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CADETS OF FLEMMING HALL.

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THE CADETS
OF
FLEMMING HALL

BY

ANNA CHAPIN RAY

Author of “Half a Dozen Boys,” “Half a Dozen Girls,”

“In Blue Creek Cañon”

NEW YORK: 46 East 14th Street

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

BOSTON: 100 Purchase Street

Copyright, 1892,

By T. Y. CROWELL & CO.

To

“MY BOYS.”

“You say you are a better soldier:

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well.”

Shakespeare.

PREFACE.

From the days of “Tom Brown at Rugby” to his more modern brothers, the American “New Senior at Andover,” and the French “Straight On,” stories of boy school life have gone on multiplying and still the tale is not all told. Every school has its slightly different atmosphere, and calls for its different historian. For that reason, I offer this picture of life at Flemming Hall.

Though Irving Wilde and the doctor may not be portraits, still the school life of each one of us has known one or more similar teachers, from whom we have gained the inspiration to do broader, truer work, inspiration which, although unconsciously received, perhaps unconsciously given, has yet left its stamp upon all our later work in life.

It is to the courtesy of one such teacher that I owe the Harrow song with which my story closes. So far as I know, it has never been in print, on this side of the Atlantic. My preface, too, would be incomplete without an expression of my indebtedness to the boy friend who criticised my athletics, and above all to the kindness of the artist, Mr. Clephane, whose thorough and practical knowledge of cadet life has been invaluable to me.

It is to be hoped that I have done no harm to the cause of Yale athletics, in making use of the incident of Captain “Phil” Allen’s daring leap, during the Yale-Atalanta race, in May, eighteen hundred and ninety. I can claim no originality in the climax of my regatta; it is the mere telling of an historical fact.

If, in spite of my long list of assistants, my boy readers can find a single line of my story which shall bring me into closer touch with them, I shall be more than satisfied.

“Tremont,”

Third January, 1892.

CONTENTS.

THE

CADETS OF FLEMMING HALL.

CHAPTER I.
THE CADETS.

“There comes the stage!”

At the word, four or five boys came leaping down the flight of steps and joined the lad watching at the gate, as the old coach crept slowly up the hill. The powerful, iron-gray horses, tired out with their long climb, plodded onward, quite unconscious of the eager faces above them. Suddenly a smooth brown head was popped out of the stage window, followed by an arm that waved vigorously in answer to the ringing cheer which greeted the owner’s coming.

“Hurrah, there’s Hal!”

The stage turned in under the arching gateway, and the horses, quickening their pace as they reached their journey’s end, toiled up the gravel driveway leading to the steps. Before they had fairly stopped, out jumped a boy of sixteen, dressed in a gray uniform, resplendent with brass buttons. He was immediately seized and surrounded by his schoolmates, all talking at once.

“Glad to see you back, old boy!”

“So late I was afraid you had cut Flemming Hall for good!”

“Why didn’t you wait till Christmas, and done with it?”

“Where’ve you been all summer?”

“Lots of new fellows here and our new teacher; you just ought to see him!”

Without deigning to reply to the shower of questions, as soon as he had shaken hands all round, the new-comer turned back to the stage and said,—

“Come, Leon, step out and show yourself.”

As he spoke, a boy two or three years younger than himself stepped down from the stage and joined the group, a little shyly, it must be confessed. But Harry laid a protecting hand on his shoulder, as he said by way of introduction,—

“See here, you fellows, this kid is my brother, Leon Arnold. He’s a good fellow, plucky enough to make up for his small size, and I know you’ll like him. Now come on, one at a time, and I’ll tell Leon who you all are, so you can start fair and square. This is Louis Keith,” he went on, turning to a slender lad of fifteen whose dark olive skin and blue-black hair were suggestive of Japan or China, rather than American birth; “we call him Ling Wing, or Wing for short. He’s the dude of Flemming Hall, and immensely proud of himself when he gets on his dress uniform. This next one,” he added, pointing to a yellow-haired, roly-poly youth of about the same age; “is Max Eliot. Look out for him; he’ll get you into all sorts of mischief.”

“Don’t you worry, young Arnold; I’ll get you out again, and that’s more than Hal does for his friends. Ask him about the night Max and Louis went after the pies,” interrupted the tallest of the group, a sixteen-year-old giant who was already past his six feet and was still stretching upward, while his small sandy head and blue eyes looked ridiculously boyish at the top of his manly figure.

“This, Leon,” his brother explained, without paying the slightest heed to the interruption; “is Jack Howard, popularly known as Baby. He’s a good fellow, but an awful drain on the family purse, for the tailor always charges him double for his uniforms.”

During the laugh that greeted this sally, a young man drew near the group, a well-built, athletic-looking young man dressed in army blue, whose brown eyes brightened behind their spectacles as he put out his hand, saying cordially,—

“Harry, I am glad to see you at last. We had almost given you up.”

Regardless of Leon and of his introductions, Harry whirled around quickly and grasped the outstretched hand.

“Lieutenant Wilde! Are you really back here? How jolly!”

“Back again, as well as ever and delighted to be with my boys once more, after six months of rest. They were all here but you, and the doctor and I were beginning to be afraid you were not coming, after all. Is this the brother you wrote about?”

“Oh, yes, this is Leon. Leon, Leon, this is Lieutenant Wilde,” he added, eagerly pulling his brother by the sleeve.

Lieutenant Wilde looked at the lad with interest. Harry Arnold was one of his favorites, and on that account he was the more curious to see Harry’s younger brother. Very different were the two boys who were standing there in the glare of the September sun, under their teacher’s gaze. Harry’s broad shoulders, round face, quiet gray eyes and firm lips seemed to tell of a more lasting strength than the thin, wiry figure of Leon, his laughing, restless brown eyes and mobile mouth; but the boyish hearts were the same in their quick, impulsive generosity, in their firm adherence to a strict code of honor, and in their keen sense of fun. Though apparently the more yielding of the two, Leon ruled his brother with an iron rod, and in spite of the difference in age, he was respected and admired by Harry, who willingly became his abject slave.

“And so you are Leon,” Lieutenant Wilde was saying. “I am glad to welcome you to Flemming Hall, and I hope you may stay with us as long and like us as well as Harry has done. The doctor is waiting for me now, and I must go; but bring your brother to my room this evening at eight, Harry; I want to have a talk with him, so I can tell into what class he is to be put.”

“All right, sir.”

And as Lieutenant Wilde walked away, the boys all gave him the stiff military salute.

“Well done, young Arnold,” remarked Jack Howard condescendingly. “You do that very respectably for a new fellow.”

Leon laughed outright.

“That’s Hal’s work. He’s been coaching me all summer, so I shouldn’t disgrace him when I came. It’s been nothing but salute, present arms, recover arms and all that, till I could do it to suit him.” And the boy made a few quick turns with his tightly-rolled umbrella, in place of a more dangerous weapon.

“There, Leon,” interposed his brother good-naturedly, “you’re telling family secrets. Come and see our quarters now. Don’t go off, Paul,” he continued, as one of the group started to turn away; “there’s room for you all and more too, and I have some fine grub in my trunk.”

What boy could withstand such an invitation? With one consent, the lads followed Harry as he led the way up the steps, into the broad hall and up the oak stairs that wound along three sides of the wall.

“What room are you going to have?” inquired Max, as he brought up the rear of the procession, with Harry’s bag in his hand.

