in check from proceeding too
rapidly, however, by the injunction to digest thoroughly what he read.

“I only wish I had had somebody to impress the importance of that
upon me when I started,” Carlisle remarked to him early in their new
intercourse. “I read everything I could lay my hands on as fast as I
could see the words. Consequently I forgot half what I read.”

“Were all these books given to you?” asked Jack, indicating the modest
little library of which his friend was the happy possessor.

“No, indeed. I purchased most of them with what I have saved from my
spending money. Long before I was your age I used to save up every cent
I got to spend in books. I shall never forget my delight when I was
able to buy the copy of ‘The Lady of the Lake,’ above your head there.”

Jack had never read “The Lady of the Lake.” Indeed, he had never
read any poetry in his life, and what is more, had in his ignorance
cherished the belief that poetry was silly stuff, fit only for girls
and milksops, and quite beneath the notice of a masculine individual
like himself. This belief he was obliged to confess ill-founded after
finishing the thrilling encounter between Snowdon’s knight and the
formidable Roderick Dhu. In fact, so great was his delight with both
this poem and “Marmion,” which Carlisle introduced him to immediately
after, that he saw fit to learn passages from each of them by heart,
much to the bewilderment and ill-concealed disdain of Haseltine, in
whose presence he was disposed to rehearse them.

“‘Come one, come all, this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I,’”

he began one morning while they were dressing, assuming a martial
attitude before the bath-room door, and armed with a base-ball bat.

“Oh, come off,” said Haseltine contemptuously. “Quit that stuff!”

“It isn’t stuff,” expostulated Jack. “You ought to read it; it’s
immense.”

“What is?”

“‘The Lady of the Lake,’ by Scott. There’s ‘Marmion,’ too.”

“‘Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on!
Were the last words of Marmion,’”

he added, waving the bat.

“Anything about base-ball in it?”

“Of course not, Hasy. It’s poetry.”

“I don’t see what difference that makes. Any way, I guess prose is good
enough for me.”

“Will you read ‘The Lady of the Lake’ if I lend it to you?” asked Jack.
He was genuinely eager to share the pleasure of his new discovery.

Haseltine did not commit himself on the point, but Jack left the volume
in his crony’s room, and experienced the satisfaction a few days later
of hearing him ask, carelessly,――

“What did you say the name of the other book was?”

“‘Marmion.’”

“I guess I’ll look it over now that my hand’s in.”

This was scarcely enthusiasm, to judge by the mere words; but Jack
knew well that Haseltine must have been greatly interested in order to
have said even so much, an estimate which was confirmed a fortnight
later, when the base-ball devotee accepted an invitation to read two
hours in every week with him and Carlisle. This arrangement, which
lasted through the year, soon became a source of extreme delight to
both the boys, who listened with open ears to the various pieces of
verse which their mentor selected for their edification. Carlisle took
pains to explain that he was himself a mere student and beginner, and
to encourage diversity of opinion, and consequent discussion, in regard
to the merits of what was read. It must have been interesting to him to
note the gradual change which took place in the tastes of his auditors,
though be it said that Haseltine, to the last, refused to admit any
passage in the realm of verse to be superior to that which described
the once sneered-at duel between the Scottish king and the Highland
rebel. Both their hearts, and more particularly Jack’s, were opened,
however, to the beauties of more thoughtful poetry, which, and also
the feelings and aspirations begotten by it, became new and working
influences in their lives.

I am quite aware that this side of Jack’s career cannot be made to
appear so attractive to you boys by means of description as some of
the more picturesque matters in which he was engaged; but if he were
called upon to-day to state what period in his school life he looks
back upon with the greatest satisfaction since going out into the busy
world, I know that he would specify that during which he acquired his
love of reading and interest in refined thought. You remember that,
though, when he went home encouraged by Dr. Meredith’s kind words at
the end of his fourth-class year, he was certainly entitled to great
credit for having made so determined a fight against his inveterate
habit of idleness, he was at the time little more than a rough,
harum-scarum sort of a boy,――a plucky one, I admit, with plenty of good
stuff in him,――but nevertheless comparatively thoughtless, and confined
in his interests to the ball field and boat-house. Before another year
had passed, while he was once more in excellent spirits, there was
something about his expression which caused the other boys to speak of
him as older-looking. But Carlisle and the ever-observant head of the
school recognized with pleasure that his graver countenance and less
flighty manner were significant of more than seniority.

Our hero’s prowess in the way of sport was chiefly marked this year by
his selection as one of the Atalantas, in whose boat he was given the
position of number four, and had the satisfaction of doing his best to
make the crew formidable opponents of the still victorious Mohicans.
The Atalantas had fallen to the rank of third on the lake in the last
race in which the four eight-oared crews had met; but this infusion of
new blood――there were two other additions beside Jack――enabled them to
come in second in the spring contest, and not a very bad second either.
So fresh were they in fact at the finish, that Tom Bonsall had to call
on his crew for an extra spurt when he supposed the race already won.

Jack managed also, before another twelvemonth had passed, to throw
Carpenter flat on his back and pin his shoulders to the ground in the
middle-weight spring wrestling, in retaliation for that athlete’s
victory over him when they were both classed as feather weights. He
wisely recognized his limitations on the running track, however,
which a gain of ten pounds in weight had intensified, by not trying
to compete with Jessup, who was still easily first as a sprinter. If
Hopedale, who, you will recall, had beaten him twice in previous years,
had been still at Utopia, Jack might have found it difficult to resist
the temptation of making another struggle for supremacy; but his old
antagonist was no longer at the school. It was a wise decision on his
part, for the champion succeeded in lowering Carlisle’s famous record
amid tumultuous applause.

Jack’s general reputation at this time was as a good all-round man;
a reputation which he was urged to maintain by the intelligent
superintendent of the gymnasium, Dr. Bolles, between whom and Jack
there was mutual cordiality of feeling. Dr. Bolles, as you will
remember, had been pleased by Jack’s compact physique from the first
day he laid eyes on him, and had ever since lost no occasion to drop
valuable hints as to how it might be improved and taken care of. Jack
had long ago learned from this source the weak points in his make-up,
and was well versed in his instructor’s theory, that it was foolish for
boys to cultivate chiefly those parts of the body which were especially
well developed. In the opinion of Dr. Bolles, athletics were intended
as a means for improving the health and structure of the young, not
as an end to the pursuit of which they should devote their entire
energies; and he was emphatic in his cautions to Jack not to be led
astray in this respect.

“Remember,” he would say, “that however important it may seem to you
to win this or the other match, the real object of exercise is to fit
you for the serious work that you will be called upon to do as a man.
The moment you sacrifice everything to sport, you are to all intents
and purposes a professional, which is the last thing you were sent to
school to become.”

