An algebra recitation was in progress in D section.
Reed was on his feet explaining the given problem with his usual quickness and accuracy. Suddenly Mr. Horton interrupted him.
“Very well, Reed, take your seat. Crawford, you may continue the explanation.”
Crawford stumbled to his feet with a confused glance at the teacher.
“I—er—don’t know exactly where Reed left off, sir,” he stammered.
“If you had been paying attention you would have known. Failure, Crawford. Freeman, you may continue,” said Mr. Horton.
Freeman—a slender, pale-faced boy—occupied the seat directly in front of Crawford’s. He rose promptly and began where Reed had left off, but in a moment he stopped, the color rose in his face, he hesitated, stammered and dropped back into his seat, saying, “I can’t do it, sir.”
Mr. Horton, whose eyes had been on some restless boys in another part of the room, turned around with a glance of surprise. Freeman was not an especially quick scholar, and his frequent absences on account of illness kept him from taking the rank in the class that his steady work would otherwise have secured for him, but a failure was a rare thing for him.
“I think you can do that, Freeman. Try again,” said the teacher.
The boy rose, and once more attempted to go on with the problem, but as before, his face flushed and he dropped quickly back into his seat.
“I am sorry, Freeman, but I must give you a failure,” said Mr. Horton; but as he spoke, another boy sitting across the aisle from Crawford rose, and said clearly and distinctly, “Mr. Horton, Freeman can solve that problem, I think, if he can stand by your desk.”
At this, low hisses sounded from different parts of the room, but a glance from Mr. Horton suppressed them, as he said quietly, “Freeman, step forward to my desk and finish the recitation if you can.”
With a look of relief, the little fellow stepped forward, and, without a moment’s hesitation, solved the problem clearly and correctly.
He cast a grateful glance at the boy who had spoken for him as he returned to his seat, but he shivered as he saw the ugly, threatening look in Crawford’s eyes, and caught the words hissed close to his ear, as Crawford leaned over his desk: “I’ll settle with you for that, and with that donkey that brayed for you, too.”
At recess, Mr. Horton kept both Freeman and Clark, the boy who had spoken for him, and questioned them, but he could get no information from either. He was certain however, in his own mind, that Crawford was the one to blame. He believed that Crawford was at the bottom of much of the trouble and disorder in his class-room, but it was all so slyly done that it was next to impossible to fix the blame where it belonged.
“It was real good of you, Stanley, to help me out,” Freeman said gratefully, as, Mr. Horton having dismissed them, the two went down to the playground; “but I’m afraid Crawford’ll serve you some mean trick to pay for it.”
“He served you a mean enough one, this morning,” answered Clark. “Sticking pins into you, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” replied Freeman; “he had ’em fastened somehow to the toe of his shoe. They must have been big pins too, for they hurt like fury. Look here!” He pointed to some dark spots on his black stockings, below his short trousers.
“Blood?” said Clark, inquiringly, and as Freeman nodded, he added:—
“It’s a shame, Ray. I see him tormenting you in all sorts of ways whenever Horton isn’t looking. You ought to have your seat changed. Why don’t you?”
“Oh no!” said Freeman, quickly. “He’d say I was a coward then, and couldn’t stand a little fun. No, I’ll stick it out—but,” he added, half laughing, “I wish he wouldn’t stick so many things into me. I reckon I know how a pin-cushion feels.”
Crawford, with half a dozen of his particular cronies, stood on the playground near the door. They seized upon Clark and Freeman as they came out.
“Well, Sissies, did you tell the master all about it?” demanded Crawford, scornfully.
“We did not tell him anything,” answered Clark quietly, looking straight into the other’s angry eyes.
“It’s a lie. You did, too!” said Crawford, hotly.
“We didn’t either!” began Freeman, indignantly; but the big fellow who was holding him gave him a shake and told him to “hush up,” while Crawford repeated loudly and distinctly, “It’s a lie!”
A crowd quickly gathered about the group. There was a moment of silence, while all waited to see what Clark would do. His face was very white and his hands were clenched, but still looking straight into Crawford’s angry eyes, he answered steadily, “You can believe me or not, as you like. I have told you the truth.”
“You’re a sneak, a coward and a telltale! Take that!” said Crawford, in reply, and as he spoke he struck Clark across the mouth.
Clark’s eyes fairly blazed then. He took one step forward, and grasped Crawford’s wrists with a grip that made him wince and draw back, but the next instant Clark released him and turned away, saying, “I would not lower myself enough to fight with you.”
“Ha, ha! Coward—coward! You’re afraid, and try to sneak out of it that way,” called Crawford loudly; and more than one voice joined in the cry, and shouted, “Coward! Coward!” as Clark walked swiftly through the hall and up the stairs to his seat. Little Freeman followed him, but as he glanced at his friend’s white, set face, he dared not speak to him, and slipping into his own seat, he opened a book, and pretended to be studying. In another moment, the bell summoned the boys from the playground. Those of section D, as they returned to their seats, cast curious or scornful glances at Clark, but he never raised his eyes to look at one of them, and when school was dismissed he was the first to leave the room, not waiting even for little Freeman, who was his devoted admirer, and counted it a great honor, as well as pleasure, to walk home with him.
Freeman was feeling very badly about the affair. He considered himself to blame for it all, and he longed to tell Clark how sorry he was, but he knew instinctively that his friend could not bear to talk of it then; so he did not attempt to overtake him, but walked slowly on alone, so deep in thought that he did not notice quick footsteps behind him, till his cap was suddenly snatched off and flung into a mud-puddle, while Crawford’s loud, rough voice exclaimed, “Now, little telltale, you’ve got to take your punishment. I told you I’d pay you out, and I meant it.”
“But I didn’t do anything to you,” protested Freeman, shrinking from the other’s rough grasp.
“Didn’t do anything to me!” echoed Crawford harshly. “It was all your fault. That fool of a Clark was standing up for you, wasn’t he?”
“But—” began Freeman.
“You hush up! We’ve had chin enough from you,” interrupted Crawford, and while three or four of his cronies stood by laughing and jeering, he seized the little fellow, who was five years younger than himself, and nothing like his size, and rolled him over and over in the puddle, where he had already thrown his cap. It had rained heavily the night before, and there was water enough to soak Freeman’s clothing pretty thoroughly. Not content with this, Crawford rubbed mud over the lad’s face and hands, and tried to force it into his mouth before he released him.
“There!” he exclaimed at last. “Now run and tell Clark all about it.”
“Telltale! Telltale!” chorused the others, as Freeman, exhausted by his ineffectual struggles, and dripping wet, picked up his cap and books, and hurried off. He looked at no one that he met, but all the same he was keenly conscious of the curious glances at his flushed face and dripping clothes as he went.
When he reached home he found no one there but his twin sister, Edith.
“Why, Ray!” she exclaimed, “what is the matter? How did you get so wet? But don’t stop to tell me,” she added hastily; “run right up stairs, and get on dry clothes first, and I’ll have some hot drink ready when you come down.”
She knew the danger of a chill for the delicate boy, and had the hot drink ready, and made him take it before she would let him tell her a word of what had happened. Indeed, he did not want to tell her at all, but these two had always shared each other’s joys and sorrows, so Edith soon knew the whole story, all except Crawford’s name. That Freeman would not tell for all her urging. She was so indignant, and scolded so long about it all, that her brother at last half forgot his own indignation in laughing at hers.
“I think it’s too shameful for anything, and the boy ought to be suspended—I don’t care who he is!” she declared, her blue eyes flashing. “Ray, I think you ought to let Mr. Horton know about it, just so that this fellow will not dare to treat any other boy as he has treated you.”
“No, no, Edith, they sha’n’t have any grounds for calling me telltale,” Freeman answered, his thin face flushing as he heard again, in imagination, the taunting cry of “telltale,” that seemed still ringing in his ears. “Say, Edith,” he went on, “mind you don’t let mother know anything about this. She’d worry over it, and imagine me suffering all sorts of persecutions, and it isn’t likely that that fellow will trouble me any more, now that he’s had his ‘revenge,’ as he calls it.”
“But, Ray,” said his sister, “we can’t help mother’s knowing. You can’t wear those clothes again until they’ve been cleaned and pressed. They’ll have to be sent away for that, and mother must know about it.”
“Yes, and pay the bill,” groaned the boy. “I tell you, Edith, it’s awful hard on a big fellow like me to be just a bill of expense to mother, instead of being at work, helping her, as I feel I ought to be.”
“But she doesn’t feel that you ought to be,” said Edith. “You know it almost breaks her heart because she can’t send you to college, and I don’t think anything would induce her to let you leave school until you graduate.”
“I know it,” sighed the boy, “and the worst of it is that I am such a weakling that I may never amount to anything in the world when I am through school.”
“Don’t worry over that, Ray. You are certainly stronger than you were a year or two ago, and maybe you won’t have any more sick spells to pull you down. I do hope not, any way,” and Edith laid her hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke.
He looked up at her gratefully, as he answered, “I wonder what I should do without you, Edith. You never let me get quite discouraged.”
“And never mean to,” she answered gaily, though her eyes filled with tears as she looked at the blue-veined temples, and the dark circles under the blue eyes so like her own.
One boy had been absent from section D that day. This was David Hamlin, a big, handsome fellow, a general favorite, and the acknowledged leader of the better element in the class. He was at school early the next morning, and listened with the greatest interest to the story of the previous day’s happenings, which the boys were eager to tell.
“Well,” he said, looking from one to another when the story was ended, “where were all you decent fellows that you didn’t interfere? If I’d been here, I’d have stood up for Clark. Coward indeed! He showed pluck enough, I should say, in refusing to fight that bully Crawford.”