“Number fifteen, of course,” said Harry, as he turned down a side hall. “It’s the largest of the double rooms and I spoke for it long ago; didn’t you know that? I shall take Leon in with me for a term, anyway. Then, if he gets sick of me, he’s welcome to change. Come in, all of you, and I’ll have the provisions out in a jiffy.”

While the boys were delaying below, the trunks had been brought up-stairs, and now stood conveniently planted in the middle of the floor. Harry and Leon each fell upon one of them, tugging at the straps and impressively jingling their large bunches of keys, most of which, it must be explained, were slipped on the rings for effect, since they and their locks had long ago parted company, never to meet again. In the meantime, their guests proceeded to seat themselves as their tastes suggested, perching on any lofty point that presented itself. Jack Howard arranged himself on the footboard of the bed, with his long legs curled up until his knees nearly touched his chin; Louis and Max each took a chair-back, while Paul Lincoln, a slender, brown-eyed, rosy-cheeked fellow of seventeen, settled himself in the high window-seat, with his feet on the table near by.

“Glad you’re going to have this room,” remarked Louis, as he passed a caressing hand over the strap adorning his shoulder. “Max and I are right across the hall. We couldn’t imagine who was coming in here, when we saw the room was engaged. Nobody thought of you, for we supposed you were booked for a single room.”

“So I was,” responded Harry, as he succeeded in opening his trunk and tossed a pile of clothing out upon the floor; “but early in July father decided to send Leon here, so I wrote to the doctor, and he said that the Vernons weren’t coming back and we could have fifteen. Where are you now? Oh, here you are!”

This apostrophe was addressed to a box of goodly proportions that soon came to light, and was opened amid the admiring murmurs of the boys who had learned, in past terms, to know and appreciate the boxes packed by Mrs. Arnold.

“Your mother is a trump, Hal!” said Max, diving into the box to seize a piece of cake in one hand and a chicken wing in the other. “I just wish she’d show herself here. We fellows would make her our best bow, wouldn’t we, Stan?” he continued, turning to a boy of fourteen who had not yet spoken, though his rapidly changing expressions had shown him no uninterested listener to the conversation.

While the boy addressed nodded in answer to the question, Harry interrupted,—

“Now tell me all the news. Who is back of the old boys? Who is there that’s new? Didn’t you say there was a new teacher?”

At the last question, Max rolled up his eyes and groaned. It was Jack who answered,—

“Most of the old boys are back, and there are about twenty new ones, none of them much account but my young cousin, Harold King. He must be about Leon’s age, by the looks of him, and he’s a first-rate little fellow, too. But this new teacher is the worst I’ve seen.”

“What’s his name?” inquired Harry, while he passed the box of sponge cake to Stanley Campbell.

“Boniface. Luke is his first name, but the fellows call him Bony. He deserves the name, too.”

“Looks as if he were made of three or four old skeletons patched together,” remarked Max; and Louis added scornfully, with a satisfied glance down at his own well-fitting uniform,—

“His clothes are loose where they ought to be tight, and tight where they ought to be loose. I don’t see how the doctor ever came to pick up such a man.”

“They say he knows most everything, though,” put in Stanley, rising to the defence of the absent teacher.

“How old is he?” asked Leon.

“Not so old as he looks,” answered Paul; “but when you see him, you’ll think he is about fifty, that he’s lost his last friend and never expects to have another—”

“And doesn’t want any more, either,” Max went on. “He acts as if he couldn’t bear us boys; not a bit like Lieutenant Wilde, but as if all he wanted was to get his salary, without caring for us at all.”

“Show Hal the way he looks, Max,” said Jack, clasping his hands around one of his knees, as he still sat on the footboard of the bed.

Max ran both hands through his soft yellow hair, until it stood rampant and disorderly on his head. Then he raised his eyebrows, rolled up his merry blue eyes and drew down the corners of his mouth into a mournful curve.

“That’s just about it, Hal,” laughed Paul. “Max kept doing that this morning when he was talking to us, and it was all we could do to keep from shouting.”

“What does he teach?” Harry asked.

“Latin and Greek, in Mr. Winston’s place. Mr. Winston is going to New York to study to be a doctor, and this man has come to take his classes. He isn’t as cross as Mr. Winston used to be; but he’s sort of dismal, perpetual mullygrubs, you know, and I don’t believe he’ll ever get much out of the boys.” And Louis slipped down from his chair-back and moved across the room to join Paul in the window.

“The seniors are all down on him,” added Max; “and most of the juniors don’t like him. If many more of the boys get to hate him, I don’t believe the doctor will keep him more than a term.”

“I wish the whole school would get after him, then,” remarked Paul vindictively. “He uses words a mile long, but I don’t believe he knows so very much, Stan; and even if he does, the boys won’t learn half as much from him as they would from somebody that was a little less like a walking funeral. For my part, I like a man that has some fun and life in him, like Lieutenant Wilde.”

“Who is there that isn’t back?” asked Harry, while he began to unpack his possessions, dropping his collars and cuffs in a pile on the floor, and carefully placing his tennis racket and bat on the bed.

“All our class are back but Williams and Sothern,” answered Jack. “How is it with the juniors, Stan?”

“There have five or six fellows dropped out of our class,” replied Stanley; “Boothby and Allen and Crane and the Vernons; not much loss, any of them except Crane, though. He was one of the best in ninety-two.”

Stanley’s remark ended in a most unmelodious croak, for he had just come to the age when his voice was changing, and the feats that his throat performed at times, surprised even its owner and covered him with confusion. It was not so trying when, as now, he was alone with his friends; but Stanley’s voice was no respecter of persons, and whether he was in the class-room or on the parade-ground, in the midst of a Greek exercise or giving some military command, his tone would suddenly change from a manly bass to a piping falsetto, and poor Stanley would blush and long to hide his diminished head in some safe retreat where he could not see the knowing smiles and glances of his companions.

“Isn’t this a new racket?” asked Max, pouncing on it as soon as it appeared.

“New in August,” answered Harry proudly. “I won it in a tournament at Lenox. There were about a dozen of us played, and I took it in doubles. Leon took the first prize in singles, though, and he was one of the smallest that played.”

“Good for you, young Arnold,” said Paul. “You are the fellow for Flemming, if you like that kind of thing. What can you do in football?”

“A little of everything,” replied Leon, with his head in his trunk as he wrestled with a pile of books. “I’ve played centre rush for the little fellows and quarter back for the large ones.”

“You ought to see him get over the ground, though,” remarked Harry, in a confidential aside to Jack Howard. “He’s fine in an end play, and a first-class man for almost any place you want to put him. What’s the prospect for the season?” he went on, turning to Paul.

“The second team is a strong one, for the juniors have some splendid men, and the new fellows are a good-looking set. We are only fair, now Williams has gone and Brewster has strained his knee and can’t play. Stan is to play quarter back on second, and Louis and Osborn are half backs. There isn’t anybody in the second class to help us out, unless your brother is there. Where are you going to be, Leon?”

“I don’t know yet; second, I think. Lieutenant Wilde is going to tell me to-night,” answered Leon who, at the beginning of the football discussion, had abandoned his unpacking and seated himself on the table with his feet on the edge of his open trunk.

“I hope you will, for Hal seems to think you would be a good man, and our first team is decidedly weak,” said Jack, uncoiling his long legs and straightening his shoulders.

“How can I get first team, if I am only second class?” inquired Leon. “I thought I could only get on second.”

“We used to divide up according to our playing, but that let the games all end the same way. Then we took juniors and seniors against firsts and seconds, and that wasn’t much fairer, for it put all the little fellows against the big ones. Now we have juniors and firsts against seniors and seconds, so it’s a little more even. We have our great game of the year on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and we begin training next week. I’m captain of the first, and if you are a good man, I want you, even if you are small.” And Paul smiled benignly down upon his new schoolmate, with the air of being vastly older and wiser and taller than he.