Although this view of athletics was novel to Jack, he was forced to
admit to himself that it was in keeping with the other ideas regarding
human duty and obligation which had suddenly been revealed to him as a
consequence of his more sober life and the masterpieces of intelligent
thought with which his mind was being brought in daily contact. He
was able now to understand Carlisle’s previous determination not to
dissipate his energies in too many directions, and to pursue his
training at the oar with the aim first of all of keeping in good
condition so as to be able to fulfill his school work satisfactorily.
Study did not come easy yet to Jack. Far from it, in fact. It takes a
long time to recover lost ground and cover new at the same time. Often
indeed he felt pretty well discouraged and inclined to believe that
he should never do anything at his books. Though by no means dull, he
possessed little more than average brightness, which made the contrast
which he could not help forming at times between himself and his mentor
stand out with painful distinctness. Carlisle was so quick-minded, and
acquired everything that he undertook to learn so easily, that Jack
could not help expressing openly his despair of ever coming within
understanding distance even of his friend.

“Nonsense!” Carlisle would reply on such occasions; “you were a little
late in beginning, that’s all. Persevere, youngster, and you’ll come
out all right in the end.”

There was good advice in this, for though Jack would never be likely
through lack of natural abilities and taste to equal his senior in
intellectual acumen, there was no reason why he should not become
an excellent scholar and graduate with distinction by means of that
very valuable quality――which is too apt to be depreciated as a
gift――known as perseverance. Some boys will always be by disposition
quicker witted and more brilliant than their fellows, but it does
not follow by any means that the prizes of after-life fall to these
“Admirable Crichtons.” Stubborn, bull-dog, up-hill climbing and
untiring determination to succeed will many a time win place and honor
when easy-going talent goes to the wall. Don’t let any one persuade
you, boys, that you can equal all at once some companion who learns
his lessons twice as easily as you do. God gives unequal gifts to
his children, and if the one you have in mind is as resolute as you,
no amount of industry will enable you to catch him. But, though your
abilities may appear commonplace to begin with, you have no idea how
many of those exasperatingly clever fellows you will leave safely in
the rear before the race of life is over, if only you make the most of
yourself by persevering unflaggingly from start to finish.

One day not long before the summer vacation Carlisle came into his
study, where Jack who had the run of it happened to be pegging away
at some lesson, and dropping into the window-seat began to look over
the just issued copy of “The Utopian,” the school paper, of which he
had been an editor until he graduated, and to which he was still an
occasional contributor.

“The Utopian” was conducted by a board of six taken from the three
upper classes, who solicited articles and poems from the entire
school, and was a breezy neat-looking little publication containing,
beside local items of interest and detailed accounts of the triumphs
and reverses of the nine, the fifteen, and the other athletic
organizations, numerous imaginative pieces in prose and verse. Carlisle
had for several years been one of its strongest supporters, and both in
the capacity of “funny man” and poet had done much to keep its columns
readable. Consequently he was familiar with the pseudonym and style of
the usual contributors.

After reading out one or two stray bits of humor which he came across
and over which he chuckled contentedly, and dubbing as “dishwater” a
poem involving a love affair which doubtless he judged appertained
rather to the mind’s eye than to the experience of the narrator, he was
silent a moment. Then he said:

“I wonder who ‘Juvenis’ is.”

“Juvenis?” asked Jack, with apparent nonchalance, glancing at him
furtively.

“Yes; there’s a fellow signs himself ‘Juvenis’ to some lines on the
Ocean. It isn’t a very original subject, but whoever he is, he has seen
the ocean any way and knows what it looks like. It isn’t bad at all,”
he added.

[Illustration]

If the ex-editor had chanced to regard his companion’s face at the
moment he must have obtained an instant clue as to the identity of the
unknown rhymester. Jack was tickled to death, so to speak, for this was
the first information he had received of the acceptance of his poem
which he had inclosed and addressed to the editors of the Utopian a
fortnight before in the secrecy of his own room, and with very little
hope of its escape from the wastepaper basket. To have in addition to
the consciousness of knowing that it was actually in print, Carlisle
of all men vouchsafe a word of praise in its behalf seemed to him like
piling Pelion on Ossa. At least he felt as much up in the world as he
could possibly have felt if standing on a pinnacle composed of those
two mountains.

While he was deliberating whether or not to reveal his authorship,
Carlisle renewed the conversation by asking to Jack’s infinite
amusement:

“Why shouldn’t you try your hand at something of the sort, youngster?
If poetry isn’t in your line, write prose.”

“What’s the use?” responded our hero, with a well simulated attempt at
indifference.

“What’s the use of anything? In the first place, composition teaches
you to systematize your thoughts and to express yourself with
clearness. I believe, too, in cultivating the imagination. Of course
every fellow who writes verse isn’t a poet and is apt to be a fool if
he thinks himself one, but his mind gets pleasure and profit out of
the exercise. Take these lines I just spoke to you about,” continued
Carlisle, “they’re not much as poetry of course.”

“Oh, no,” interjected Jack, a little dolefully, off his guard.

“But the author must have derived a great deal of satisfaction from
writing them, and can evidently do much better work with practice. If
you ask ‘what’s the use,’ I can’t express it to you in dollars and
cents, but I’m mighty certain that everything of that sort is good for
one, and helps one to understand life better.”

Jack began to laugh merrily. “That’s the best rise I’ve seen for a long
time,” he said.

“I fail to see the rise.”

“You will, though, when I tell you that I am the author of the Lines on
the Ocean.”

“You, Jack! Well, that’s a good one on me, I admit. You might have let
me into the secret, I think,” added Carlisle reproachfully.

“You see it was not a very original subject”――

“None of that, now. You may thank your stars, youngster, that I
didn’t pitch into your verses. I might have stabbed you to the heart
unwittingly.”

“In which case their authorship would have died with me. I knew you’d
feel obliged to tell me exactly what you thought of them if I showed
them to you, so I kept mum.”

“Well, you’ve heard my opinion of them, and I don’t know that I
have anything to add except that for a first attempt they’re highly
creditable,” said Carlisle.

Jack was excessively proud of his new accomplishment, and lost no time
in showing the verses to Haseltine, who, after reading them to the end,
observed laconically,――

“They’re not up to ‘The Lady of the Lake.’”