But at this, a murmur of dissent went around the group. It was plain that for once Hamlin was not to have the popular support even of all his friends.
“No, no, Hamlin,” said one, “you can’t make me believe that a fellow with the right sort of stuff in him would let anybody give him the lie direct and a blow in the face to boot, and not strike back. That’s not my idea of courage.”
“Nor mine. Nor mine,” cried half a dozen voices.
Hamlin looked from one to another, reading the same opinion in every face.
“No,” he said scornfully. “It is quite evident that it is not your idea of courage. Haven’t you sense enough to see that Clark showed a courage as much higher and finer than Crawford’s as his was higher than that of—a mad bull, I was going to say”; he stopped and half laughed, as he added, “That’s a poor comparison however, for I don’t think that Crawford’s courage was one whit higher or better than a mad bull’s.”
Hamlin was standing with his back to the door. A little stir, and a change in some of the faces turned towards the door, made him glance around to find Crawford himself standing just behind him with a scowl on his dark face.
“So,” he said, “I seem to be the interesting subject under discussion. Go on, go on. Pray don’t let me interrupt you.”
“I don’t mean to”; and as he spoke, Hamlin wheeled quickly around so as to face the other. “I’d just as soon, and in fact a little sooner, speak my mind to your face. Crawford, if I’ve heard the story straight, you did some mean, contemptible, cowardly things, yesterday. I think such doings are a disgrace to our section, and I tell you now once for all, that if this sort of thing can’t be stopped I shall ask for a transfer to some other section, and I shall tell Professor Keene just why I want a transfer, too.”
There was a moment of silence while Crawford, choking down his rage, looked from face to face to see on which side were the sympathies of the boys. Had any other than Hamlin said all this, Crawford would have either laughed it to scorn or answered by a sneer and a blow, but Hamlin was too popular and stood too high in the class to be treated in that way. He belonged, too, to a wealthy and influential family, and these facts weighed heavily with Crawford; so, though his eyes were full of sullen anger, he only said gruffly, “Seems to me you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. I gave that cad of a Clark a slap across the mouth which he was too cowardly to return. That’s all there is about it, and I don’t see, for my part, why you are taking it up, and making such a row over it, Hamlin.”
“I don’t know Clark very well,” replied Hamlin, “but I’ve never seen anything sneaky or cowardly about him, and I don’t believe he is either. I know a fellow always gets the name of a coward if he won’t pitch in and strike back like a prize fighter when anybody insults him; but I’m beginning to think that the honor that can only be proven by making a brute of one’s self, isn’t worth very much anyhow. But that blow of yours that Clark had the courage not to return, Crawford, was only one of the things that you were responsible for, yesterday, if all I’ve heard is true. You all know,” he went on, turning to the boys, “how often little Freeman is sick, and how much he is absent on that account. Perhaps some of you don’t know that he has no father, and that his mother is working a good deal harder than any woman ought to work, to keep him in school. Freeman himself is very anxious to get to work and help his mother, and the position he gets after he graduates will depend largely on his school record; yet you, Crawford, deliberately tried yesterday, to make him fail, when he knew his lesson perfectly, and not satisfied with that, you pitched into him after school and rolled him in mud and water in the street. It was a shame, Crawford—a little delicate chap like him, not half your size! I can’t see, for my part, how any decent fellow could have stood by and seen it done without interfering”; and Hamlin’s eyes blazed with righteous indignation as he looked around the circle.
“Oh, come now, Hamlin, you’re putting it on too thick,” said Crawford; “I”—but whispers of “Here comes Bobby!” cut short the talk, and the boys slipped into their seats as Mr. Horton entered the class-room.
“Bobby” was the class name for the teacher of section D.
Clark did not appear until the last moment—just in time to avoid the tardy mark. His face was very grave, and he looked neither to right nor left as he took his seat, so he did not see Hamlin watching eagerly for a chance to give him a friendly smile, and Hamlin had to content himself with the thought, “I’ll have a talk with him at recess.”
But at recess the principal, Prof. Keene, sent for him and kept him so long in his office that the recess was over before he was at liberty, and half an hour before school was dismissed Clark, after a word with Mr. Horton, left the room and did not return.
So Hamlin, breaking away from half a dozen boys who surrounded him when school was out, hurried after Freeman who was walking off alone.
“What’s the matter with Clark? Why did he leave so early?” he asked, as he overtook the little fellow.
“I don’t know,” answered Freeman; then he added, speaking earnestly and quickly, “You don’t believe that it was because he was afraid that he didn’t fight Crawford, do you, Hamlin?”
“Of course not,” was the quick reply. “I don’t believe in fighting any more than Clark does, though I doubt if I should have had the moral courage to do as he did and risk being called a coward.”
“I’m to blame for it all. It was his standing up for me in class that began it,” said Freeman, with a troubled face.
“Don’t worry over that,” said Hamlin kindly. “I’ll stand by him, and I know some of the other fellows will too.”
“If you do, he won’t care much about the rest, I guess,” said Freeman, who, like most of the younger boys, looked up to David Hamlin as a model. He turned off presently at his own corner, and Hamlin walked on alone, saying to himself, “I’ll run around and see Clark after supper.”
But his kindly purpose was not destined to be carried out. When he reached home he was met by his little brother with the announcement, “Papa’s going to London to-morrow, and you’re going with him.”
It was even so. Unexpected business made it necessary for Mr. Hamlin to leave at this short notice, and it had been decided that David should go with him, and so his seat in section D was vacant the next day, and for many days after.
Stanley Clark was the first boy in the school-room the next morning, and he waited impatiently for the teacher’s appearance, as he wanted to speak to him alone; but Mr. Horton was later than usual, and several boys were in the room when he came in. Henderson’s seat was on the front row, and he strained his ears to hear what Clark was saying, but he only caught Mr. Horton’s reply, “You are sure that there is no mistake about this, Clark?” and then, “Very well, I will attend to it later.”
Clark took his seat, and the morning recitations went on as usual till just before the closing hour, when Mr. Horton ordered books put away and the attention of the class given to him. The order was quickly obeyed and all eyes turned toward him, while a most unusual silence reigned.
“It has come to my knowledge,” began Mr. Horton, “that some very mean and contemptible methods have been employed in this class to prevent scholars who are really anxious to do well from making perfect recitations. If anything of this sort is done hereafter, I shall give the offenders the severest possible punishment. The disorderly element in this section shall be put down or put out of the school. In the matter of scholarship I have no fault to find with you as a class, but you are fast getting the reputation of being the roughest and most disorderly section in the school. Surely there are some among you who are, to say the least, too gentlemanly to be willing to have your section so distinguished, and I call upon all such to see to it, that you use all your influence in behalf of law and order, and do your utmost to secure a different reputation for section D.”
Many and various were the opinions expressed, as, school being dismissed, the boys talked over the matter so forcibly presented to them. Crawford’s face was dark with anger as he walked on discussing with his “crowd” the teacher’s severe remarks.
“I believe that sneaking Clark’s at the bottom of it,” he was saying angrily; “he was hobnobbing with Horton before school, and I’ll bet a cooky he put Bobby up to it.”
“Of course he did,” added Henderson. “I heard Bobby say, ‘You’re sure there’s no mistake about this, Clark?’ and then thank him for the information he had given.”
“Do you hear that, fellows?” cried Crawford. “That’s the sort of chap Clark is. Couldn’t lower himself to fight, but he can lower himself to tattle to Bobby.”
“But, Crawford, it might have been something else he was talking about. We don’t know that he was tattling,” said a boy named Graham.
“Know,” repeated Crawford impatiently. “As if there was any question about it. I don’t believe there’s another fellow in the room who would tell tales, and I move that we nip this thing in the bud, and put down blabbing and tattling once for all.”
“So say I,” shouted Henderson, while Graham cautiously inquired:—
“How do you propose to put them down, Crawford?”
“Make it so hot for the tattlers that they’ll get good and sick of it,” replied Crawford savagely.
“But how—tell us how.”
Crawford looked from one to another of the group.
“Henderson, you and Coyle and Green come around to my rooms this evening, and we’ll fix this thing up,” he said, pointedly ignoring Graham, and two or three who had kept silence.
“Wonder what Crawford is up to now,” said one of these boys whom Crawford had not named, dropping back a step or two.
“Some scurvy trick, or other,” replied a second. “For my part, I’m sick of him and his crowd. I believe I’ll side with law and order after this.”
“Don’t know but I’d better, too,” replied the first. “I’ve half a mind to, anyhow.”
“Do,” said the other quickly. “Let’s start in to-morrow and see how many will join us.”
“Pity Hamlin’s away. He’s a power when he takes hold of anything,” put in Raleigh, the third boy.
“So he is,” said Graham, “and I wish he was here too. The only trouble with Hamlin is that he’s so full of fun that he gets to cutting up before he stops to think—but he never does a mean thing.”
“No, there’s nothing sneaky about Hamlin,” said Raleigh, as he turned off towards his home.
If a bomb had exploded in the room, the pupils in section D could hardly have been more astounded than they were a few days later, when, after the opening exercises, Mr. Horton quietly remarked:—
“Every boy that owns a key to the algebra we use will please rise in his seat.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Freeman and two other boys arose.
“Freeman,” said the teacher, “how do you use the key?”
“I do the examples first, and then see if I have the correct answers. If I have not, I keep trying till I get them,” said Freeman frankly, but with a very red face.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Horton. “You may be seated, boys. Now, I want every other boy in the room who uses a key, whether it belongs to him or not, to rise.”