“Don’t go, Paul,” urged Harry, hospitably waving his hand towards the box on the table.

“Needs must when Bony drives,” sighed Paul. “He has given out an endless lesson in Homer for to-morrow, and I must get it, or be disgraced at once and forever. I’ll see you at supper-time.” And he strolled away, to be followed almost immediately by Jack and Stanley Campbell who was the head-boy in the junior class.

Max and Louis, who were not afflicted with too much conscience in the matter of lessons, remained in the Arnolds’ room, to watch the unpacking and to talk over any bits of school gossip which had been omitted, their summer frolics and their winter plans.

CHAPTER II.
FLEMMING AND ITS WAYS.

Far up among the hills, a short distance back from the Connecticut River, is the little village of Hilton. It is the smallest of farming towns, only one or two long streets shaded with tall, arching elms and bushy maples, and bordered with simple, old-fashioned houses clustered around the gray stone church and square town hall. At one end of the main street is the low building, also of stone, that serves for store and post-office, one corner being given up to the business of government, while the rest of the room is filled with a motley collection of dry goods, groceries and confectionery temptingly set forth in glass cases on the counter, or ranged on the rough pine shelves which line the walls. This building and the little village hotel that stands next it, are the favorite resorts of all the old farmers of the region, for whom the daily trip to the mail furnishes the main excitement of life. Although the hour for the coming of the stage and for the opening of the mail has never varied within the memory of that oldest inhabitant without whom any well-regulated village would be incomplete; on one pretext or another, the old men come driving up to the door fully an hour ahead of time, and are apparently much surprised to find that they are too early and must wait. In a leisurely fashion, they get down from their mud-bespattered wagons, tie their horses to the old posts whose uneven sides bear the marks of many an equine tooth, and go shuffling into the hotel whence they presently emerge, wiping their lips on their checkered shirt sleeves. Then they settle themselves in the store, where they while away the hour of waiting by puffing at their pipes and discussing the weather, the crops and other matters of local interest, with an indolent disregard of the fact that, at home, their wives and daughters are busy with many a task which they might help to lighten.

Into this peaceful community there came, some twelve years ago, the startling news that buildings were to be at once erected for a large school for boys; and before the sluggish minds of the farmers had grasped that main fact, the work was well under way. For a time the busy laborers and the fast-rising brick walls bade fair to rival the post office as an attraction for the villagers; but as the buildings drew near completion and became an old story, the farmers returned to their former seats in the hard arm-chairs and on the cracker-barrels of the store, and thought no more about the new school-house, save when some group of gray-coated lads stepped directly into their pathway.

This school was Flemming Hall, “a military and classical school for boys,” as ran the circular. It was an excellent school in all respects, and under the successful management of Dr. Flemming, its founder, it had gained so high a reputation for systematic work and discipline as to be overcrowded with applicants for admission. For this reason, the doctor was able to select his boys with care and, in general, the Flemming cadets were an honorable, manly set of fellows whose work was well done, and whose fun and mischief were of a pure, gentlemanly sort. To be sure, an occasional black sheep would find his way into the flock; but the moral tone of the place was good, and the real work of the school was thoroughly and intelligently carried on.

Dr. Flemming was the right man for the head of a boys’ school; he not only had a fine, well-trained mind, but over and above all that, he was genuinely fond of his boys and anxious to develop the best possibilities that lay in each one of them. In this work he was ably seconded by his nephew, Irving Wilde, who, at the close of his course at West Point, had resigned from active service, in order to take charge of the military training in his uncle’s school. Though still very young, during the three years he had been at Flemming Hall, Lieutenant Wilde had gained a strong influence over the lads in his care, who adored him for his quiet, even discipline during school hours, as well as for his apparent interest in all their games and sports, in which he often had a share.

To Irving Wilde, his pupils were no mere thinking-machines, to be fed with so much material for their daily allowance. Instead of that, he watched and studied each lad separately, never content until he had mastered his subject and understood every boyish nature with all its vague, restless ambitions, its faults and its chances for a good and useful manhood. The boys never knew just how it was, but they soon ceased to be surprised when Lieutenant Wilde seemed to divine their thoughts, and spoke some word of encouragement for their nobler aims, or let fall a quiet remark of disapproval for some wild, boyish freak. It was impossible for them to resent any interference on the part of a man who was not only an excellent teacher, but a champion in all athletic sports as well, and always ready to join them in their expeditions up and down the valley and over the hills. Lieutenant Wilde was such good company that the boys could not afford to displease him, for fear he would go with them no more, and, reasoning in this way, the lads vied with one another to carry out his wishes until his will had become law for nearly all of his pupils. A more selfish man might have abused this power, a less conscientious man might have regarded it as of little importance; but Irving Wilde did neither. On the contrary, he did his best to increase it and to devote it, not to his own good, but to the best interests of the boys and of the school. A low fever and a slow convalescence had forced him to give up his work for a few months, and the woe of the boys at his going away was only consoled by the joy of his reappearance, at the time that our story opens.

Of the two other teachers, Herr Linden was an elderly German of majestic proportions who contented himself, as far as the boys were concerned, with instilling into them a generous amount of the French and German tongues. That done, and to his credit it must be distinctly stated that it was well done, he went his own way in calm unconcern of his pupils who, on their side, accepted his labors as a necessary evil and thought no more about him outside of school hours.

But the new teacher, Luke Boniface, though a very common type in northern New England, was a foreign element at Flemming Hall. The son of a poor country minister, he had early made up his mind to work his own way through college and fit himself for the life of a missionary to India. With this end kept constantly in view, the years of his boyhood had been years of hard labor and stern self-denial. By working through all his vacations, and occasionally giving up one year of study, in order to earn enough money to carry him through the next, he had toiled his way along until, at the age of twenty-eight, he had just completed the undergraduate course in a small inland college. Then more money must be had before he could take his special professional course, and to Luke Boniface it seemed that a year of teaching was the best and easiest way to gain that end. Some months of this work in a little country school, a few years before, gave him the right to call himself experienced; and with the help of friends, he asked and obtained the position of classical teacher at Flemming Hall, although his only practical knowledge of boys was that gained from teaching the overgrown striplings whose school life was limited to a few weeks of every winter, and the chubby, pinafored urchins of the A B C class. The boys at Flemming filled him with terror when they assembled before him, on the first morning of the term. So elegant and worldly-wise were they that, in comparison, he felt himself a mere child in their presence. His embarrassment made him appear even more awkward and constrained than ever, and long before the hour was over, he heartily wished himself away from Flemming Hall once more. Could he go through with it? His heart almost failed him; but Luke Boniface was not the man to abandon the set purpose of years, in the face of a roomful of rollicking boys. He would remain in his place and conquer them. During the summer he had often dreamed of the coming year, of the strong influence for good which he would exert over the boys, of the popularity he would gain. Now, as he glanced about the room, he instinctively tried to hide his large feet under his chair, and to pull down the sleeves of his best coat, which all of a sudden seemed to him to be pitiably mean and shabby. His years of toil and care had drawn anxious lines on the face that now flushed a deep, dark red, as he caught sight of Max who was roguishly imitating him for the benefit of his mates. The young man raised his eyebrows, and pressed firmly together his lips which had shaped themselves into a melancholy droop. It is a true old saying that “God makes the other features, man makes his own mouth.” In the midst of his petty anxieties and struggles, Luke Boniface had found neither time nor disposition to be genial; to him, life was all a hard, stern reality, and his mouth showed that he felt it to be so. Taken all in all, he was a man to be honored and respected rather than loved, sensitive and, like many sensitive people, fond of pulling himself up by the roots occasionally, to inspect his growth; conscientious and anxious for the good of those around him, nevertheless he was ill at ease, cold and forbidding in his manner to the very persons whom he most desired to approach. Moreover, as has been said, he had little knowledge of boys and their ways and small desire to increase that knowledge, though he regarded them as a class of young savages whom it was his duty to try to improve, just as one day he hoped to work among the heathen of India.