Beyond this general criticism Haseltine did not choose to commit
himself, but being nowadays less disposed than formerly to sniff
at matters unconnected with base-ball, he also abstained from any
observations in depreciation of poetry writing. But though, as we
have seen, not wholly unamenable to culture, Hasy was true, heart
and soul, to his first love. No arguments had yet been able to shake
his unswerving allegiance to base-ball, and, as a consequence, his
daily increasing proficiency at that game was giving him an enviable
reputation on the diamond, so much so, that it was universally conceded
that he would succeed the “Kid” as captain of the school nine at the
beginning of the coming year. His fielding was really remarkable for
so young a fellow. He seemed to be in a dozen places at the same
moment, and the batsman who dared to let anything drive within a wide
radius of third base was sure to be discomfited. His base running was a
marvel to behold, and his batting record by no means inferior. His most
recent ambition was to pitch, and his twisters had already brought him
into repute on the several occasions when he had been called into the
box to relieve the “Kid.” In his studies he managed to tag along just
above the bottom of the class. A certain brightness, a clever knack
of guessing correctly, it might be called, saved him from absolute
disaster, and made him popular with his masters despite themselves.

With the opening of their second-class year both Jack and he found
themselves among the leaders of the school. Its cock was now undeniably
Tom Bonsall, who, in addition to being a member of the first class,
stroke oar of the Mohicans, and champion sculler of Utopia, was justly
entitled to be styled a rattling good fellow. Tom had, however, the
air of feeling his oats, as the saying is, in spite of the lesson in
humility which Carlisle had taught him, and, if he had a fault, was
open to criticism on the score of vanity. What Tom Bonsall could not
do was not worth doing, school opinion generally held, which was a
sentiment full of danger to his career unless he chanced to possess an
uncommonly level head.

Both Tom and Jack had filled out amazingly during this last twelvemonth.
Tom was still the heavier of the two, and was a year older to boot; but
his rival looked beefy enough and sinewy enough not to excite invidious
comparisons. Indeed, if one had looked them in turn squarely in the
face, I think he would, if a shrewd judge, have been struck by how clear
Jack’s eyes were and how fresh and free from pallor or staleness his
complexion was, slightly to the prejudice of Tom, who, to tell the
truth, had got a little into the habit of smoking cigarettes and being
careless about his condition. It is pretty hard for a fellow as popular
as Tom not to have to suit everybody more or less in order not to lose
ground, and as Bill French and two or three others of the same stamp had
a certain amount of influence in the school, he thought it good policy
to keep on the right side of them, though disapproving of their general
ways. This is a dangerous sort of game to play, and finer fellows at the
start even than Tom Bonsall have learned it to their cost.

But little reference of late has been made to the wily Bill, for
the reason that after the tool-house episode his intimacy with Jack
perceptibly waned. But though he has not figured in these pages, it
must not be supposed that he had ceased to be a potent influence at
Utopia, or, alas! that he had changed in character. Bill’s lie set an
effectual seal on any budding virtues that may have been dormant in his
soul and crushed them hopelessly, it is to be feared. Bill was not a
villain, in the approved sense of the word. Quite otherwise, in fact.
He had plenty of good points in that he was clever, entertaining, and,
on the whole, amiable; but the trouble with him, as you have, I hope,
appreciated, was that he was a coward. His tastes and impulses led him
to avoid all that was open and above board, and to prefer just the
opposite. You remember how he displayed these traits earlier in his
career, and you will readily understand that now, instead of following
any of the pursuits which the manly boys at the school took delight
in, he found his chief gratification in posing as a flawless dandy,
by which word “flawless” I do not refer to his moral attributes but
to his personal appearance. Bill and his set――for he had a number of
more or less ardent disciples in this proclivity――aped with wonderful
precision so far as they dared, and much further in secret than the
laws allowed, the manners of weary men about town who think they know
everything about life, and are tired of what they know. Even in the
days of the Big Four this had been somewhat Bill’s drift, but he had
developed it latterly to perfection.

I bring him before you again that you may take one last glimpse of him
and his ways, and form your own opinion regarding them both before he
vanishes from our sight forever. I wish with all my heart that I were
able truthfully to state that he came to grief before he left Utopia.
To inform you that he was sent away on account of his evil example
would be much more satisfactory from the point of view of romance and
retributive justice, than to write as I am forced to do, that, although
he was suspected and disapproved of by the masters, he managed to
keep his ill doings so dark that he was never actually found out up
to that time. But we must take facts as they are, not as we would
like to have them. I do not wish to give you the idea that Bill was
hopeless,――though I regret to add that since he graduated from Utopia
he has done little to encourage one to believe that he will ever be a
useful member of society,――but it must be borne in mind in estimating
character that the stereotyped villain such as was referred to just
now is a rare exception except in city slums, and that the sort of
person most dangerous to the welfare of our community as it exists at
present is not the cut-throat or burglar whom the policeman knows very
well how to deal with, but the sneering advocate of licentiousness
and self-indulgence and low standards of honor. Boys like Bill do not
become thoroughly bad all at once. They deteriorate gradually. One
thing leads to another, and though if no redeeming influence is brought
to bear upon them in time their degeneration is wofully certain, there
is often little about them to attract the unfavorable attention of
those who do not know them well. Sometimes they are never found out
at all by the world at large; but you may be pretty sure that, as the
years roll by, if they do not reveal themselves by their unworthy
deeds or the expression of their faces, their hearts are sad and sore.
Life has lost for them its savor even in an evil sense, and everything
seems to them as the poet says, “weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.”
But to be anxious that vice should be its own punishment, much less
that wrong-doers should have strict justice meted out to them, is
concern unworthy for thorough-going characters to entertain. Let the
bad boys go their ways, and do not trouble your heads with wondering
when and how they will be made to suffer for their unrighteousness.
You will have plenty to do to guide your own footsteps and to steer
clear of the pitfalls which have engulfed many a lad secure in the
consciousness of his own power to resist temptation. For my part I pity
Bill French and hope sincerely that he may yet turn out a decent fellow.

Meanwhile, with Carlisle away at college, where he had entered with
flying colors, the new year saw Jack thrown on his own resources,
which, though a doleful experience at first on account of his
separation from his dear friend, was perhaps just what he needed to
give force to his character. He had become one of the older boys of
the school, and instead of looking up to others was in a position
to be looked up to himself by the lads in the lower classes, the
consciousness of which was not slow to breed in him a sense of
responsibility as to keeping an eye on youngsters who, like himself
not so very long ago, were in need of a helping hand. He was now also
one of the six editors of “The Utopian,” an honor conferred upon
him in virtue of several articles both in prose and verse which had
emanated from his pen as a result of the favorable reception accorded
to his Lines on the Ocean. His pseudonym “Juvenis” was well known
in school circles, and his energy in securing both contributors and
subscribers never faltered. He was the means of introducing a number
of new features into the paper, most popular among which was a series
of florid, but racy and pertinent observations on the national game
appearing in every issue signed enigmatically “Third Base,” which was
merely an ostrich-like concealment of the identity of the captain of
the school nine. Haseltine had regarded the proposition to become
literary to this extent with favor from the very outset, and from
the very outset also his lucubrations were so immensely popular that
extracts from them found their way into the columns of the real press
of the county, much to the satisfaction of their author.