Nearly half the school stood then, and Mr. Horton’s keen eyes noted the glances cast at some who did not rise, and read their meaning clearly.
“That will do,” he said. Then he looked about the room slowly and searchingly.
“Clark,” he said, “you never use a key?”
“No, sir,” was the quiet reply.
“And you, Crawford?”
“No, sir,” said Crawford promptly.
The boys did not realize how much the teacher could read in their faces. He read something in several faces as Crawford gave his positive denial, and he thought to himself once more, “Crawford will bear watching.” Then aloud he said:—
“I am sorry to find that so many have been using keys; but with those of you who have frankly and honorably acknowledged it, I have no fault to find, since I have never forbidden the use of them. I do forbid it now, however, and I wish every key that any of you have here or at home, handed to me to-morrow morning. If I find any boy making use of one hereafter, I shall not let him off easily. Now take up your work.”
At recess D section gave attention to nothing but the matter of the keys. Those who had risen at Mr. Horton’s request were inclined to look with scorn and contempt upon those who had used the keys, but had not seen fit to acknowledge it.
“I say, Crawford, you certainly were cheeky! You’ve used my key more than I have myself, and you had the bluff to deny it,” said Barber.
Crawford yawned with pretended indifference, then answered coolly:—
“’Twas none of Bobby’s business what I had done. He said himself that he’d never forbidden it.”
“Humph!” said Barber, and turning, walked off to the other side of the playground.
Crawford had the grace to color a little at this, but he turned to Henderson and shrugged his shoulders as he said, “Huffy—’cause I’ve borrowed his key. He’ll get over it. But now see here—the thing I want to know is, who put Bobby up to this dodge?”
“Of course ’twasn’t any of the fellows that use the keys,” said Henderson.
“Right you are!” exclaimed Crawford, emphatically. “It was some sneakin’ saint who never stains his holy fingers with such polluted literature as algebra keys, and I don’t know anybody so likely to have done it as Clark.”
“Oh no,” cried one, “I don’t believe it was Clark.”
“You don’t, hey! Well I do, then. It takes a coward to do a thing like that.”
“You always blame everything on Clark,” cried Freeman, “and I think it’s mean of you, Crawford.”
“You think,” repeated Crawford, scornfully, then turning to the others, he went on, “Who knows anything about Clark, anyhow? He only entered the school this year. Does anybody know where he came from?”
“I believe he only came to the city just before school opened. Isn’t that so, Freeman?” said one.
Freeman colored, and looked uncomfortable.
“Yes,” he said.
“Where’d he live before?” said Crawford.
“In—in Albany,” stammered Freeman, flushing uneasily.
Crawford looked at him sharply, then turned again to the others.
“I believe it was Clark,” he repeated, “and it just makes one more thing we’ve got to pay him off for. We’ve grounds enough now, Green, for doing what we were talking over the other night.”
Green hesitated, then said slowly, “I think we ought to have some proof that Clark is to blame for this, first.”
Crawford’s face darkened. He leaned over and whispered something in Green’s ear—something unpleasant evidently, for Green shrank, and said hastily, “Oh, well, if you’re so sure he did it, I’ll back you up, of course. If he did it, he deserves all he’ll get.”
“Yes, if he did it. We know well enough he did it,” cried Crawford, “and if the rest of you will let it pass, I won’t.”
“What you going to do about it?” asked another.
“We’ll send Clark to Coventry for one thing. If I see any fellow chumming with St. Clark after this, I shall know what to think of him—that’s all.”
One or two spoke a word in Clark’s behalf, but he had been so little while among them, and was so grave and reserved that he had made no friends. Hamlin had been strongly attracted to him, but Hamlin was so bright and popular that he was always surrounded by a throng of boys, and had seldom had the opportunity to see much of Clark. Freeman’s mother and Clark’s mother were cousins, but the boys, having until recently lived in different cities, had seldom met until Clark entered the school.
Now, the majority of the boys believed that Clark had shown the white feather in refusing to fight Crawford, and cowardice is one of the hardest things to forget or forgive.
Hard days followed for Stanley Clark. The belief quickly gained ground that he had informed Mr. Horton that keys were used in the class, and this added to the cloud already resting upon him. Soon, not a boy in the section spoke to him or noticed him except Freeman. Proud and sensitive, Clark felt this keenly, and withdrew more and more into himself. He would have remained in the school at recess, but this was forbidden, so he was obliged to go out. He never stayed in the playground, however, but spent the twenty minutes walking up and down the sidewalk in front of the school. At first, Freeman used to join him there, but after a little Clark sent him away. Freeman was hurt and grieved at this, never guessing that his cousin was too generous to let him fall under the shadow that rested on himself.
So Freeman went more and more with the other boys as the days and weeks went by.
One day he was on his way home when Crawford overtook him, and to his great surprise, instead of passing him with a rough word or a sneer as usual, fell into step and walked on with him.
“I say, Freeman,” he began, “I’ve been wanting to say a word to you. I used you rather roughly a while ago.”
“’Deed you did,” said Freeman coldly.
“Yes, I acknowledge it, and I’m sorry for it. A fellow can’t say any more than that—can he?”
Freeman looked up in great surprise, half suspecting that Crawford was trying to make game of him; but the big fellow was looking down at him in a friendly fashion, and now held out his hand saying, “Shake hands on it, boy, and let bygones be bygones, won’t you?”
“Of course, if you really mean it,” said Freeman, hesitatingly giving his hand.
“To be sure I mean it, and to prove that I do, I’ll take you for a drive to-morrow—if you’ll go. I’ve a jolly pair of ponies. What time can you go?”
“Why—any time, as to-morrow’s Saturday,” said Freeman, still doubting, unable to understand this sudden change of manner.
He thought of it again and again that evening, and finally talked it over with Edith.
“It’s the queerest thing,” he said; “I don’t yet believe that he really meant it. Don’t believe he’ll come for me at all, to-morrow.”
“I hope he won’t,” said Edith quickly; “I don’t want you to be friends with such a fellow.”
“Not much danger of that,” Ray answered, “but it’s better to have him for a friend than for an enemy, isn’t it?”
“I doubt that, Ray. You know what mother says, ‘You can’t handle pitch without getting sticky fingers.’ From what I’ve gathered, Crawford is pitch of a pretty bad sort.”
“Well,” said Ray discontentedly, “I don’t see what I can do except go with him to-morrow. It isn’t likely he’ll ever ask me again, and if he does I needn’t go; but after I’ve accepted his invitation, he’d be mad if I didn’t go this time.”
“Y—es, I suppose so,” said Edith doubtfully; “but I just can’t bear the thought of your being with such a fellow even for one drive, Ray.” Crawford appeared promptly the next day at the hour appointed, and though his talk with Edith had made Freeman uncomfortable, yet he could not repress a thrill of very real pleasure, as the horses bore the light carriage so swiftly through the wide, smooth streets. Crawford exerted himself to be entertaining, and he could be very entertaining when he chose, and before the drive was over, Freeman wondered how he could ever have considered his companion ugly and disagreeable.
“I’ve had a jolly good time, Crawford,” he said heartily, as the carriage stopped again at his own door. “Thank you ever so much for taking me along.”
“Glad you’ve enjoyed it,” replied Crawford. “We’ll repeat it some day soon.”
As he drove off, he chuckled and said to himself, “Little fool! ’Twill be easy enough to get hold of him. And the innocent way the baby told me about St. Clark. Oh my! If it wasn’t rich!”
He drove around for Henderson, and told him what he had wormed out of the unconscious Freeman, and the two put their heads together and planned that which was to bring shame and deep sorrow upon Clark.
As to Freeman, he was so loud in his praises of Crawford and his kindness, that Edith began to wonder if she could have misjudged him, and to think that it might have been merely thoughtlessness and boyish roughness after all, instead of meanness and cruelty, as she had thought, that had made him treat her brother so.
Freeman looked at Crawford doubtfully when he saw him at school on Monday. Even yet, he could not feel quite sure that his new friendliness would be lasting, but Crawford called out a gay greeting and summoned him to join the group about him, and the others followed Crawford’s lead, wondering somewhat at this sudden friendliness towards “little Freeman,” but ready enough to take him in; and he, flattered by Crawford’s notice, and always too ready to follow, soon began to be counted in as one of “Crawford’s crowd.”
One morning a week or two later, Crawford and Henderson were the first to enter the class-room. After a hasty glance around, Crawford exclaimed, “You stay here at the door, Henderson, to see that nobody comes.”
Whatever Crawford had to do was quickly accomplished, and he and Henderson were lounging in the hall, when the other boys began to come in, and all went into D class-room together, where, perched on desks and backs of chairs, they dropped into lively conversation.
“Come on up here, Hendy. What are you sitting off there for?” called Crawford, for Henderson had taken the seat nearest the door, where he could see any one approaching.
“I’m waiting for Coyle,” he replied, without turning his head.
“Oh, Coyle’s always half an hour behind time. He’ll be late at his own funeral if he don’t look out,” cried Green.
“Say, Green—got your examples done?” asked Crawford, glancing at the clock and keeping an eye on Henderson.
“No, plague it! Bobby gave us a double dose yesterday, an’ it takes such a time to prove ’em all.”
“If we only had the keys now, ’twouldn’t take half so long,” grumbled Barber.
At this moment Henderson coughed, and Crawford, whose back was towards the door, called out loudly, “Well, I say it’s no fair to take away algebra keys and let the Latin class keep their ponies. Clark and some others wouldn’t get the marks they do if Bobby should make a raid on their ponies.”