The large grounds of Flemming Hall lay a little to the south of the town. Turning abruptly from the street, the drive wound up a steep hillside to the group of brick buildings on the level ground at the top. From there, a magnificent view opened out in every direction. Old Flemming, as it was called, the dormitory where the boys all lived, fronted towards the west, and, standing on its broad piazza, one could look far away into the Green Mountains, beyond the river whose gray water shone here and there through the trees below. At the south the hills rose, range on range, some thickly wooded, others more open and dotted with white farmhouses, long, rambling barns, and herds of black and white cattle grazing over the smooth pastures. In the other direction lay the little village nestled among its trees, and beyond that, the mountains, blue and misty in the distance. Directly in front, the smooth green lawn sloped away to the street, and half-way down the hill was the pretty red cottage where Dr. Flemming lived with his wife and little daughter. At the right of the dormitory rose the square tower on the recitation hall; at the left was the armory, with the stars and stripes flying above it. Back of the armory was the much-trodden parade-ground, and beyond lay the great fields given up to baseball, football and tennis, for Dr. Flemming believed that boys needed plenty of out-door exercise and that, indulged in moderately, such exercise was a help rather than a hindrance to the lessons. Having once made sure of sound bodies, by a careful selection of his teachers and a no less careful oversight of their work, he would succeed in developing the sound minds to put into them. So well did he carry out his ideas that there was nearly as much rivalry in the class-rooms as in the games, and it was by no means uncommon to find the same boy excelling in both connections.

As Leon followed his brother into the great dining-room, that first night, he glanced curiously up and down the room to see his new companions. The seventy or more cadets who were grouped about the four long tables, looked so much alike, in their gray uniforms, that he had some difficulty in recognizing the half-dozen of them to whom Harry had introduced him, in the afternoon. But soon Jack Howard’s tall figure caught his eye, and the next moment, he found himself sitting down opposite Max Eliot who was casting significant glances towards the far corner of the room. Leon followed the direction of his eyes and saw a young man with a discouraged, anxious face and a head of bristly brown hair, seated at the upper end of the table diagonally across from the one at which they were taking their places.

“That’s Bony,” whispered Max, leaning across the table. “Isn’t he fine?”

Leon gave a nod of assent.

“Hope I don’t get at his table,” Max went on, in the same tone; “his face would sour the milk on the oatmeal, mornings, and I don’t want to have my appetite destroyed in that way.”

“You look as if you were pining away, Max,” remarked Leon’s right-hand neighbor.

“So I am,” responded Max, with a pretended sigh. “You could pack my appetite in a pill-box, and put on the cover. By the way, Alex, this is Leon Arnold, Hal’s brother. Arnold, this fellow is Alex Sterne, a bright and shining light of the senior class.”

Leon turned slightly, to be met by two blue eyes which gazed so squarely and steadily into his own that they would have had a look almost of defiance, had they not been softened by the mouth below them. There was an air of candor and truthfulness about the lad, about his broad, open forehead and the clear eyes which looked into Leon’s, that gave the new-comer a sudden feeling that this was a friend to be trusted. Moved by this attraction, he said, with a laugh,—

“Max doesn’t seem to fancy the new teacher.”

“He’s not so bad,” answered Alex, as he scientifically speared an olive. “He isn’t pretty to look at, I know; but he would be well enough in class, if the fellows would let him alone. Have you seen the doctor?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll like him; all the boys do. He’s a good man, and Lieutenant Wilde is another.”

“I’ve seen him,” said Leon; “and he told us to come to his room to-night. Where does he live, at the doctor’s?”

“No; he’s down there now, but he rooms here and sits at the head of this table. There’s always a squabble among the boys, to see who shall sit near him. He’s so jolly that he keeps them in a roar, all meal-times. Is this the first time you have been away to school?”

Leon modestly confessed his inexperience.

“Well, Flemming is a good place to come to, and I know you’ll like it. You start at an advantage,” Alex went on, in a lower voice; “in being Harry Arnold’s brother. Everybody here likes Hal, and if you’re the fellow you look, they’ll like you too, provided you keep out of mischief.” And he turned away from Leon, and began to talk with the boy on the other side of him.

“I saw you chumming with Alex Sterne at supper to-night,” remarked Harry, as the boys were starting for Lieutenant Wilde’s room. “How did you like him?”

“Immensely,” responded Leon, with unexpected fervor.

“You’re all right there,” answered Harry; “Alex is one of the finest fellows at Flemming. He’s older than most of us, nineteen, and adjutant of our battalion, the truest, steadiest, most all-round sort of fellow we’ve ever had here. I don’t believe he has an enemy in the school, and that’s more than anybody else can say. I’ll tell you more about him some day; but this is Lieutenant Wilde’s room.”

A cordial “come in” answered Harry’s knock, and the boys entered the bright, attractive room, half bedroom, half study. Lieutenant Wilde tossed his magazine on the table.

“It’s you, is it, Arnold?” he said, as he came forward to greet the boys. “And I am glad to see you too, Leon. Sit down by the fire; I have it for looks, not warmth.” And he drew up two or three chairs before the ruddy grate that lent an air of cosy comfort to the chilly September evening.

“We may as well proceed to business at once,” remarked the young man, when they were seated. “Some of the other boys may be in soon, and I want to find out what Leon knows, while we are alone.” And in a pleasant, off-hand way, he began to question the boy about his past work, while Harry amused himself with the magazine that Lieutenant Wilde had laid aside. The examination was a most informal one, and was over and done before Leon had time to be frightened.

“Your brother will easily go into the second,” Lieutenant Wilde said then, as he turned back to Harry. “And now tell me what you have been about, all summer.”

Harry was just entering on an account of his doings, when a knock announced the arrival of Alex Sterne and Jack Howard, who were closely followed by Max Eliot and Stanley Campbell; for Lieutenant Wilde’s room was a favorite resort with the boys, and it had long been his habit to hold a sort of open court in it, on every Wednesday and Saturday evening. Though any and all of the cadets were welcome, it was Harry and his half-dozen intimates who were most often to be met with, gathered around the fire, or walking up and down the long room, now talking over their lessons, now planning some holiday excursion or, quite as often, listening meekly to a timely little lecture from Lieutenant Wilde, for some thoughtless, mischievous freak, too slight to be brought before the doctor’s notice.

This evening was the first Saturday of the new year, and with one consent the boys grouped themselves about their teacher, waiting to hear of the way he had spent his time during the six months that he had been away from them. It was all so pleasant and sociable, so unlike the usual relation between teacher and pupil that, for a time, Leon was content to sit quiet and listen to the spirited narrative of Lieutenant Wilde, to his lively description of the quaint little southern town where he had gone for rest and change, of his summer camping tour in the Yellowstone Park, where he caught his fish for dinner in one stream and cooked them in the boiling waters of the next one, only a few paces distant. But it was impossible to feel himself an outsider long, for Lieutenant Wilde constantly turned the conversation in his direction, in such a winning, friendly way that the lad was soon as much at home as any of the others; and long before “lights out” had sounded, he had mentally sworn allegiance to this young man who joked and laughed like a boy, yet never failed to keep a certain quiet, kindly dignity of his own which made the lads feel that, although he was a real friend and companion, still he was never to be trifled with or opposed.