But deeply in earnest as Jack had grown to be in his efforts to do
his duty and to please his mother, which two ends not unnaturally
were synonymous in his mind, and faithfully as he stuck to his school
work during his year in the second class, he was looking forward
with anxious but keen and determined anticipation to the day when he
should have the opportunity to row man for man against his rival, to
decide once for all which was the better oarsman of the two. It had
become a matter of school knowledge and discussion that these two
crack scullers――for they were now both recognized as such――were to
settle this question at the spring races, and great was the difference
of opinion as to the result. Each had his enthusiastic backers who
believed in their champion’s ability to leave his opponent far in the
rear, and but little else was talked about out of school hours but the
respective merits of Tom Bonsall and Jack Hall.

As Tom was to graduate this year, this was Jack’s last chance to prove
himself his superior. Consequently neither of them allowed the other to
outdo him in practice, and though apparently they both avoided testing
each other’s mettle in advance, their respective shells were visible
at opposite ends of the lake at least once a day during the spring
preceding the race.

Great preparations were made for the contest, and in order that the
scullers might be perfectly fresh, the eight-oared race was fixed for
the day after. But great as was the excitement, it was nothing compared
with what it became when, a week before the important event, Dr.
Meredith announced his intention of competing for the prize himself.

The report ran like wildfire through the school. “Have you heard the
news?” every one asked his neighbor. “The Doctor is going in for the
single sculls against Bonsall and Hall. He hasn’t rowed in a race, you
know, since Whiteside crawled up on him so.”

Whiteside’s struggle was, of course, merely a tradition to five sixths
of the boys, but it was one which had been handed down from class to
class as an event yet without parallel in the annals of Utopia. The
very fact that the Doctor had never entered a race since then had
been tacitly accepted as proof that there were no longer competitors
among his pupils sufficiently formidable to render a victory on his
part otherwise than easy, and it is needless to state that the present
announcement was regarded as a profound compliment to the condition of
aquatics at the school. As to what the result of the race would be, few
saw room to doubt. The Doctor was always in condition; the Doctor was
always in practice; the Doctor was sure to win.

The opinion of the many was shared also by his two competitors, who
discussed the matter from every standpoint. Neither of them could hope
to beat the Doctor, but they were resolved that he should not carry off
the prize without pulling for all he was worth from start to finish. So
Tom and Jack vowed on the evening before the race as they stood side
by side on the boat-house flat, watching their adversary shoot over
the water in a final practice spin. If gritted teeth and determination
could be of avail, the head of the school had no sinecure in the task
which he had taken on himself.

The appointed day dawned bright and still. Jack, who had lain awake
during the early hours of the night through excitement, was awakened
from a deep, refreshing sleep by a well-known knock, which caused him
to leap out of bed and open the door.

“Louis, where on earth did you spring from?”

“Jack, how _are_ you?”

The two boys stood shaking hands and laughing delightedly for some
moments before Carlisle――it was he of course――saw fit to explain in
answer to his friend’s question that he had run up from college on
purpose to see the race. There was a leeway of three days, he said,
between two of his examinations, and he had managed to get away.

“It was awfully good of you, Louis.”

“Nonsense, youngster! I had promised to come if I could, you know, and
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Have you heard whom I am to row against?” asked Jack feverishly.

Carlisle nodded. He had been told everything by Horace Hosmer driving
up from the station, it appeared, and been waylaid moreover by half the
school, eager to know his opinion as to the result, and to give theirs.

“Have I any show, Louis, do you think?”

“You ought to know better than I, Jack. I haven’t seen you row for a
year.”

“I can’t bear the idea of coming in third. Somehow I feel as if I
should have a better show if the Doctor were out of it.”

“Too late to talk that way now,” said Carlisle. “You must brace.”

“Oh, I’m braced, never fear. It’s merely like talking to another self
to talk to you.”

The race had been fixed for ten o’clock. The lake was reported to be
like a mirror, and the day unexceptionable from an oarsman’s point
of view. Jack ate a fairly substantial breakfast at eight, and at
Carlisle’s suggestion remained quietly until nine in his own room,
from which he emerged in an overcoat worn over his boating costume, a
crimson and black striped jersey and crimson handkerchief,――the uniform
of the Atalantas,――and a nondescript pair of trowsers. Haseltine was
waiting before the door with a trap, borrowed from one of the farmers,
so as to spare his champion the unnecessary fatigue of a walk, in which
the three bestowed themselves. Hasy announced that the Doctor and Tom
Bonsall had already gone down to the boat-house.

The quadrangle, as they jogged through it, looked completely deserted,
and not a head was to be seen in any of the dormitory windows, a
condition of affairs which was fully accounted for by the appearance
of the lake and its borders when they arrived. Every boy who possessed
a boat was out in it, and the water was dotted with every variety of
craft from a Rob Roy canoe to the steam launch recently presented to
the school by a fond graduate, which was occupied by Mrs. Meredith,
the judges, and some of the principal guests whom Founders’ Day――as
the annual exhibition was called――had brought to Utopia. The launch
flew proudly the school colors, blue and white, which properly were
worn to-day only by the Doctor, who was just stepping from the float
into his shell amid great applause as Jack alighted from the vehicle.
The stand, which had been erected a few rods from the boat-house, and
which was just opposite to the finish, was crowded with visitors, many
of whom were ladies in gay attire, and the members of the school, while
the country people from miles around were ranged along the shore. It
was a scene calculated to quicken the pulses of any one with a spark
of enthusiasm. As for Jack, when he started to strip off his overcoat
he was trembling all over, and could feel his heart going like a
trip-hammer.

The course was to be two miles in all; straight away for a mile to
a flagged buoy, and back again to another flagged buoy abreast of
the boat-house. Two of the first class were to be judges, a third to
be judge at the further buoy, and Mr. Percy had consented to act as
referee in case of any dispute. Stoddard of the second class, and
stroke oar of the Nimrods, was to send the contestants off by firing a
pistol at the proper moment.

Jack was the last of the three to get into his boat.

“Is everything all right?” whispered Carlisle, who was bending over
him holding the shell at the float. “Don’t spurt until you have to,
remember.”

“O K,” answered our hero.

“Let her go, Smith,” said Haseltine jocularly. “Keep your courage up,
old man,” he added to Jack.