“Sh-sh-sh” went around the group, and Henderson strolled carelessly back to his own seat as Mr. Horton entered the room.
The other boys looked inquiringly at the teacher, wondering how much he had overheard, but they could gather nothing from his face. They were not left long in doubt, however, for, as soon as the opening exercises were over, he said:—
“When, a short time ago, I called for all the algebra keys, I supposed that I had put an end to the use of helps of that sort, but from a remark that I overheard as I entered the school-room this morning, I am obliged to believe that I have been mistaken. I will give you the same opportunity that I gave on the previous occasion, and ask every boy who has, or who uses, any translation or other such help in preparing his Latin to rise.”
As Mr. Horton ceased speaking, one boy rose. There was a ripple of laughter, for this boy—Vale—was the dullard of the class, but the teacher’s stern voice quickly checked the merriment.
“You may be seated, Vale,” he said. “And now I wish all the members of the Latin class, except Vale, to come forward.”
His order being obeyed, he left his seat, and, walking down the aisles, looked into the desks of all except Vale. Four faces were full of dismay as he passed from desk to desk, but only one was turned toward him in blank surprise as he returned to his seat with five books in his hands.
“Barber, Green, Hopkins, Cox and Clark, remain where you are. The others may return to their seats,” he said.
Then he looked at the five boys before him with mingled sorrow and sternness.
“Boys,” he said, “I am terribly disappointed in you. It is bad enough to find that you have been resorting to such methods to avoid work and secure high marks, but you have added to your guilt by deliberately lying about it. I had thought better of you than this.”
As he paused, Clark, whose face had shown strong emotion, stepped forward and said: “Mr. Horton, did you find one of those books in my desk?”
There was a touch of contempt in the teacher’s voice as he replied:—
“I did, sir, and I hope you will not lower yourself further by useless protestations.”
“Mr. Horton,” said the boy very quietly, “I should be doing wrong if I did not declare that I have never used any help in preparing my Latin except the notes in the book itself. I never saw the book you have there, and do not know how it came in my desk.”
Somebody hissed then, but Mr. Horton promptly checked the demonstration.
“You can hardly expect me to believe you, Clark, with the evidence I have here,” he said, pointing to the fly-leaf of the book, on which were the letters “S. C.” Part of the leaf was torn out, leaving only those two letters.
The look of bewildered surprise in Clark’s eyes turned to one of proud disdain as he saw those letters, and he did not open his lips again, not even when Mr. Horton said:—
“I shall give every one of you five a failure for each Latin recitation during the past week, and for the remainder of the month I wish each of you to write at the top of your Latin exercises these words.” He wrote rapidly on the blackboard:—
“Lying lips are an abomination.”
The other four went to their seats with red faces and shamed eyes, but Clark’s face was very white, and his eyes were proudly uplifted, as if he dared his schoolmates to believe him guilty, in spite of the evidence against him.
“He doesn’t act guilty,” thought Mr. Horton uneasily, as he looked at the boy. “I wonder if it is possible that he is innocent.”
“St. Clark won’t be in good odor for a while to come,” chuckled Henderson on the playground at recess, glancing with malicious eyes at the lonely boy pacing up and down the sidewalk.
“I don’t believe he used that pony, anyhow,” said Freeman. “He didn’t need to use it, for he had read Cicero long before he ever came here. It’s just review to him.”
“Hush up, you!” exclaimed Henderson hastily. “If it’s review to him, he’s no business to be marked higher than the rest of us who never took it before. Hold your tongue, youngster, if you know when you’re well off.” He whispered the last sentence in Freeman’s ear.
“Yes, yes, keep quiet, boy,” said Crawford; and in a lower tone he added, “Don’t you fret. He’ll come out all right enough.”
But in his heart Crawford was thinking, “He won’t come out all right if I can prevent it, and I think I can.”
“Mr. Horton, can we have the use of this room for an hour or so after school to-day?”
It was Gordon who asked the question.
“We including—?” said Mr. Horton, inquiringly.
“All the section, I hope,” answered Gordon. “Some of us, Mr. Horton, have made up our minds that there has got to be a change in D section. We don’t like the reputation that we are getting.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so, Gordon,” said Mr. Horton earnestly. “I feel deeply ashamed of it myself, and have been giving most serious thought to the matter for some time past. But if you boys will set yourselves to work in real earnest, you can accomplish far more than is possible for me.”
“I don’t know, sir, how much we shall be able to accomplish,” said Gordon, “but some of us are bound to try. The trouble is, that there are in our section so many that don’t care anything about their standing either in their studies or in deportment. All they seem to think about is having a good time. We’ve been talking the matter over, Graham, Sherman and I, and we’re afraid that we can’t get a majority to act with us.”
“I hope you will find yourselves mistaken about that,” said Mr. Horton, “and that more than half the class will be ready to join you at once. Certainly, you can use this room; but, of course, you must be very quiet and orderly in your discussions.” “We’ll do our best, sir,” said Gordon, as he turned away and began to distribute slips of paper, laying one on each desk.
Mr. Horton picked one up. It read:—
“You are requested to attend a class meeting in this room at 2.15 this afternoon, for the discussion of matters of great importance to every member of the class.
“Fred Gordon.
Alec. Graham.
Ralph Sherman.“
These notices awakened the liveliest interest and curiosity, and not one boy left the room when school was over, while Mr. Horton departed promptly that there might be no delay in the business of the hour. The door had barely closed behind him when the room was in an uproar, many voices calling upon Gordon, Graham and Sherman to know what was up.
Gordon, having tried in vain to make himself heard amid the din, seized a ruler and rapped on his desk, and having thus gained attention for a second, he sprang up on his seat and began rapidly:—
“If you’ll just keep quiet a minute or so, I’ll tell you why this meeting was called. You all know that section D does not bear a very high reputation, but perhaps you don’t all know what a very bad name we have gained, not only in the school, but outside of it.”
“Oh, rats!” called out Henderson; but Green said, “Hush up, Hendy. Let’s hear what the good little boy’s got to say. We can sit down on him easy enough after he gets through preaching.”
Gordon went on, “I heard a gentleman—one of the prominent business men in town—say the other day, that ‘such a set of young toughs as seemed to be collected in section D would be a disgrace to any school,’ and a lady that my mother knows, refused to allow a boy belonging to this section to be introduced to her daughters. Now I think that we’ve all reason to be ashamed of our record when people talk that way about us, and what is more, the school board has taken the matter up, and is determined to have a change here. So you see we’ve got to behave ourselves anyhow, and so why not take matters into our own hands and do it of our own accord without waiting till we’re forced into it?”
“Oh, shucks! I’d like to see anybody force me to do anything I don’t want to do,” said Crawford.
“Or me, either,” said Henderson.
“Oh, well—if you want to be suspended or dismissed from the school for good, I’ve no doubt that can soon and easily be brought about,” said Gordon.
“They ain’t agoin’ to suspend fifteen or twenty boys, an’ don’t you believe it,” said Coyle.
“’Specially when those fifteen or twenty belong to the brightest section in the school,” added another boy.
“Small thanks to you for that,” retorted Graham, at which there was a general laugh, the speaker being by no means a brilliant scholar.
He joined in the laugh, saying lazily, “Oh well, the rest of you do poling enough without me.”
“But we’re losing ground even in scholarship,” put in Sherman, “another section beat us last quarter, and a girl’s section at that.”
“Oh well, we don’t grudge the pretty dears a few marks,” supplementing his remarks with a coarse laugh, and a word or two that made more than one boy’s cheeks burn.
“There, fellows!” cried Gordon, turning to a group near him, “that’s the kind of thing that has brought our section down so low. It isn’t just fun, or even carelessness and disorder. It is low, filthy talk, and the oaths that some of us use so constantly, that make everybody so down on us, and I don’t wonder at it.”
“Pretty little boy! Does his mammy know he’s out?” said Henderson, tauntingly.
“’Course she does. He’s still tied to her apron-string,” put in Coyle.
“I suppose you think such talk is very smart,” said Gordon, trying hard to look undisturbed, “but I think we are all old enough to begin to act like gentlemen, to say the least, and some of us mean to show that we are gentlemen. We are going to form a law and order society, and elect a president and secretary, and see what we can do to make our section one to be proud of.”
“Suppose one of our crowd should get the most votes for president,” queried Crawford, “what then?”
“I’m perfectly willing one of your crowd should be president, provided he will pledge himself to forward the objects of the society,” said Gordon, as he pulled a book from his desk, and opening it, added, “A few of us who feel pretty deeply on this subject have drawn up a rough pledge which every member joining our association must sign—and keep.”
“Go ahead, Deacon, read it out,” called Henderson.
“Yes, stand up like a little man and read right out,” added Crawford; and Gordon read:—
“We, the undersigned deeply regretting that our section has gained such an undesirable reputation, do pledge ourselves to do all in our power to maintain order in school hours, and to raise the standard of scholarship, of conduct and of conversation in section D.”
To this ten names were affixed—including Gordon, Graham and Sherman.
“You must think we are all fools if you believe we’re going to tie ourselves up like that,” shouted Henderson with his coarse laugh as Gordon finished reading.
“A fellow wants a little fun even in school,” said another.
“Might as well join the church, an’ done with it, as to sign that thing,” said Green.
“Boys,” cried Gordon, trying to make himself heard above the clamor of voices, “I know there are some, whose names are not here, who will join us. Please come on and sign now—all who will—and then we’ll withdraw to some place where we can talk this thing over quietly.”
Six other boys signed their names amid taunts and jeers from Crawford and his cronies.