CHAPTER III.
LEON’S FIRST DAY AT FLEMMING.

“Say, Hal, how does it look?” asked Leon eagerly.

It was early the next morning, so early that Harry was still dozing between the sheets; but Leon stood before the square mirror, trying in vain to get a glimpse of his own back and legs which, for the first time, were clothed in cadet gray. The suit he had worn the day before was tossed carelessly across the foot of his bed, and for half an hour he had been devoting all his attention to his toilet, then turning and twisting himself before the glass, to assure himself that the new uniform was to his liking. The change of costume was becoming to the lad. He already looked more the man and the soldier than he had done the evening before, and thanks to Harry’s persevering efforts during the summer, he carried himself with the ease of an old cadet, rather than the conscious awkwardness of the raw recruit, first donning his regimentals. But after he had inspected himself in every possible position, and gone through a sort of rudimentary drill of salutes and facings, he began to wish for the admiration of some disinterested person, so he remorselessly waked up his brother. At the third call, Harry rolled over sleepily.

“Ha-um!” he remarked, with a vigorous yawn.

“Wake up, Hal!” Leon implored him. “I want you to see if I’m all right.”

“Guess so.” And Harry turned back and composed himself to sleep once more, without bestowing a glance on his brother.

Leon crossed the room and shook him, for he felt that this was the time, if ever, when he had a right to demand fraternal advice and approval; but Harry only pulled the blanket over his head and sleepily murmured,—

“Go ’way.”

“Won’t you?” said Leon. “Well, we’ll see about it.” And filling a bath sponge with water, he cautiously approached the bed, with one hand suddenly twitched away the blanket and with the other dropped the sponge directly into Harry’s face. This time his efforts were crowned with success. Harry sat up spluttering and wrathful.

“Confound you, Leon!” he shouted, as he hurled the dripping sponge straight at his brother, who dodged just in time to let it drop harmlessly on the floor behind him. “Why can’t you let a fellow sleep? What are you waking me up for, in the middle of the night?”

“’Tisn’t; it’s morning,” returned Leon coolly; “and besides, I wanted you to see whether I’d put on my rig the way it ought to go. I knew you’d hate to have me appear with my coat on hind side before. Just cast your eye over me and see if I’m all here.”

“Did you get up at this time in the morning, just for this?” And Harry surveyed his brother with a scorn which soon changed to ill-concealed approval, as his eye rested on the trim, straight figure before him.

“You do carry it off better than most of the new fellows, Leon; that’s a fact. You must button your coat, though, and just pull up your left cuff a little, for it shows too much. There, that’s all right.”

“Then I do look well?” asked Leon, blushing like a girl at his own vanity.

“Yes, you’re O.K., only don’t let your finery make a Miss Nancy of you. Now, do let me go to sleep. It’s a good hour to breakfast time.”

“All right; I’m going out to explore.” And catching up his cap, he departed, leaving Harry to resume his nap.

Fifteen minutes were enough to show him the grounds and the outside of the buildings. On his way back to Old Flemming he met Stanley and Alex, who were just starting for a walk.

“You’re early, young Arnold,” Alex called, as he drew near. “If you’ve nothing better to do, come with us.”

“Where are you bound?” asked Leon, secretly longing to accept the invitation, but afraid he might be intruding.

“Only just to the village and back,” answered Stanley, pushing back his cap to let the cool morning air strike his forehead. “Come on.”

Leon accepted this repeated invitation, and the three boys tramped away up the road, which stretched along between two stone walls overgrown with blackberry vines and the dainty sprays of the Virginia creeper.

“What do you do here, Sundays?” asked Leon, stooping to break off a top-heavy spray of golden-rod that was lazily supporting itself against a rock.

“A little of everything,” answered Stanley. “Sunday is an off day and we aren’t kept nearly so close. We don’t really begin work till to-morrow morning, anyway.”

“When does drill begin?” inquired Leon.

“You new fellows will be put right at it,” Alex replied. “You’ll be divided up into squads and put in charge of the sergeants till you can salute and march and manage a gun without knocking the next fellow’s head off. After that, you can drill with the battalion.”

“It’s no end of fun to see the new fellows on drill, for they make such work of the ‘military goose-step,’ and when they first get their rifles, they’re all the time dropping them on their own toes, in parade rest and order arms,” added Stanley. “We used to go over to watch them, but it rattled them so badly that Lieutenant Wilde made us stop.”

“What is he?” asked Leon. “What’s his rank, I mean?”

“He ranks lieutenant in the army,” said Alex; “but here he’s commandant and major of our battalion. You’ll get on to the ranking soon,” he added encouragingly.

“Oh, Hal’s told me some of it, and he’s given me ever so much drill this summer, so he said that, after a day or two, I could go right into battalion drill, with the other fellows of my class.”

“Good thing you have a brother,” said Stanley. “Most of us have to learn it all after we get here, and precious slow work it is, too.”

“Hullo, what’s this?” exclaimed Leon suddenly, as he glanced up the road ahead of them. “This thing coming looks like a scarecrow out for a morning stroll.”

“That’s one of Hilton’s characters,” answered Alex. “He’s kind of a half-witted fellow that lives in the woods north of the village. You must go to see him some day, for he’s delighted to have us boys call on him, and his cabin, where he lives all alone, is well worth the seeing. Just bow to him when you meet him; it pleases him immensely.”

The subject of the conversation was hurrying along towards them, with a curiously uncertain, rocking gait. The huge felt hat that covered his head and rested on his shoulders behind, was pushed off from his forehead, showing long, lank wisps of yellowish white hair; and the ragged gray coat whose tatters were fluttering airily in the morning breeze, made him look so much like what Leon had called him, “A scarecrow out for a morning stroll,” that one felt moved to peep under his coat for the supporting cross-sticks and straw which went to make up his body. Trudging along by his side was a mite of a boy with a bushy thatch of tousled flaxen hair, and dressed in a jacket and trousers of blue checked gingham. The strange pair seemed to be well-tried friends, for the urchin was chattering earnestly to his venerable companion who looked down at him with a simpering, vacant expression, as if only half understanding the simple talk of his little comrade.

“Who’s the boy?” asked Leon, after watching them for a moment, in amused silence.

“Cappy Toomsen, short for Caspar,” said Alex. “It isn’t a cheerful name, I confess; but it doesn’t seem to worry Master Cappy, for a more jolly little imp never lived. He is a great admirer of old Jerry, and the two are off somewhere together, almost every day.”

“How do? Fi’ day. New boy. Who he?” remarked Jerry, planting himself in their path at this moment, and pointing at Leon who flushed under his broad stare.

“Hullo, Jerry!” responded Stanley, nodding good-naturedly to the old man. “This is Leon Arnold, a new boy at Flemming.”

“Arno’, Leon Arno’,” said the old fellow, bobbing his head wisely. “Jerry likes Flemming boy!”

“Well he may,” remarked Stanley, as he went on. “He gets many an old coat and bit of money out of them.”

“The Hilton people call him Flemming’s ragbag,” added Alex. “He goes round, most of the time, dressed in our cast-off uniforms. Jerry always insists on being introduced to every new boy that comes to Flemming, and he has an endless memory for names and faces, so he’ll never forget you, you may be sure.”