Carlisle shoved the shell out, retaining his grasp on the oar nearest
him until there was clear water. Jack paddled a few rods and then shot
off at a comfortable pace up the lake, followed by the wistful gaze of
the spectators eager to gauge his powers. He caught a glimpse of Tom
Bonsall, in a white shirt with a purple star on its bosom, and a purple
handkerchief bound stylishly across his forehead, resting on his oars
and watching him. Jack had no idea of wasting his energies by showing
off. He had time just to warm himself up a bit before the signal to
get into line. He pulled steadily and quietly for a few hundred yards,
taking a last glance at his equipment to make sure that everything was
all right.

He had scarcely turned to come back when the pistol sounded, and by the
time he reached the starting line the Doctor and Tom were in position.
According to the lots drawn that morning Jack was to be in the middle,
with Tom inside; so he paddled in between them. Stoddard spent a few
moments in making first one and then another retire or move forward a
few inches, then asked sharply,――

“Are you ready?”

Jack felt almost beside himself in the short interval that preceded the
discharge, and his throat seemed parched.

Crack!

The three pairs of blades flashed through the water at the same moment,
and neither boat seemed to gain any decided advantage as they bounded
away from the buoy amid the cheers of everybody.

“Hurrah for the Doctor!”

“Hit her up, Tom!”

“Bully for you, Jack!”

It took our hero some minutes to get his head clear enough to be able
to perceive what he was doing, as compared with his opponents. He rowed
on and on excitedly without realizing anything. He was conscious of
rowing a rather quicker and more jerky stroke than usual. His eyes were
misty and his throat drier than ever. The cheers of the spectators were
growing fainter, and he felt that it was time to settle down to work.
He made a gulp and looked about him. On his right was Tom pulling like
grim death, at a rate which seemed to lift his boat almost out of the
water. The stern of Tom’s shell was nearly on a level with the back
sweep of his own oars, which showed plainly that Tom had not far from
half a length’s lead on him. On the other side was the Doctor in his
blue and white jersey, rowing steadily and smoothly as clockwork, neck
and neck with him.

[Illustration: THE BOAT RACE.]

“Softly now,” said Jack to himself. “This is too fast company for me.
If Tom can keep this racket up he’ll get there first. My only chance is
to let up a bit.”

Accordingly he lessened the number of strokes to the minute by making
each of them longer and more sweeping, with the immediate result that
he felt in better shape, and that Tom had gained no further advantage
on him. But there was no let-up to Tom. He had the lead and was bent on
keeping it.

They were too far off now for the shouts to reach them. Not a sound was
audible to Jack but the slight plashing of the oars in the water. Over
his shoulder Tom was struggling onward, and abreast of him, pulling
with apparently no effort whatever and watching alertly the movements
of his rivals, could be seen the dangerous Doctor. But Jack, too, felt
calm now and fresher than when he started. He can even put a little
more back muscle into his stroke, he thinks, as he feels his grip
tighten on the oars with the consciousness of growing vigor. A few more
sweeps like that will close up the gap between his out-rigger and Tom’s.

But why does not the Doctor bend to his work to keep him company? The
Doctor is pulling a waiting race evidently, and is going to let his
rivals blow themselves against one another before he has an oar in the
fight. Otherwise surely he would not have let Jack forge ahead so that
he has to look round the corner now in order to watch him. The Doctor
is an old hand and has seen many a race lost by too lively a pace at
the start.

“Steady,” reflects Jack, again trying to keep cool as he realizes that
he has a lead over his most dangerous enemy. “Don’t hit her up too
lively.” He appreciates the Doctor’s tactics, and is not going to fall
into the trap if he can help it, even though Tom, spurred on by swift
pursuit, has put on more steam and is holding his own bravely. They
are not far from the flagged buoy now. Jack can see it distinctly and
has in mind that he must be careful to avoid a foul. They are likely
to pass it in the order in which they are at present, about half a
length apart, and Tom has the inside water. All three are pulling like
well-oiled machines, and not a symptom of distress comes from either
boat.

Tom turns first, and very cleverly too, close to the buoy so as to
give no one a chance to cut in, and starts for home, but the others
are at his heels and right after him. Jack in passing catches the eye
of Sampson, the judge at the turn, and feels cool enough to nod in
friendly fashion. Halfway, and he is still fresh as ever! He would like
to try to press Tom, but for fear of the cool, deliberate Doctor barely
astern. He remembers Carlisle’s caution not to spurt until he has to,
and only bends strongly and firmly to his accustomed stroke, which,
however, is losing him no ground to say the least. Tom is evidently
uneasy and is working to shake him off, forgetful, it appears, of his
experience in forcing the pace a year ago. But Tom is a better oar than
a year ago, and perhaps has taken that into account.

Ah there! The Doctor is waking up at last, and is putting in some
stronger work; nothing very strenuous, but lively enough to warn Jack
that he must have his head about him if he hopes to keep his lead to
the end. One thing is certain now: Tom will have to row faster or give
in; after which reflection Jack slightly quickens his stroke, and
without actually spurting bends every muscle. Now or never! They are
only half a mile from home, and a waiting race may be delayed too long.
Already they are within ear-shot of the encouraging shouts of the crews
and scullers on either side of their path, who have come out to meet
them and are rowing back to be in at the finish. Now or never! Will
Tom be able to quicken his pace? That is the question. He does quicken
it, so much so that he is rowing desperately fast with short lightning
strokes, which come so rapidly that it is difficult to note the
interval between them. Brilliant, magnificent! “but,” as some one who
knew said of the famous charge of the Light Brigade, “it is not war.”
It is slaughter, my dear Tom, and simple ruination. You cannot keep it
up. Even as it is, in spite of your splendid pyrotechnics, Jack’s long
steady swing is holding you, and what is more, pressing you into the
bargain.

“Steady now,” murmurs Jack between his teeth. He knows from Tom’s
exertions that his rival is spurting and putting all his vitality into
his pace. A terrible moment of sustained effort follows, at the end
of which the leader lashes the air with a misplaced stroke, the water
splashes, and our hero’s shell surging forward comes on a level with
its forerunner, battles with it for twenty yards of struggling agony
on the part of the doomed champion, and leaps to the front at last,
just in time to meet the sweet music of the prolonged triumphant din of
shouts and cheers sent down the breeze from afar by hundreds of voices.
Jack is ahead, and only a quarter of a mile left!

Tom is beaten. And now for the Doctor. Where is he? What is he doing?
No need to ask that question, friend Jack, if you lift your eyes. Tom
is beaten, not only by you but by the Doctor also; and though your most
dreaded enemy is still in your rear, the nose of his boat is almost on
a line with your stern, and he is quickening at every stroke.