“Now there are sixteen of us,” said Gordon, “and as there are forty in the section, we lack four of half. I don’t believe that all the rest want to be counted in as opposed to what we all know is right.”
Clark had listened silently to all that had been said. He was heartily in sympathy with Gordon, and wanted much to add his name, but he hesitated, uncertain whether, even in such a case as this, he would be welcome. But he could not endure to be counted in with such fellows as Crawford and Henderson, and so he rose and took the pen to sign his name.
“Hello!” cried Crawford quickly, “St. Clark among the law-givers, eh!”
Clark’s face flushed, but he said nothing.
Then Henderson shouted, “He’s a fine one to be setting up for an example, he—the son of a thief who’d be behind the bars this moment if he hadn’t absconded with his pickings.”
Instantly every voice was hushed and every eye turned on Clark. His face grew deadly white, and the pen dropped from his fingers. He turned towards Henderson and tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips, and in another instant he had turned and rushed from the room.
“Henderson, is that true?” demanded Gordon sternly, as the door closed behind Clark.
For once, Henderson absolutely looked ashamed of himself, and his manner was much less blustering than usual, as he said sulkily, “Yes, ’tis. His father is that Albany fellow who had to leave the country because he had used trust-funds.”
“Well,” exclaimed Gordon, “I don’t care if it is true, it was a contemptibly mean thing for you to blurt it out like that before the whole class. How would you like it if it was your father?”
“My father is a gentleman,” said Henderson, drawing himself up proudly.
“That’s more than can be said for his son,” muttered Sherman with a glance of disgust at Henderson’s coarse face; “I shouldn’t think Clark would ever want to come into this school-room again.”
“Small loss if he didn’t. We don’t want sons of convicts here,” said a hot-headed Georgian.
“Don’t say that, Lee,” said Gordon. “For my part, I’m right down sorry for Clark. He can’t help what his father has done, and isn’t to blame for it, and yet he’s got to have it thrown up at him all his life.”
“Reckon he’s got some of the same blood in his veins. They say if a fellow will lie he’ll steal too, and Clark came mighty near lying over that Latin business,” said a boy who had not before spoken.
“Don’t know about that,” quickly responded a little fellow named Reed.
Crawford looked up hastily at that, but Reed was not looking at him, and he said nothing.
Finally, three more boys signed their names, making nineteen in all, and then Gordon courteously requested those who were not willing to sign, to leave the room, which, after some noise, and not a few disagreeable remarks, they did. Then a vote was taken which resulted in a large majority for Gordon as president, Graham as vice-president, and Sherman as secretary.
“It’s a pity we haven’t two more, then we’d have more than half the class,” said one, as they left the room.
“Hamlin will be back next month; he’ll be on our side,” said Graham.
“Hamlin? Why he’s the biggest monkey in the class,” laughed another.
“Oh, he’s full of jokes and monkey shines, I know,” returned Graham, “but there isn’t a mean streak in him, and you never knew him to deny it if he had cut up any caper.”
“That’s so. He’s true blue every time” added Gordon.
“There’s little Freeman—he was absent to-day. Think he’ll sign?” asked Graham.
“Doubtful,” said Gordon; “he’s getting pretty thick with Crawford’s crowd lately—more’s the pity. He used to be rather a nice little chap.”
“He and Clark are related, aren’t they?” questioned one.
“I believe somebody said they were,” answered Graham. “I did feel right down sorry for Clark to-day,” he added.
“So did I,” said Sherman. “He looked as if he had had an awful blow when he left the room.”
“I say—can’t we be a little more decent to him?” suggested Gordon. “We’ve been sending him to Coventry with a vengeance. I don’t believe a fellow in the class ever speaks to him now, except Freeman.”
“I wouldn’t be hired to come to school if I were cold-shouldered in such a fashion,” said Raleigh.
“If it wasn’t for that Latin business I’d stand by Clark after this,” said Graham.
“I never could get over his taking that blow so meekly from Crawford,” said another.
“Meekly!” echoed Gordon, “Were you there when that thing happened?”
“No, some of the fellows told me about it.”
“Well, if they told you that Clark took that blow meekly, they lied—that’s all! I was standing close by, and I saw the whole thing. When Crawford struck him, Clark’s eyes fairly blazed, and he grabbed Crawford’s wrists, and I thought he was going to lay him out sure. I know he could have done it, but he just held himself in, and the next minute he flung Crawford’s hands away from him and ran up the stairs as if he did not dare to trust himself within reach of that hound.”
“Meaning Crawford?” said a listener.
“Meaning Crawford. He and Henderson are not fit to be among decent fellows, in my opinion.”
“That’s an entirely new version of the fracas between Clark and Henderson,” said the one to whom Gordon had spoken, “and puts another face on that affair; but how about his informing about the algebra keys? Henderson says he heard him talking to Bobby about it.”
“Henderson!” repeated Gordon scornfully. “Don’t quote Henderson to me! Such a foul-mouthed cad as he is, is a disgrace to any school. I’ll admit that I’ve never caught him in a lie, but all the same I haven’t an atom of confidence in him, and I don’t think Clark or anybody else ought to be condemned on no stronger evidence than his word.”
“I don’t know but you’re right,” was the reply, “but I doubt if Clark comes back at all. I wouldn’t if I were in his place.”
But Clark did go back; to the surprise of many of the boys he was in his seat as usual the next morning; he might have been the only boy in the room, however, for all the attention he paid to his classmates.
Several of them, feeling that he had been hardly used, and not feeling at all sure that he deserved all the blame that had fallen upon him, were inclined to make advances, but he met them with a coldness that repelled the most friendly, and after one or two such rebuffs they left him again alone. Not one of them could begin to understand the bitter agony of his proud young soul, and the unspeakable mortification he suffered continually through the father of whom he had once been so proud.
The law and order society met regularly once a week after this, and its influence soon began to be felt, even though it worked against heavy odds, for those who had not joined seemed determined to do all in their power to lessen its influence and to maintain the undesirable reputation that the section had already acquired. On the other hand, the members of the new society, realizing the fact that so many were working against them, were impelled to do their utmost for the improvement of their class record. The result was that the nineteen members soon showed a marked improvement in scholarship, while their orderly and gentlemanly deportment was in striking contrast to the rough, turbulent behavior of the other half of the class.
“Well, Hamlin, are you holding a reception? I’m sure we are all very glad to see you back again,” said Mr. Horton, as he entered the school-room one morning and found Hamlin the center of a merry, noisy group.
“It’s no wonder he’s a favorite. That smile of his is enough to win anybody,” the teacher thought, as from his seat at the desk he glanced again and again at the constantly increasing group about Hamlin; but at a stroke of the bell the group dissolved as if by magic, and each boy dropped into his own seat.
At recess Hamlin was seized almost bodily and hurried off to the playground. Clark had obtained permission to stay in that day, and Mr. Horton chanced to glance towards him just in time to note the expression on his face as he looked after Hamlin and the eager crowd that bore him away. As they disappeared Clark sighed, and opening his book, began to read.
A hand upon his shoulder made him start and glance up in surprise. Mr. Horton was standing at his side looking down at him.
“Clark,” he said, “I have come to the conclusion that I wronged you when I doubted your explanation about the translation I found in your desk.”
“Yes, sir, you did,” said Clark; “I told you the truth.”
“I believe you did, Clark, and I ask your pardon for doubting you,” said Mr. Horton, holding out his hand.
There was a lump in the boy’s throat and his eyes were hot as he took the offered hand, but he did not speak—he could not at that moment.
“I know no more about the matter, my boy, than I did that day,” Mr. Horton went on, “but I have been watching you ever since, and I believe that you can be trusted.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Clark, the first smile that his teacher had seen on his face for many a day flitting across it as he spoke. It was gone in a moment. It seemed as if his lips had almost forgotten how to smile.
“Have you any idea how the book got into your desk, Clark?”
“I have an idea, but it may be a mistaken one, and I would rather say nothing about it,” Clark replied in a low voice.
“You have not made many friends in the school, have you?” asked Mr. Horton after a moment’s silence.
“No, sir—none.”
“Why?”
“I don’t quite know why it was so at first, but now—now I don’t wonder at it.” Clark spoke the last words so low that his teacher had to bend his head to catch them.
“I would like a talk with you, my boy. Can you come to my house this evening?” he asked presently.
“I am not at liberty until nine o’clock,” Clark answered.
“Not any evening?” said Mr. Horton in a tone of surprise.
“No, sir—except Sunday. I take notes in shorthand every evening from six to nine.”
“You don’t have very much time for study, then?”
“No, not very much; but I don’t have to spend very much time on the Latin, as I have read Cicero before.”
“Indeed? Then I see you did not need any notes for it.”
“No, sir. I used to go to a private classical school, and most of my time was given to languages and history.”
“Ah, yes. Well, you have had two study-hours to-day; what lessons have you now to prepare for to-morrow?”
“I’ve very little to do—just a bit of work in English literature.”
“Very well, then, can’t you walk home with me after school?”
Clark assented, and the teacher returned to his seat as the bell rang and the boys trooped noisily up the stairs.
In the long talk that Mr. Horton had with Clark that afternoon, he learned the bitter secret in regard to his father—now, alas, a secret no longer—and felt his heart go out to the lad who was bearing so heavy a burden on his brave young shoulders.
“You would be sure to hear it after a while, Mr. Horton,” Clark had said, “and I’d rather tell it to you myself just as it is.”
“And that is why you and your mother came here to live,” said the teacher, voice and eyes full of sympathy he knew not how to speak.