Quarter of an hour later, the boys went in to breakfast. At the dining-room door, Leon was waylaid by his brother.

“Where in the world have you been, Leon?” he said eagerly. “I’ve been looking all round for you, to tell you that word just came up from the doctor’s that we’re to dine there to-night. Isn’t that jolly? It’s because you’re a new fellow, with a brother among the old boys. He always invites them.”

At breakfast, the new seats for the term were assigned, and Leon found himself between Stanley Campbell and Mr. Boniface, with Max opposite him. Farther down the table were Alex and Louis, while Harry was across the room, next to Lieutenant Wilde. As the boys took their seats, Max introduced Leon to still another table-companion, George Winslow by name, who glanced up long enough to nod indifferently, then began to eat his breakfast with a perfect unconcern. Leon watched him with an instinctive feeling of repulsion, for he formed a complete contrast to the genial good-nature of the other boys around him; and his low, square head with its cold, steel-gray eyes and heavy under jaw, was as little agreeable as was his habit of taking in his food in stolid silence, and with an utter disregard for the needs of those about him. He was still deliberately turning over the pile of muffins, to select the brownest and lightest, when he caught Leon’s stare of amused astonishment. He paused long enough to give back one look of defiance which made Leon hastily drop his eyes, while his face flushed as if he had been struck a blow. That one look told Leon, plainly as words, that here he had found an enemy. When he glanced up again, Stanley was giving an account of their meeting with Jerry.

“Jerry’s a rare specimen,” commented Max, as with a fine unconsciousness, he slipped his hand under that of George Winslow, and brought away the last muffin on the plate. “Oh, beg your pardon; were you after that?” he asked innocently, then continued, “You just wait till you get inside the church this morning, you’ll see more odd people there than you ever supposed were in the world.”

When the long line of boys was marshalled into the little church, Leon was forcibly reminded of the remark which Max had made at breakfast for, accustomed as he was to the city and its ways, the place and people filled him with amazement. The church itself was a low, square room in which only the middle seats faced the minister, while along each side of the room were rows of pews slightly raised and facing each other, thus giving their occupants a fine opportunity to see everything that concerned the congregation. The warm September sun streamed in at the unshaded windows, making the two tall stoves with their long stretches of rusty pipe seem quite unnecessary. Huddled together in the corner, around the wheezy little organ, sat the half-dozen singers, while at the foot of the low pulpit lay a shaggy yellow dog with one eye, who had followed the minister up the aisle and taken his place with an air of calm assurance which told, as plainly as words could have done, that his appearance at church was as regular as the coming of Sunday itself. The congregation, except for the Flemming boys, was limited to a few women whose pleasant, gentle faces looked strangely overpowered by their vast and top-heavy bonnets, while here and there was a subdued-looking farmer in his ill-fitting suit of Sunday clothes, or a freckled, sun-burned child. The boys of the school occupied the seats along the left side of the room; and from his seat between Harry and Louis, Leon glanced about, now at the tin basins hung by wires underneath the joints in the stove-pipe, now at old Jerry who, from his seat by the door, was lending a vacant attention to all that was passing, now at the dog who seemed impressed with the solemn nature of his surroundings, and lay quiet, only scratching his head, now and again, with a deprecating, apologetic air.

“I seen them boys laughin’ at Bose, ma,” he heard a sharp-faced child say to her portly companion, as they were coming out of church.

“More shame to ’em, Sairy, to hev their thoughts on sech carnal things! But,” added the good dame severely, as she glared down at her little daughter, “ef your own eyes had ’a’ b’en where they’d ought to be, you wouldn’t ’a’ seen it.”

“That dog is another of Hilton’s characters,” Louis was explaining, as the boys walked away down the road. “He was brought up from his puppyhood to go to church, and he behaves better than most of the children.”

“He has the advantage over the kids though,” put in Max from behind, where he was walking with Harry. “Bose can go to sleep when the sermon gets too dry, and they aren’t allowed to. I saw old Mrs. Wilson wake up her little girl six and a half times to-day, Wing.”

“Which was the half-time?” asked Leon.

“The time she poked her and she didn’t wake up,” responded Max promptly, while the boys laughed at his mathematics.

So the nonsense ran on until the boys reached the steps of Old Flemming. There they separated, Harry, Stanley and Louis going to their rooms to write their home letters before the hour for dinner, while Alex, with Max and Leon, sat down on the steps in the sunshine.

“Come take a walk, Max?” asked a gay voice behind them.

Max sprang up at once, exclaiming,—

“Hullo, Frank; where’ve you been all the morning?”

“In my room; I didn’t feel just right, so I cut church. Now I want to stretch myself a little. Come on.” And as the two boys walked away, Leon heard the new-comer ask,—

“Who’s the new fellow?”

“Hal Arnold’s brother.”

“Any good?”

By this time, they were too far away for Leon to catch their words, but he sat staring after them, as if dazzled by the rich, dark beauty of the stranger. When they were out of sight, he turned back to Alex.

“Who’s that?” he asked eagerly.

Alex, too, had been watching the boys, while something like a frown gathered on his face.

“That’s Frank Osborn,” he answered. “I don’t see what makes Max so wild to be with him.”

“Why not?” inquired Leon, surprised at his change of tone.

“Because he’s the worst friend Max can have,” said Alex abruptly. “He’s a Southerner with plenty of money and brains; but he’s no dig and he gets Max into scrapes the whole time. He’s not really bad, only a little fast, and getting worse; but he laughs at Max for being slow and makes him think it’s manly to just steer clear of being expelled. He’s not ugly, though, like Winslow, the fellow you saw at breakfast. He’s nothing but a bully, and you don’t want to have much to do with him. But you have Hal to look out for you, and he’s steady as a deacon, so you’re all right.”

The shadows were stretching out in long lines from the western hills, as Leon turned away from the mirror after a prolonged season of prinking, and rather nervously followed his brother down the stairs, out of the house and down the hill to the doctor’s door. In spite of Harry’s delight at the invitation, Leon was dreading the prospect of dining with the master of Flemming. However, such an invitation was not to be refused, and he was soon being ushered into a cosy parlor, where a little girl of six was sitting alone in front of a crackling fire. She was a dainty maiden, with a tangle of long brown curls and a pair of roguish brown eyes that shone with excitement, as she came bounding forward to meet Harry, with a patient-looking gray cat so doubled up over her arm that its lank tail and pointed ears met below.

“Hullo, Gyp!” exclaimed Harry, catching her up, as she reached him.

“Hullo!” she answered, returning his caress as a matter of course. “Papa told me to stay here till you came, so I could call him d’reckly. I kept Mouse for company, you see.”

“Is this the same old Mouse?” inquired Harry, laughing. “I thought the rats ate her up, long ago.”

“No, course not,” responded Gyp, in a tone of contempt for Harry’s mistaken idea. “Mouse āted all the rats up; that’s the way ’twas. Now I’ll call papa.” And she vanished, carrying the long-suffering Mouse head downward in her arms.

“Gyp is a great institution,” laughed Harry. “She and Mouse make no end of fun for us, and she’s as bright as Mouse is stupid. That cat must have been damaged in her infancy, I know.”