What a babel of cheers and exclamations bursts forth from the waving,
transported crowd along the bank and on the benches of the densely
packed stand! They begin to know who is who now, and can tell beyond
the shadow of a doubt that the crimson and black and the blue and white
are having a noble struggle for the lead.

“Jack Hall is ahead! Hall! Hall! No, he isn’t! Hit her up, Doctor!
Hurrah for Hall! Hurrah for the Doctor! Tom, where are you? Bonsall!
Bonsall! H-A-L-L! Hall-l-l!”

The tumult is maddening. Can it be possible that Jack Hall, who, on
the whole, before the race was rated lowest of the three, is going to
break the school record and beat the invincible Doctor in one and the
same breath? It looks like it, if he can hold his own for two hundred
yards more. It looks like it decidedly, and there is plenty of clear
water still between the winning goal and the foremost shell; and see,
the Doctor is spurting with a vengeance――look!――look!――and is he not
gaining, too?

“Doctor Meredith is ahead! No, he’s not――Hall’s ahead! Huzza! hurrah!
Hall, Hall, hit her up, Hall! Look out, Hall! The Doctor wins! No he
doesn’t! Hall wins! Hurrah! Jack, where are you?”

The Doctor has crept up, no doubt about that. The nose of his shell is
now well beyond Jack’s out-rigger, and he is speeding like the wind.
Jack is feeling terribly tired, his throat that he thought parched
at the start burns as if it were on fire, and his eyes seem ready to
start out of his head. His crimson handkerchief has fallen over his
eyes, but he gives himself a shake and it falls to his neck, leaving
his brow refreshingly free. He has vanquished Tom any way. So much to
be thankful for. Tom is a length behind, struggling still like the man
he is, but hopelessly vanquished all the same. Jack turns his head,
remembering to keep cool if he can, and sights the goal. Not more than
one hundred and fifty yards left! The reverberating yells and cheers
are setting his blood ablaze. He can scarcely see, but he knows he has
not spurted yet. He is neck and neck with the Doctor now. There can be
nothing to choose between them.

“The Doctor wins!” “Not a bit of it; Hall wins! Good on your head,
Jack! Keep it up, Doctor! Go in, Hall!”

The time has come now, our hero knows, to put in any spurt that is left
in him. Gripping the handles of his oars like a vise and shutting his
eyes, Jack throws all his vital powers into one grand effort, which, to
his supreme happiness, is answered by a great roar from the shore.

“Hall! Hall! Hurrah! Nobly done, Hall! Hall wins! Row, Doctor, row!”

The Doctor is rowing with all his might, you may be sure of that; but
he has not counted on the staying powers of his adversary. He can do no
more than he is doing, and this final spurt of Jack’s, exhausting as
it must have been were the race to be a quarter of a mile longer, will
carry the day. The Doctor can hardly catch him now.

Jack has opened his eyes and takes in the situation. The din of
applause is tremendous. If he can hold out for half a dozen strokes
more, the victory is his.

One.

“Hall! Hall! Go in, Doctor!”

Two.

“Three cheers for Hall! One,――hurrah!――Two, hurrah!”

Three.

“Three,――hurrah! H-A-L-L!”

Four.

“Hall wins! Hall wins!”

Five.

“Hurrah! Huzza! Hurrah! Hall! Hall! Doctor! Doctor!”

Six.

Panting, breathless, and bewildered by the deafening cheers, Jack is
made aware only by the sight of the flagged buoy shooting past his
oar-blade that he has won the race and is champion of Utopia. A second
later the Doctor’s shell glides beside his own, and his master is the
first to shake his hand in hearty congratulation.

“You beat me squarely and fairly, Hall. It was a grand race. You are
the better oarsman of the two.”

Tom Bonsall, coming up on the other side, is scarcely less generous,
though he looks a little sheepish, poor fellow, and winded and pale.
Excitement keeps Jack up, and he paddles in gamy fashion to the float,
where he is welcomed by a score of hands and lifted on to the shoulders
of his enthusiastic friends, who, cheering like mad, carry him up to
the boat-house.

“Well, old man, you did it after all,” said Carlisle, who was grinning
like a Cheshire cat in his enthusiasm. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t
believe you could get away from the Doctor.”

CHAPTER XII.

HASELTINE MAKES HIS CHOICE.

A year has elapsed, and once more Founders’ day has come round at
Utopia. The exercises of the graduating class and the prize-giving have
taken place in the morning, and now every one is digesting at leisure
the excellent collation provided shortly after noontime prior to
repairing to the quadrangle to witness the base-ball match which is to
conclude the day’s entertainment.

In one of the studies in Fullham dormitory sacred to the older classes
two boys are seated engaged in earnest conversation. The room, a
cosy little den, owes evidently much of its comfortable and somewhat
artistic appearance to the good taste of one of its owners, who, no
other than our old friend Jack, grown still more manly in figure and
with the same open countenance as when we saw him last, is discussing
with his chum Haseltine the untoward news which the latter has received
a day or two before of his father’s financial ruin. The blow has
fallen most unexpectedly on the poor fellow, and though the change in
his plans which the calamity must necessarily induce has given him but
small concern as compared with that which he has felt for his father’s
unhappiness, it is important now that he should think and talk about
what he is to do. He was to have gone to college, for which he has been
preparing himself with considerable industry during the past year, but
that is out of the question now. He has his way to make in the world,
and the only point to be considered is how he can best manage no longer
to be a burden on his family.

“The worst thing about it,” Haseltine continued, “is that I shan’t
see any more of you, Jack. I don’t care so much about the money on my
own account, but I should like to have spent four years with you at
Harvard.”

“It’ll spoil half my pleasure in being there to have you away,” said
Jack. “We must manage though somehow to keep up our friendship. We can
write to one another at least.”

“I hate letters,――that is, writing them. My spelling would shock you,
Jack. If I were a literary character like you, now, it might answer.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Hasy.”

“Who’d have thought three years ago that you’d have graduated third in
the class and taken a prize for a poetical translation from Ovid? If
only now I’d followed suit,” he observed somewhat sadly, “I might have
got the place of private tutor to some rich swell or other, married
my employer’s daughter, and rolled in my own carriage, while you
were still grinding at the university. As it is, I shall soon either
be breaking stones on the highway, or playing cash-boy in a retail
dry-goods store.”

“I dare say,” responded Jack, “the Doctor could get you some place
as tutor. A few months of hard work would give you the necessary
proficiency.”

“But I want to begin work to-morrow.”

There was a short silence, and then Jack said slowly, “Of course, Hasy,
I suppose you’ve thought of base-ball? You ought to have no difficulty
in getting a salaried position in some club, you know.”