“Yes, sir. An old friend of mother’s got this place for me. I’d learned stenography just because I liked it, not expecting ever to use it to earn my living.”
“And has your mother no means?” questioned Mr. Horton gently.
“No, sir,” he said. “She gave up every dollar of her own private means, and if I live, every penny that was lost thro’ my father shall be repaid, if it takes me a lifetime to do it.”
“Clark,” said Mr. Horton, “I am proud of you. No danger but you will succeed, only,” he laid his hand kindly across the lad’s shoulders—“only you must not allow yourself to grow morbid under it. Remember you are responsible for no one’s wrong-doing but your own. Keep that in mind, and don’t let any chance reference or intentional fling embitter you, or turn you against others. Remember that they can judge only by what they see, and they see but little of the truth.”
“It’s done me no end of good to talk with you, Mr. Horton. It’s a great deal to me to feel that you trust me,” and Clark’s voice would tremble a little, as he added, “I shan’t feel so alone now. You see I’ve had no one to talk to—for of course I couldn’t let mother know how things went at school. She has enough to bear without any worries on my account.”
“There goes a young hero, if there ever was one,” the teacher said to himself as he looked after the tall lad going down the street a little later. “I must try to find some way to make it pleasanter for him at school. I’ll talk to Hamlin about it, the first chance I get.”
It was not long before he made the opportunity, and the few words he felt at liberty to say awakened in David Hamlin a very strong interest in his schoolmate.
Hamlin had already become a member of the law and order society, though he grumblingly declared that he thought it was a shame to make him promise to give up all his fun.
A few days after this, Clark happened to be a little later than usual in getting off to school, and rushing out of his doorway, ran plump into a lad who was standing in the vestibule.
“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily, and would have hurried on, but the other held out his hand, saying:—
“Well, now, if that isn’t a friendly greeting for a fellow that’s been standing here twenty minutes waiting for you! Do you always come out of your front door in such a boomerang style as that?”
“No,” said Clark with a laugh, as he took Hamlin’s offered hand. “I’m not often so late.”
The two walked on together, and in spite of himself, Clark’s proud reserve melted under the sunny friendliness of his companion. Hamlin would not be held off. He persisted in talking as if Clark was “in the swim” of school doings, just as he himself was, and Clark did not know how to undeceive him.
“I didn’t see you at the L. A. O. meeting yesterday,” he remarked as they walked on. L. A. O. was short for law and order society.
“I’m not a member,” said Clark, coldly.
“What! You, the most orderly fellow in the section, not a member of that society!” exclaimed Hamlin. “Why not?”
“They didn’t want me,” said Clark.
“Didn’t want you? Oh, come, now, you can’t make me believe that. Why, I thought every fellow in the room was in the L. A. O. or the Antis.”
“Anti? I hadn’t heard of that. Do you mean that the Crawford crowd has organized an opposition to the L. A. O.?” asked Clark.
“Just that; and I heard Henderson boasting that they’d got half the class on their roll.”
“They haven’t my name,” said Clark.
“Of course I knew that,” said Hamlin, “but they’ve got some fellows that I wouldn’t have believed would join such a gang—little Freeman, for instance. I always thought he was such a nice little chap, and now he’s thick as thieves with Crawford.”
“What!” exclaimed Clark, stopping short in amazement, “Freeman thick with Crawford! Why, I thought he couldn’t endure the fellow.”
“That’s what I thought, but Freeman’s ’round with that crowd every recess, and I saw him out driving with Crawford yesterday.”
“I hadn’t an idea of it. That must be stopped,” said Clark with a troubled face. “Crawford’s no kind of a fellow for a little chap like Ray to be with.”
“You’re right, there,” responded Hamlin. “I wouldn’t have my little brother ’round with such a fellow for a good deal.”
They had reached the school by this time, and Hamlin had only time to say, “I shall propose your name at the next meeting of the L. A. O. We need your help against the Antis.”
The Antis were primed for mischief that day. Before the opening exercises were over, Mr. Horton knew that there was a hard day before him. The spirit of rebellion was abroad in the air. His orders were obeyed, but slowly and reluctantly, as if under protest. There was a continual shuffling of feet, knocking of books against desks, dropping of pencils, and a buzzing and murmuring here, there, and everywhere, impossible to locate, yet plainly distinguishable. The L. A. O.’s were orderly and attentive, every one, but the others did their utmost to keep them from making perfect recitations by coughing, laughing, and interrupting as much as they dared. Finally, Mr. Horton sent Crawford to the board to work out a problem. Crawford was very quick when he chose to be. To-day he pretended to be uncertain about his work and put down the figures very slowly. Mr. Horton had taken his stand in the back of the room, the better to watch the unruly ones. Unfortunately, he was very short-sighted, and Crawford took advantage of this fact. He had considerable artistic ability, and could make a likeness with half a dozen strokes, and he could use his right and left hands with equal facility.
So, as with his left hand he slowly worked out the problem, with his right he drew sketches of Mr. Horton on the board, carefully keeping his own broad shoulders between his work and the teacher. In one sketch, Mr. Horton was represented with a pipe in his mouth, in another with his hair à la Pompadour, and again he had the tonsure of a monk, and so on.
Mr. Horton, standing at the back of the room, tried in vain to discover what was causing so much merriment. At last, suspecting that Crawford was at the bottom of it, he suddenly called out, “Stand aside, Crawford, and let me see your work.”
Crawford obeyed, but as he did so he swept the eraser across his last artistic effort. He had to do it so hurriedly, however, that enough remained to show what had been there, and as the teacher returned to the platform, he saw how Crawford had been amusing himself and the class.
“Crawford,” he said, “you will have a failure for this recitation.”
“I solved the problem you gave me correctly,” said Crawford.
“I know you did,” said Mr. Horton.
“Well then,” persisted Crawford, “I don’t see why I should have a failure.”
“If you have anything more to say you can come to me after school,” said Mr. Horton.
“I call that right down mean,” said Crawford, in a tone that all about him could hear, “and I won’t stand much more such treatment.”
“Crawford, you may go to Professor Keene’s office,” said Mr. Horton, gravely.
Muttering something half aloud, Crawford arose and swaggered across the room, turning at the door to make an elaborate bow, first to Mr. Horton and then to the class. He did not go to the office, however, but straight to his rooms, where he ordered his ponies brought around, and then driving back to the school, sent in a note to Henderson.
Henderson read it, and then passing it to Coyle, he went to the desk and said, “Mr. Horton, I’ve just had word that my father has been taken suddenly ill. Can I be excused?”
Mr. Horton looked at him sharply, but Henderson’s face was grave and troubled, and after a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Yes, you may go.”
He did not see the wink and grimace with which Henderson favored his classmates as he turned away and left the room.
Two minutes later, he was seated beside Crawford, and the horses were bearing them swiftly along, while they chuckled over the neat way in which they had “done old Bobby.”
“Now the ringleaders are out of the way, I hope there will be no more disturbance to-day,” thought the teacher; but his hope was not destined to be realized.
As the door closed behind Henderson, somebody snapped a marble up to the ceiling. As it dropped, it struck Raleigh’s glasses. He started up with the blood streaming from his face where a sliver of glass had cut it.
“Who threw that marble?” said Mr. Horton in a tone that none of them had ever heard from his lips before. Then, as no one answered, he stepped quickly to Raleigh’s side. “Did any of the glass go in your eyes?” he asked anxiously.
“No, sir, I think not,” answered Raleigh, putting his handkerchief up to his cheek, which was bleeding quite freely.
“Come with me to the dressing-room, Raleigh, and Hamlin, you may take charge of the room until I return,” said Mr. Horton, still in that stern tone that boded ill for the one who had caused the trouble.
The room was very quiet while Mr. Horton was absent. When he returned, having sent Raleigh home, he said slowly, “I call upon the boy who threw the marble that injured Raleigh to stand.”
He waited, amid a silence that could almost be felt, but no one moved.
“I understand, of course, that whoever did it, had no intention of injuring anyone. It was simply a piece of the thoughtlessness and lawlessness that prevail in this section, but I intend to find out who is to blame in this instance. Once more—I ask the boy who threw that marble to rise.”
Still no one moved, and the stern look deepened in the teacher’s eyes.
“I am very sorry that he has not manliness enough to acknowledge frankly what he has done. There are some boys in the class that I know are above suspicion. With the exception of these, I shall ask each one separately.
“Green, did you throw that marble?”
“No, sir,” said Green.
“Do you know who threw it?”
“I do not.”
From seat to seat Mr. Horton passed, asking these two questions of each boy. In every case the answer was the same. Hamlin, Graham, Clark, Gordon and Raleigh were among the boys of whom the questions were not asked.
Mr. Horton returned to his seat, and the boys waited breathlessly for what should follow. Without another word he dismissed the class, asking the members of the L. A. O. to remain. He looked surprised as Clark passed out with the Antis, and said to Graham, “Isn’t Clark a member of your society?”
“No, sir,” Graham answered; and Hamlin added quickly, “I want him to join, and I’m almost sure he wants to. There’s not a fellow in the class that keeps the rules as he does.”
“None better, I am sure,” said Mr. Horton; then he added, “I want to say to you that I have noticed with much pleasure a very decided improvement in the class since your society was formed. I believe that every one of you is doing his best in respect to studies, and in trying to raise the general standard of the class. This has been a very trying day to me, but if, as I hope, Raleigh’s eyes have escaped injury, this affair may, in the end, prove a blessing in disguise, for I am sure that some of the lawless ones have been pretty thoroughly frightened, and perhaps you can persuade some of them to join with you after this. I hope so, I am sure. When I discover the boy who threw that marble to-day, I shall make an example of him. If he had confessed, I would not have been hard on him, but he has aggravated his fault by lying about it, and a lie is, to me, next to unpardonable. It is one of the hardest things for me to overlook. I have hope of a boy if he is truthful, even though he has a host of other faults. Now, boys, if I can help you in any way about your association, I shall be most glad to do so. My hope for section D is in you.”