At this point, Gyp reappeared, triumphantly leading by the hand a gentleman whom she introduced as “papa.” Dr. Flemming might have been forty or forty-five years old, and though his tall, slight figure and thin face with its silky, yellow moustache and deep-set blue eyes, suggested delicate health, yet, there was no air of languor in either his words or manner. He welcomed both boys cordially, and at once set about entertaining them in a pleasant, friendly way that delighted Leon as much as did the quaint, dry wit which came into almost every remark he made. A few moments later, Mrs. Flemming entered the room, and Leon found her a bright, motherly little woman with a delightfully long memory for the different boys of the school, and the pet hobbies of each one of them.

After an informal dinner and an evening of pleasant talk, the boys reluctantly rose, to say good night. Dr. Flemming rose, too, and, taking Leon’s hand in both his own firm, slender ones and looking down into the lad’s eyes so keenly that Leon felt he could see into the very depths of his soul, he said kindly,—

“Arnold, you are just starting out into a new life, and I say to you what I say to all the boys when they come here. You will miss your home in many ways; you will find many things here that are new and strange. Do the very best you can in everything, whether it is work or play. Be generous and manly and, above all else, be true, true to yourself and true to the hopes of your parents in sending you to us, and we shall all be satisfied. And one more word: at the first, when you choose your friends, remember that, in a school the size of this, there are all sorts of boys, and choose those that will be a help to you, instead of a pull-back. Boys can’t be too careful about their friends, for with them it is just as it is with anything else. If you handle something black, a little of the color is likely to rub off on you. Look for the best and truest boys and, for your share, try to be as good for them as they are for you. Then your life at Flemming will be a pleasant and a happy one. And now, good night.” And he dismissed them, with a friendly smile.

CHAPTER IV.
THE BONIFACE REBELLION.

The real work of the term began in earnest, the next morning, and Leon found himself in a class of fifteen or twenty boys, nearly all of them older than himself, and among whom he looked in vain for one of the lads that he had seen in Harry’s room. George Winslow’s scowling face was the only familiar one that met his eye, and Leon gladly turned away from him, to make a closer study of his new companions. At his right hand sat a boy of eleven, with an abnormally large head and a dry, weazened, lead-colored face, who appeared to feel it his duty to maintain the credit of the class by answering all the questions addressed to any of its members. At Leon’s other side was a boy of about his own age, whose mocking brown eyes were dancing with fun, as he watched Leon’s other neighbor; and he looked so bright and companionable that Leon ventured to whisper, under cover of suppressing a yawn,—

“Who’s the fellow next me?”

“I don’t know,” answered the other; “I’m new here. Don’t you know him?”

“No; I’m new, too. Isn’t he a terror?” responded Leon.

Both boys kept their eyes intently fixed on their books, for a few moments. Then Leon attempted another question.

“What’s your name?” he asked cautiously, with his gaze still on the page before him.

“Harold King,” replied his neighbor. “What’s yours?”

“Leon Arnold; I’m Hal Arnold’s brother. Aren’t you Jack Howard’s cousin? He said something or other about you.”

“Yes. Hush! Do hear that fellow go on. He must be one of the fiends.”

“Fiends!” echoed Leon in wonder; for his sole association with the word was the idea of a black hobgoblin, and his neighbor only resembled his mental picture of that race, in the size of his head.

“That’s what Jack called them,” answered Harold, as the class rose to go back to the main school-room. “He says they call those little bits of pert fellows that think they know it all, fiends. Not a bad name, either,” he added, with a wink.

Leon’s reply was prevented by a sudden push from behind, and the next instant George Winslow passed him, jostling him roughly as he went. The rudeness of the motion was so uncalled for and so evidently intentional that Leon, as he stood his ground and gazed proudly into the lowering face before him, felt that sooner or later it would be war to the knife between them.

He felt so still more during his first drill, that afternoon. The armory was given up to the new cadets, together with the half-dozen non-commissioned officers who were detailed for their instruction, under the general supervision of Lieutenant Wilde. There were a few words of explanation of the duties of the soldier, the object and aim of the drill, and then the novices were divided into squads of four and assigned to the care of their different instructors. As he took his place, Leon glanced up to find himself confronted by George Winslow. However, the weeks of faithful training that he had received from Harry, made him feel no hesitation in obeying the orders which were issued, and he promptly set to work to take the required positions for setting up and saluting, confident that he could hold his own with the raw recruits by his side. But for some reason or other, his best endeavors proved quite unavailing, and he found himself constantly called to account, now for having his shoulders uneven, now for inattention, and again for delayed obedience. At first he was annoyed by these continual reprimands; then he grew indignant, for he fancied he caught a little smile of satisfaction on Winslow’s face, as he ordered,—

“Right hand—salute!” Then suddenly struck down Leon’s raised hand, saying sharply, “Get in position before I command, and hurry up about it.”

“Arnold’s position was correct,” said Lieutenant Wilde’s voice over his shoulder; then he added quietly, “that will do, Winslow. I will take charge of this squad myself, for the rest of the afternoon.”

The dismissal was final, and Winslow dared not disobey; so, with one furious glance at Leon, he went away, and Lieutenant Wilde took his place. Drilling under him was an entirely different matter; and Leon left the armory, half an hour later, happy in the promise of being promoted to drill with the battalion, so soon as he should have had a little practice in the manual of arms. But, as he left the dining-room that night, he was stopped by Winslow, who planted himself directly in his pathway.

“I owe you one for this, Arnold,” he said, in a low, distinct voice; “and if it means reporting me to the doctor, you’ll be sorry for it.”

“You’ll have trouble with Winslow yet, Leon,” said Harry, at bed-time when Leon told him of the day’s events. “I don’t see what started him after you, but he’s always taking just such spites. He’s an awful bully and, if it only wasn’t against the rules of the school, the best thing you could do would be to give him a good sound thrashing.”

In the meantime, matters had not gone well for Mr. Boniface, that morning. The general school-room had been left in his charge, for the doctor was busy with the new cadets, and Lieutenant Wilde’s classes met in the little laboratory up-stairs. The ten or twelve seniors were grouped at the front of the room for their Latin recitation, and Mr. Boniface was trying to give them his undivided attention and, at the same time, to keep a watchful eye on Max and Frank Osborn and half a dozen kindred spirits who occupied the far corner of the room. The poor teacher was nervous, that morning. In spite of the careful preparation which he had given his lesson, he felt sure that he was not holding the interest of his pupils who presented every appearance of languid inattention. As he glanced from Jack Howard who was lounging in his seat, with his eyes fixed on the tree just outside the window, to Harry Arnold who was making an elaborate pattern of dots and dashes on the margin of his Cicero, he raised his eyebrows and gave a deep, though half-unconscious sigh. The sound was promptly echoed from the distant corner; and when Luke Boniface looked over in that direction, he found the boys all laughing except Max who, perfectly serious, was deep in his lesson, swaying to and fro with his eyes fixed on his book and his lips moving silently. Though in his own mind there was no doubt as to the culprit, it was too slight an offence to be taken up, and Mr. Boniface could only resolve to watch himself more closely in the future, that he might present no such opportunities to the fun-loving Max.

The lessons went heavily on, marked by an entire absence of sympathy between teacher and pupil. If Mr. Boniface tried to give some bit of interesting information, it was received with perfect unconcern; if he attempted any pleasantry, it was heard with stolid silence; when he was stern and severe, it produced no more effect. When Irving Wilde came in, at the end of the third hour, to take charge of the room, he found the other teacher looking almost distracted, while the boys were all in a high state of glee over the pranks of Max and Frank Osborn. As Lieutenant Wilde took his place at the desk, with a reproachful glance at the uproarious boys, the older man noted with envy how the faces before him grew bright and interested, and how suddenly the room was stilled. For a moment he stood looking about the room and rubbing his hand up and down over his hair, as was his habit, when annoyed or perplexed. Then he hastily gathered up his books and left the room, with a miserable certainty that his morning had been wasted.