“I dare say I could,” was the quiet answer. “How I should have jumped
at such a chance a few years ago!” continued the school captain,
tossing from hand to hand from force of habit the base-ball which he
held. He is in shirt and knickerbockers, ready for the game appointed
to take place in half an hour between the school nine and one of the
strongest professional teams in the country, which, on its way east,
has been induced to stop at Utopia. “I was a foolish boy then,――and
now, well, I’m foolish enough still, but I think I’ve learned something
in these six years.”

“Oh, Hasy, I’m so glad to hear you talk so. Do you know I lay awake all
last night thinking about you, for I was afraid that with your fondness
for the game you’d jump at the chance to become a professional. Forgive
me, old fellow, I did you injustice.”

“That’s all right, Jack. No wonder you thought so, I’m such a base-ball
crank. But I may have to jump at the chance notwithstanding. It may be
the best thing I can do. Fifteen hundred or two thousand dollars a year
is not to be met with every day in the week. It may be my duty to take
such a place if it is offered, Jack,” he said gravely.

“I think almost anything would be better as a profession than that.”

“I can see that it would. Whatever I used to think, I recognize that
to have to spend the best years of my life as a base-ball player would
be a terrible misfortune. This school and the Doctor have taught me
that there are more worthy ambitions than that, and though I haven’t
said much about it, I’ve looked forward to something better. However, I
mustn’t abuse base-ball, for it has been a good friend to me, Jack; and
I believe that it has done me a heap of benefit not only physically,
but in teaching me endurance and perseverance and the value of
discipline. I feel as if I could take hold first-rate from the start of
any business I entered, just because of my training at base-ball. And
if it comes to the worst,” he added, “I think I shall be able to make a
good professional.”

“I’m sure you will, Hasy, if it comes to that. But something else will
be certain to turn up, see if it doesn’t.”

“It’ll have to turn up pretty soon, then, I’m afraid,” replied
Haseltine. “It’s time to go,” he continued, looking at his watch. “The
game’ll be called in fifteen minutes. It may be my last for a long
time,――at least as an amateur,――and I mean to give the Gray Stockings a
hard fight to win.”

The two friends proceed toward the quadrangle, where already a crowd
is collecting in anticipation of the match. The large stand for
spectators, which is one of the conveniences added to the grounds in
Haseltine’s day, is rapidly filling up, and just as the young captain
arrives upon the scene the Gray Stocking team show signs of emerging
from the tent erected for their comfort, where they have been dozing
since dinner. The sight of them is sufficient to restore Haseltine’s
spirits, and almost to make him feel that he would be very well
content after all to become one of them. They are strapping fellows
certainly, and the way they toss about the ball during the few minutes’
preliminary practice allowed them is very admirable.

And now from the main doorway of Granger Hall come out a large party
intent upon being present at the game, consisting of Dr. Meredith
and his masters, together with several patrons of the school and a
number of ladies, who troop across the field to seats reserved for
them behind the wire screen at the back of the catcher. The Gray
Stockings have won the toss and have sent the school to the bat. The
professionals, from their jocose demeanor, evidently regard the affair
in the light of a spree or picnic; and the pitcher grins convulsively
in stepping into the box, as though the idea of playing ball against a
parcel of boys struck him as a colossal jest.

The school nine looked like striplings certainly when compared with
their sturdy opponents, but they are in the very pink of practice
and condition, and have moreover eaten sparingly of the good things
provided at the collation, so as to be fit as possible for the match.
A breathless interest pervades the audience. A game against a real
professional team is something unknown in the annals of Utopia.

“Three out, side out,” calls the umpire, as the third striker on the
home nine knocks an easy grounder to short stop, who pops it gayly to
first base.

It is now the visitors’ turn at the bat, and all eyes are bent on
Haseltine as he plants himself firmly to deliver the first ball.
There has never been such a pitcher as he at Utopia. As compared with
his curves, the once famous pitching of the “Kid” is remembered as
second-rate. It has hopelessly baffled not only the pertinacious Stars,
but other still more formidable clubs. It remains to be seen what these
genuine ball-tossers will do with it.

“One strike!”

The captain of the Gray Stockings and one of the most prominent
sluggers on the nine has swiped at the first ball and missed it,
whereat his companions smile and one of them guys him with――

“Even money you strike out, Bill.”

There is a hush, and then the umpire calls――

“Two strikes!”

Applause proceeds from the benches and titters from the visiting team.

“Three strikes――out.”

The school is too much in earnest to regard the incident as ludicrous,
and the crowd cheers rapturously to see the vanquished slugger retire
from the plate; but one of the managers of the professional nine, who
happens to be traveling with them and is sitting just in front of
Jack, bursts out into loud guffaws of amusement, which are repeated
still more abundantly when the next striker misses the first two balls
and only saves himself from a similar fate by batting the third weakly
into the very hands of short stop, who has no difficulty in disposing
of him at first. The third man hits a foul tip which the catcher holds
on to cleverly, and the inning is over.

“That’s a great lad,” exclaims the manager, who is in a bee line with
the pitcher and so can judge of the delivery. “He can twirl the sphere
like a good one. Backus and Lawson out on strikes! That’s the best joke
of the season.” Whereupon he bursts out laughing again, so that his fat
sides shake with merriment.

It would take too long to give the details of the great match, though
indeed there is not much to be recorded in the way of run-making on
either side. It is from first to last a pitcher’s contest, and though
the school can do nothing against the Gray Stocking battery, seven
goose-eggs represents the score of the visitors at the end of the
seventh inning. To the uproarious delight of all Utopia the heavy
hitters of the professional team come to grief one after another in
rapid succession, sometimes by striking out, and sometimes by knocking
easy balls into the field, which are without difficulty captured
by their opponents. No longer do the giants grin and turn derisive
hand-springs. An air of serious devotion to business has come over
them, and every nerve is being strained to save the game.

“Play ball――play ball,” their captain reiterates with increasing vigor.

But it is in vain that he beseeches or commands. Somehow or other
Haseltine’s curves are too subtle for the visitors and they go down
like nine-pins; and as in turn they sheepishly carry out their bats or
return to home plate, the manager’s derisive laughter adds a sting to
their disgust.

Meanwhile, among the friends of Utopia, the young pitcher is the
hero of the hour, and everybody is asking questions about him in the
intervals of the frantic applause which rewards his successes.

“A right-minded, ingenuous, capable boy,” responds Dr. Meredith, in
answer to a query of one of the patrons of the school sitting beside
him. “He has received sad news from home within the past few days,
I regret to state. His father who was reputed to be a very rich man
has failed,――disastrously though not dishonorably I am given to
understand,――and the son will not be able to go to college as he had
expected. There is a large family――seven beside this boy, I believe.”

“Is he a good scholar?” asks the gentleman after a moment.