“Bobby’s first-class. I like him,” said Hamlin, as the boys walked homeward together.
“So he is,” said Gordon, “but I tell you what, boys, the L. A. O.’s have a big contract on their hands.”
“To put down the Crawford gang, you mean?” said Hamlin.
“Yes, I believe they grow worse and worse.”
“So they do,” assented Graham. “Have you any idea who threw that marble?”
“It was somebody down in Freeman’s neighborhood,” said Gordon.
“Likely as not ’twas Freeman himself. He’s getting to be as bad as any of ’em,” remarked another.
“Pity, too—I hate to see a fellow change as he has,” said Hamlin. “Why not try to get him into the L. A. O.?”
“Don’t believe you can do it. He’s awfully set up because Crawford makes so much of him now. I see them out driving together often,” said Sherman.
“Queer, too—shouldn’t think a fellow like Crawford would want a little chap ’round with him so much,” said Gordon.
“Shouldn’t think Freeman’s folks would like it, if they know of it,” said another.
“Well, boys, I turn off here. Don’t forget the meeting of the L. A. O. to-morrow. Something’s got to be done,” said Gordon.
“And the question is—what?” added Hamlin.
And that question was often in the minds of them all through the next twenty-four hours.
Crawford’s mother had died before he was five years old. His father outlived her but a few months, and by the father’s will his lawyer, who was also an old friend, was appointed guardian to the child and trustee of the large property to which the boy was heir.
This lawyer, Mr. Chase, was a scrupulously honorable man, but he was a very busy one, and, being a bachelor, knew little about the bringing up of a boy.
At six, Crawford was sent to boarding-school. His bills were promptly paid, and, from the time he was ten, he received a liberal allowance—far too liberal for his own good. His vacations were spent at school or at some gay summer resort, and he was allowed to do pretty much as he pleased, provided he did not run in debt. So that it was not to be wondered at that the boy had grown up wild and selfish and brutal. He had never had a home since he could remember, and thus far in life he had found that money would secure about everything that he wanted.
Once or twice his guardian had remonstrated with him mildly about his low standing in his classes, or the reports of idleness and mischievous behavior in the school-room, but his private opinion was, “Boys will be boys, and he’ll settle down and be steady enough, after a while.”
It was at Crawford’s own request that he had been sent to the high school. The first year he had gotten on fairly well, but this second year his conduct had been so unsatisfactory, that Mr. Horton and Professor Keene had both written to Mr. Chase, and that gentleman had at last come to the conclusion that he must have a serious talk with his ward.
So, desirous to have it over as soon as possible, he went to Crawford’s rooms the next day after the trouble in section D. He found the boy stretched out in a big easy-chair, a cigarette in his mouth and a novel in his hand.
“Faugh!” the lawyer exclaimed in a tone of disgust, as Crawford sprang up; “do throw away that vile-smelling thing. A good cigar is bad enough, but how anybody can abide the smell of cigarettes, is more than I can understand.”
Crawford tossed the objectionable roll into the grate, as he said, with a laugh, “Pity you don’t smoke, sir. You don’t know how much you miss.”
“Pity you do, I should say,” replied Mr. Chase, sternly. “You’ll ruin your health and spoil your brains if you don’t stop it. In short, my boy, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s high time for you to turn over a new leaf. I am not at all pleased with the reports I have from your teachers.”
“Oh, you know, then,” exclaimed Crawford, in a tone of relief.
“Know what? That you’ve been idling away your time and playing silly tricks here, as you have at the other schools you’ve attended? George, there must be an end of this. You are not a little boy any longer. Here you are seventeen—nearly eighteen years old—almost a man. It is time that you showed some ambition, and set to work to make something of yourself.”
Crawford laughed lazily and indifferently, as he asked:—
“Did you get a note from Keene, to-day?”
“No,” said Mr. Chase, briefly.
“Well, you will to-morrow then, and I’ll tell you beforehand, the contents of it. Prof. Keene will write to inform you that I am suspended for two weeks. At the end of that time I may have the privilege of returning, provided I will make a sufficiently humble apology, and promise to be a good little boy for the future. Much I’ll apologize!” he added, with a scornful laugh. He was wholly unprepared for the way in which his news was received.
“Suspended!” exclaimed the lawyer, starting up. “This is a pretty piece of business. Tell me what you have been doing. You needn’t try to smooth it over. Tell me the whole story, for I shall certainly see Prof. Keene about it to-day.”
Considerably taken aback, but still trying to preserve his careless manner, Crawford told what he had done.
“Well, sir, all I have to say is, that you richly deserve what you have got; and now let me tell you that you may as well make up your mind first as last, to go back at the end of the two weeks, and make the apology and give the promise that Prof. Keene requires—for that is what you’ve got to do.”
“Never! I’ll never do it,” cried Crawford, angrily.
“You will do it, or I’ll put you where you’ll have to behave yourself whether you like it or not,” was the stern reply.
“What do you mean?” questioned the boy.
“I mean, George, that I am beginning to realize that you’ve had altogether too much liberty. It is evident that you cannot be trusted to manage yourself and do as you choose. You do not choose the things or associates that I approve. I hear of you around with that wild young Henderson continually, and in places where you have no business to be; and now you have disgraced yourself and gained a name at school that you ought to be ashamed of. I’ll give you just one more chance. If you attend to your studies for the next two weeks and keep up with your class, and at the end of that time make a suitable apology to your teachers, and hereafter behave yourself and try to redeem your character in the school—very well.”
“And if I refuse to do all this?” questioned Crawford, his face flushed with anger.
“If you refuse,” said the lawyer, slowly, “I will put you in a reform school, if I can’t find any other place where you will be forced to behave yourself.”
Crawford fairly choked with rage.
“I’ll—I’ll run away first,” he sputtered.
The lawyer laughed. “I’ll risk that,” he said. “A very brief experience of roughing it, and earning your own living, would bring you to your senses. No, George, you’ve come to a turning place in your life. Now make up your mind to face the situation manfully, and make a record that you and I can both be proud of. I’ll be around again in a day or two, and I am sure that you will have made up your mind not to be so foolish as to throw away this chance.”
Crawford had never been taught to control his temper, and he gave full vent to his furious anger, after the departure of his guardian. He fumed and raged like an overgrown child, and vowed that he would never “knuckle under to Keene and Horton to please old Chase.” He had just begun to cool off a little when Henderson appeared. His face was as black as Crawford’s as he flung himself into a chair saying:—
“You look about as I feel, Crawford; wonder if you’ve had as pleasant an interview with your old man as I’ve had with mine.”
“I’ve had a sweet lecture from old Chase,” replied Crawford, moodily, “and I’ve been trying ever since he left to decide whether or no I’ll cut the whole business and clear out somewhere. I’ve more than half a mind to go out west and go to work.”
“Oh, no, don’t think of that. You’d be a big fool to clear out when you can have all the money you want here.”
Crawford looked up quickly. “And you,” he said, “are you going to go back and promise to be a good little boy?”
“Expect I’ve got to,” replied Henderson, moodily.
“Well, I never would have believed you’d back down so quickly,” said Crawford, scornfully.
Henderson’s face flushed angrily.
“I’ve no choice in the matter,” he said, shortly. “The old man says if I don’t I can shift for myself hereafter.”
“Well, that’s my case too. Why not go out west together? We’ve heads and hands of our own—why shouldn’t we earn our living for three years? Chase can’t keep me out of my money after I’m twenty-one.”
“Oh, it’s easy enough to talk about earning a living,” said Henderson, impatiently, “but I tell you what, Crawford, you’d sing another tune after you’d tried it a few months. You wouldn’t find it much like living as you do here, driving out when you choose, and always having your pockets full of money.”
“They are anything but full most of the time,” put in Crawford.
“Yes, but you can get all the credit you want. It would be a very different thing, I tell you, if you had nothing but what you earned. Neither you nor I have learned anything by which we could earn a dollar,” said Henderson, gruffly.
“But I say, Hendy, it will be mighty tough to have to go back to school and eat humble pie. Think how the fellows’ll chaff us if we meekly agree to be good little boys and keep the rules hereafter.”
“Let ’em chaff,” growled Henderson. “We’ll soon show them that we mean to play our little games in the future about as we’ve done in the past.”
“But we’ve got to promise not to do anything of the sort before we can go back,” objected Crawford.
“Promise!” echoed Henderson scornfully. “Who cares for a promise? We’ll get back on our promise and then forget all about it. What cuts me in this business,” he went on, moodily, “is that I’ve got to drop out of the company. I was a fool not to think of that before I told that yarn to Bobby.”
“I declare, I haven’t once thought of that. You’ll have to resign, of course,” said Crawford.
“Of course,” echoed Henderson. “It makes me mad as fury to think that I was such a fool to get into a scrape like this just now, when it’s so near the drill. I believe we’d have won the prize sure this year, for the fellows are so wild to get it away from Company A, that every man of ’em has worked with a will. I was going to give them extra drills once or twice a week evenings, for this last month, and now with a new captain they won’t stand half as good a chance.”
“I declare that’s too bad, Henderson. Wish now I’d never sent that note in to you.”