And so it went on, day after day. While there was no open outbreak or breach of discipline, yet the new teacher was subjected to all sorts of petty annoyances by the lads, who had taken a dislike to his gloomy, serious manner. Order was out of the question, and any attempts, on the master’s part, to establish it were worse than useless, for the boys promptly turned the tables and came off victors, again and again. However, it had taken but a short time for Mr. Boniface to single out Max as the leader in much of the iniquity, and after watching him closely for a week, he surprised him, one morning, by an invitation to occupy the seat directly in front of the master’s desk which was extended to serve for both master and boy. With a good-natured smile, Max picked up his books and marched down the aisle to the appointed place, where he seated himself, with a triumphant backward glance at his mates, triumphant, for this was a fresh vantage point for an attack.

It was the habit of the awkward young teacher to sit with his feet stretched far out in front of him, quite regardless of the fact that, in this way, his coarse shoes were exposed to the gaze of the whole school. Max had studied these shoes well, and was never tired of drawing them from every possible point of view, exaggerating their defects with the skill peculiar to boyish caricature.

As soon as the master’s mind was again on his class, Max displayed a bit of paper on which his friends made out the terse inscription: “Got ’em.” It was but two words, it is true; but it was enough to rouse their curiosity, to see what the fertile brain of Max could mean by this novel declaration of war. They watched and waited; but they only saw Max put his elbows on his desk, clutch his yellow top-knot with both hands and fall to studying with a will, as if heartily ashamed of his fault and resolved to make amends. But if their teacher was deceived, the boys, who knew their friend better, were not. His sudden devotion to his book, at such a time and in such a place, could only mean fresh mischief. Suddenly Leon, who was looking on, saw the teacher give a violent start, while Max quite as suddenly raised his head, with an affectation of perfect surprise, and meekly begged his pardon. The face of Luke Boniface flushed, and he looked suspiciously at Max. He could read nothing, however, in the boy’s unconscious expression, so he merely bowed, in recognition of the apology, and went on with his lesson. Half an hour later, the mystified boys saw the same performance repeated. At the close of the morning session, Max was told that he could return to his seat.

Late that afternoon, several of the boys were sitting on the piazza rail, resting after a lively hour of football practice, when Jack Howard suddenly inquired,—

“I say, Max, what was it you did to Bony this morning, to make him jump so?”

Max chuckled at the recollection, but vouchsafed no other reply.

“Go on and tell us, Max,” urged Louis, hooking his toes into the railing to balance himself, as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“What’s the use?” responded Max. “I may want to do it again some day, and I don’t want you all to get on to it; it’s my own invention.”

“Nonsense, Max; we won’t steal it, and we couldn’t do it, if we would; we’re all too good for that sort of thing,” put in Harry Arnold, from the step near by, where he sat leaning against the end of the rail.

“Much you are!” returned Max ironically. “Well, I’ll tell you; I just happened to step on his toe, that’s all.”

“Happened?” inquired Paul Lincoln, taking careful aim at a belated mosquito, as he spoke.

“Yes, happened,” repeated Max solemnly. “You see, when I study, I get so interested that I can’t keep on the lookout to see what my feet are doing. To-day they wouldn’t stay on the floor, but, first thing I knew, they were way up in the air. Of course I put them down again, as quick as I found it out, and Bony’s feet were right in the way. See? I begged his pardon, though. But the queerest thing about it all was that pretty soon I did that very same thing again. Strange how interested a fellow can get in his lessons, isn’t it?” And Max paused to look innocently around at the group.

“It was an untoward event, anyway,” remarked Paul.

The boys groaned at the pun.

“Oh, come, you fellows,” observed Harry; “I feel sort of sorry for Bony, once in a while. I hate him as badly as any of you; but we are leading him a dog’s life between us.”

The boys turned and looked at him in surprise. Harry Arnold was a lad whose opinion carried weight in the school, and a hush followed his clear voice. It was Jack who broke the momentary silence.

“That’s true enough, Hal; but he isn’t obliged to stay here. The sooner he clears out, the better we fellows would like it, and he may take the hint, in time.”

“I wonder if the doctor likes him?” said Leon.

“I don’t see how he can,” said Louis, while he carefully brushed his cap and replaced it on the back of his head. “I have an idea that the doctor took him out of charity.”

“That’s just it,” responded Harry, clasping his hands behind his head. “Bony’s got to grub along somewhere till he gets money enough to pay for his course in the seminary. If he gets turned out here, it will be no easy thing for him to get in somewhere else.”

“The sooner he goes off for a missionary, the better it will be for this side of the world,” remarked Jack encouragingly. “You’re right there, Hal, and we ought to do our share towards sending him off in a hurry.”

“If he only wasn’t so grumpy, I wouldn’t mind,” added Max; “but I hate a man that can’t see a joke when it’s fired at him head first; and then it’s such fun to see him get mad over every little thing.” And Max twisted up his face in imitation of his teacher’s frown.

“I don’t blame you much, Max,” said Harry candidly. “He is pretty bad; I don’t see what makes him so uncommonly disagreeable.”

“One thing’s sure,” suggested Max, laughing; “when he goes as a missionary, the cannibals won’t do anything but taste him, for he’s so sour that he’ll set their teeth on edge, first thing.”

At this point, a window just above their heads was abruptly closed. As they heard the sound, the boys exchanged glances of consternation.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Jack Howard. “That’s Bony’s window. Do you suppose he’s been up there, all this time?”

“I hope he enjoyed himself, then,” answered Louis, as he slipped down from the rail.

“I don’t know as I much care if he did hear,” said Max deliberately. “I don’t want to be ugly and hurt his feelings, any more than Hal does; but now honestly, if he knew just what we thought of him, perhaps he’d try to treat us a little more decently.”

But how well he did know just what they thought of him! Sitting by the open window, in the yellow sunset light, Mr. Boniface had been quite absorbed in his work until the repeated use of his unpleasant nickname had roused him from his book, and forced him to listen. It was only for a few moments that he had sat there; but it was long enough to hear Harry’s attempted defence and final confession to sharing in the general dislike, to writhe under the jests of Max and to note the contempt in the tone of all the boys. Then he closed the window; but it was too late, for the winged words, sharp as arrows, had already flown in and struck home, touching just the points where he knew himself weakest. And with all their teasing, they were sorry for him; that was the worst of it all. He could bear their dislike, but not their half-scornful pity, as to an inferior. Just because their lives had been spent in luxury, should they despise him on account of his struggle with poverty? The thought galled him, and with his arms folded tightly in front of him and his head bowed, he paced angrily up and down the room.

Irving Wilde found him so, when he knocked at his door, half an hour later, to return a borrowed book. As he heard the nervous steps, he paused for a moment to listen. Then he rapped with decision.

“Come in,” said an unwelcoming voice.

“I just came to bring back your book,” said Lieutenant Wilde, looking with some surprise on the flushed face and angry eyes of his host, who stood facing him, without making the slightest movement towards receiving the book. “I am afraid I am intruding,” he went on.

“No,” the other man replied briefly; “I’m not busy.”

Irving Wilde felt a little perplexed. It was evident that Mr. Boniface was in some trouble, but his rather hostile manner made it difficult to offer any sympathy. The lieutenant put the book down on the table and turned to go away.

“Sit down,” said the other abruptly.

It was more a command than an invitation, and Lieutenant Wilde meekly obeyed, wondering what was to follow.