“To tell the truth, he is not very fond of his books, though he has
done better at them during the last year. I think he would have been
able to pass the college examinations, but it is by no means certain.
He has plenty of ability though of the practical sort. I have often
been struck by the energy and executive talent he has shown in relation
to base-ball, which, by the way, almost amounts to a passion with him,”
says the Doctor, with a smile.

A shout of triumph interrupts their conversation. Another of the Gray
Stockings――the first striker of the eighth innings――having in base-ball
parlance fanned the air thrice in vain, flinging his bat angrily on the
ground, walks back to his seat.

“H-A-S-E-L-T-I-N-E! Haselti-n-n-ne!” chants the whole school.

The manager slaps his knee. “I must have that fellow,” he exclaims
admiringly.

Jack catches the remark. He has heard also what has passed between Dr.
Meredith and Mr. Holgate, the patron of the school, who are sitting on
the bench immediately behind him, and while he is reflecting on the
possible consequences of Haseltine’s prowess, he hears Mr. Holgate say:

“I happen to know of a chance for an active young man who isn’t afraid
of work, on a railroad far West in which I’m interested. I’m inclined
to think that as our base-ball friend has his way to make in the world
and is not cut out for a scholar, it would be the best thing for him if
I put him into the place, though if you say the word I’ll pay his way
through college.”

Jack’s heart gives a bound. He cannot help listening, and he awaits
eagerly the Doctor’s reply, scarcely knowing what he wishes it to be;
for deeply as he desires his friend’s companionship at Harvard, he is
able to appreciate the wisdom of Mr. Holgate’s reasoning.

“I think,” says Dr. Meredith slowly, “that you are right, on the whole.
Haseltine will make an excellent business man. The position on the
railroad will suit him best, everything considered.”

“It is a place in which he will have an opportunity to make himself
very useful, and if he does, promotion will be sure to follow,”
continues Mr. Holgate. “Holloa! that’s the first square base hit I’ve
seen to-day.”

It is not only a base hit, but a two bagger in fact, which comes just
in the nick of time to let in one of the Gray Stockings, who was on
second when Captain Backus batted the ball with a vim born of triple
humiliation. Twice before in the course of the game the visitors have
had men on bases, but the terrible battery of the school boys has shut
them out from a run. But now they are able to breathe more freely.
The succession of goose-eggs is interrupted and the game theirs, if
they can prevent Utopia from scoring. But the run has come only just
in time as two of the visitors are already out. Lawson, however, not
to be outdone by the Captain, follows with a terrible drive far over
the left field’s head, who is a no whit less clever fielder than Bobby
Crosby used to be, which brings him and Backus both home, and makes the
score three to nothing in favor of the Gray Stockings, which is all
they get. The school nine amid intense excitement then go to the bat,
and though they do their best to pound the ball they are whitewashed
in one, two, three order, which brings the game to a close, as of
course the Gray Stockings, being already ahead, do not need their ninth
inning. It has been a plucky fight, though, and one which Utopia will
remember with pride for years to come.

As Jack was about to mingle with the crowd with the view of being the
first to hug Haseltine, he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard the
Doctor’s voice exclaiming, “Hall, I should like to introduce you to Mr.
Holgate, who was one of our founders, you know.”

Jack shook hands with the pleasant-featured gentleman, who said kindly:

“I saw you, Hall, if I am not mistaken, among those who received prizes
this morning, as well as in the winning crew yesterday afternoon.”

Our hero blushed with honest confusion. He was prouder of having won
the prize for a metrical translation from the classics, however, than
of having led the Atalantas to victory, for there had been no Tom
Bonsall this year to dispute it with him, and every one knew in advance
what the result would be. It had always been a source of keen regret
to Jack that Tom’s arm was so lame after the famous single-scull match
that he had been obliged to stay out of the eight-oared race. He would
have liked to have had one more struggle with his old rival just to
prove beyond the shadow of a doubt who was the better man. But now
Tom was in college, and there was no one left to dispute with him the
supremacy of the lake, for the Doctor had openly confessed his own
inferiority.

“It was a fine game, sir, wasn’t it?” Jack said, with enthusiasm, as
the three turned at the sound of the cheers which the Utopians were
bestowing upon the victors. “Haseltine outdid himself.”

“Hall and Haseltine are great cronies,” observed the Doctor to Mr.
Holgate.

“Your friend seems a fine fellow,” said the gentleman.

“He’s a splendid fellow, indeed, sir,” answered Jack.

The Gray Stockings returned the cheers of the home nine and were
preparing to get into the vehicle which was to take them to the
train, when Jack, who had been looking through the crowd in search of
Haseltine, caught sight of him and the base-ball manager in earnest
consultation. There was an expression in his friend’s face that told
Jack even at this distance that the young pitcher was fascinated by
what was being said to him. Immediately Jack clambered down from the
stand and hastened toward them. As he came up to them the manager was
shaking hands with Haseltine, and Jack heard him say just before he
stepped into the omnibus:

“Think it over and write me. The offer stands open as long as you like.”

After the omnibus had driven off followed by the acclamations of the
school, Jack threw his arms ecstatically around his chum and cried,
“You did wonders, old fellow. It was glorious!”

Haseltine made no response at first, and Jack noticed that his eyes
were full of tears.

“Jack,” he said at length,――“he has offered me the position of change
pitcher on their nine at a salary of two thousand dollars. It’s a big
honor for so young a fellow,” he added, with an air of pardonable pride.

“But you didn’t accept, did you?” asked our hero excitedly.

“No; I told him I’d think it over.”

“Hurrah!” cried Jack.

“What do you mean?”

“No matter. Wait, that’s all. There’s better news for you than that,
and you’ll think so too when you hear it.”

Footsteps close at hand caused the boys to turn, and Haseltine’s hand
was cordially grasped by Dr. Meredith.

“You out-Haseltined Haseltine, to-day, Mr. Pitcher,” the master said,
then drawing him aside out of the hearing of Jack and Mr. Holgate, he
informed him of the offer made by that gentleman, which I am sure you
will all be glad to hear he accepted.

Five minutes later the head master and the two boys are walking slowly
over the quadrangle toward Granger Hall, where they are to take
tea with the Doctor,――their last tea at Utopia. As they reach the
threshold, Jack stops and looks back for a moment over the playground
where so many of his happiest hours have been passed, and says simply,――

“We shall miss the dear old school, shan’t we, Hasy?”

“Indeed we shall, Jack.”

“And the school will miss _you_, my dear boys,” answers the Doctor,
laying a hand on a shoulder of each of them. “It needs the example of
just such boys as you――East and West. God bless you both, and give you
strength to devote your manhood to manly deeds!”

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in
bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).

――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

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