“You can’t wish it so much as I do,” said Henderson. “But there is no use crying over spilt milk. Maybe, Company C will win after all. We must try to think of some way to help their chances. But you see, Crawford, it’s enough sight worse for me to go back than for you—since you’ve no rank to lose.”
Crawford drummed on the table and looked thoughtful. After a moment’s silence he said, “It is harder for you than for me, Henderson, and I suppose if you are going back I must keep you company, since I got you into this fix.”
“Shake hands on it,” said Henderson quickly, holding out his hand. “I was awfully afraid you’d refuse, Crawford, and to have gone back without you would have been altogether too much for me.”
“We shall have to be mighty careful for a while at any rate. Bobby will watch us with all the eyes he has,” said Crawford gloomily.
“Bobby!” said Henderson with a sneer. “I reckon we’re sharp enough to hoodwink Bobby, and if with the help of Coyle and Green and the rest of our crowd we don’t make it lively for those precious L. A. O.’s, I miss my guess, that’s all. But now, see here—the governor says that if I don’t stand as well in class as I have done, or if I give Bobby any cause to complain of me hereafter, then that’s the end of it. I can drop out of high school and go where I like, but never a dollar will he give me if I starve.”
“Whew!” whistled Crawford. “He’s in earnest, isn’t he?”
“I should say so. I never would have believed he’d cut up so rough,” growled Henderson.
“My orders are much the same,” said Crawford; “only, as the money belongs to me after all, Chase can’t carry it with quite such a high hand, you know. I hate the idea of it all, though. Think of going back and pegging away like Clark, and Gordon and that lot, and never have any fun,” grumbled Crawford, gloomily.
“Oh bosh! You’ve brains enough, Crawford, and after all it’s time you did brace up and work a little. It’s just laziness that has kept you so low in class, and if you half try, you can stand as high as Clark or Gordon. Only think how that would grind them.”
Crawford laughed. He was secretly pleased at the other’s estimate of his ability, and the idea of standing as high, or possibly higher than Clark and Gordon was an alluring one.
“I’ve half a mind to try it,” he said. “It would be something new under the sun for me to go digging, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” assented Henderson. “I fancy it would astonish some people; and see what an advantage it would give you, too. Bobby comes down on you twice as hard as he does on me, and it’s only because I stand high in class and you don’t. Now, you just go to work, and Bobby will soon be so proud of you, and so delighted at the change, that he will wink at lots of things that now he would not overlook; while Chase will be so pleased that everything will go smoothly in that quarter.”
“Oh, but, Hendy,” objected Crawford, “think how slow and stupid it will be—just deadly dull—all hard work and no fun.”
“No fun? Don’t you believe that. You and I will be models of good behavior in the school-room, but all the same if we don’t make life a burden to Bobby, then I miss my guess.”
“But how, how?” questioned Crawford eagerly.
“Why, this way. We’ll plan the mischief, and let the rest of the Antis execute it, and bear the blame. We’ll see all the fun, and go scot free.”
“They won’t agree to that,” said Crawford.
“You see if they don’t. It will cost something, but if I carry off the honors of the class, I’m sure my dad will be ready enough to increase my allowance, and Chase would do the same for you, wouldn’t he?”
“Probably, but what then?” questioned Crawford.
“Why—a spread for the Antis now and then, or an excursion down the bay—we footing the bills—will buy over all our crowd, I reckon. As to Green and Coyle, they’ve got to do as we say, till they can pay the money we’ve lent ’em.”
“Well, that is a scheme,” said Crawford, thoughtfully; “I wonder if we can carry it out.”
“Don’t see why not,” replied the other; “and by the way there’s another thing,—we must start in on it to-morrow.”
“Studying, you mean?” queried Crawford.
“We must do that, but that was not what I was thinking of. We must stir up a rumpus in the class-room to-morrow.”
“How can we? and why not wait till we go back?”
“Why, don’t you see that if there is no disorder while we’re away, and plenty of it after we come back, Bobby’ll lay it all at our door. As to how—let’s call a meeting of the Antis here this evening. We can plan enough to make things lively in the school-room for a week to come, and if we promise the fellows a spread next week, they’ll be ready enough to carry out our plans.”
So it was that a message reached every one of the Antis before six o’clock that evening, and almost every one responded to the call. Some of them were really bad boys, more were neither good nor bad, but ready to follow any leader who promised them “fun.”
The session that day had been the most quiet and orderly one of the year, and Mr. Horton had thought to himself that he might hope for a continuance of this state of things for two weeks, at least. He found out his mistake before an hour of the second day was over. There was no act of open disorder or disobedience, but the Antis were restless and noisy, ready to laugh at the slightest excuse, and to keep on laughing as long as they dared.
When, in the history recitation, one of them remarked that “Warren Hastings went to the same school and sat on the same seats as the pheasants of his native country,” an uproarious burst of laughter followed, and all through the session similar blunders were made in the gravest and most innocent manner imaginable, by different boys. When the hour came for the algebra recitation, an unusual quiet prevailed in the room, and when Mr. Horton sent Reed to the closet for a piece of chalk, more than one boy waited breathlessly for what was to follow.
Reed flung open the door and reached up to the shelf for the chalk-box, but the next moment it fell from his hands, and with a cry, he sprang back and slammed the door, but not before a snake had slipped out into the room. It was a big black fellow, nearly three feet long, and as it wriggled about under the seats, there was such a commotion in the room, that for a moment the teacher could not make himself heard; and in that moment Green flung open the door, and the snake was quickly hustled out into the hall. A girls’ class-room was directly opposite, and to the delight of the disorderly element, the girls’ door stood ajar, and the boys succeeded in driving the snake accidentally through the opening. Then ensued shrieks and screams as the girls jumped up on desks and seats, some of them even mounting to the window-sills.
But in a moment Mr. Horton, understanding what the noise in the girls’ room meant, appeared there, seized the snake by the tail, and flung it from the window.
When order was restored, and the teacher questioned his own class, every boy denied all knowledge as to how the snake came to be in the closet, and although Mr. Horton had his own opinion on the subject, he had no proof, and could do nothing.
The next day was no better. Never had the class been more trying or more disorderly than in the two weeks that followed, and never had the teacher found it so difficult to decide whom to punish.
The L. A. O.’s were almost in despair. It was in the second week that a meeting was held, and the matter very earnestly talked over.
“It does seem a shame that a few mean fellows should be able to upset everything as they do in this class,” Gordon said indignantly. “I did hope that it would be different at least while Crawford and Henderson were away. I thought that they were at the bottom of it all, but that can’t be, for it has been worse than ever for the last week. Does anybody know who is the ringleader?”
“Seems to me the Antis are all ringleaders,” said Raleigh.
“I’ve found out who put the snake in the closet,” announced Hamlin.
“Who, who?” shouted a dozen voices eagerly.
“Green,” replied Hamlin.
“How’d you find out?” asked Gordon.
“I was in Smith’s bird-store down the avenue yesterday. I’ve bought fancy pigeons of him several times, and he’s a friendly sort of chap, and as I happened to think of that snake, I asked him if he had sold one within a week or two. He said yes—he sold one to a sandy-haired fellow about my size—a fellow with an anchor on his left hand. Well, that fits Green to a T.”
“So it does. So he was at the bottom of that; and I know it was Coyle that mixed up all our overshoes yesterday, so it took us an age to sort ’em out. I don’t see the fun in such tricks, for my part,” said Raleigh.
“Well, say, boys—what are we going to do about it? If every L. A. O. in the class should get a hundred this quarter, it wouldn’t bring our class record up to a decent mark, so long as the Antis cut up as they do.”
“Does every fellow except us here belong to the Antis?” asked one.
“Yes, all except Clark,” said Gordon.
“I say it’s a shame that Clark’s name is not on our roll,” broke in Hamlin. “I believe he’s a splendid fellow, and I don’t think we do right to shut him out just because of what his father has done.”
A silence followed, while the boys looked at one another uneasily.
“It isn’t all—his father,” remarked one.
“No—it’s the things that happened the first of the year,” said another.
“But I, for one, don’t believe that he deserved the blame he got in either of those cases,” said Hamlin boldly; “and no one can deny that he’s the best all-around scholar in the class; and as to deportment, no fellow could do more to help our record than he does.”
“He’s too much of a prig,” muttered one; while the Georgian, saying something about “convicts,” turned away and looked out of the window.
With a disappointed air, Hamlin dropped the so evidently unwelcome subject of Clark’s admission to the society, and the discussion of what should be done was resumed.
“Seems as if we might persuade a few of the Antis to come over to our side,” said Raleigh. “Some of the smaller fellows—Freeman and Vale, for instance.”
“Vale might possibly be talked over, but Freeman seems to be a hopeless case. I’ve done my best, but he’s too much in with the worst ones. I don’t think it’s any use to talk to him,” said Gordon.
“Well, let’s try Vale again. You tackle him, Gordon, and I’ll try Claflin, and the rest of you see if you can talk over anybody else,” said Hamlin.
“I wonder if it would be possible to get Bobby to divide the section, and mark the L. A. O.’s and the Antis separately,” suggested Gordon thoughtfully.
“We might talk to him about it. He’ll do anything he can to help us, I know,” said Hamlin.
For an hour the discussion was continued, but when the boys separated it was with a most uncomfortable sense of the fact that—try as they might—they never could change the reputation of section D so long as nearly half of their number were determined to do all in their power to prevent such a change.
Mr. Horton willingly agreed to keep the records of the Antis separately, but he told the boys that that could make no real difference, since the section must rank according to its marks as a whole.