Hamlin’s failure to induce the L. A. O.’s to admit Clark to their society made him the more determined to show all possible friendliness himself towards his lonely schoolfellow, and he made it a point to walk to and from school with him, or to have a chat with him at recess, as frequently as he could. Clark appreciated the other’s kindness, and understood perfectly well that it was through no lack of effort on Hamlin’s part that he—Clark—was not asked to join the L. A. O.’s.
Several other boys, Gordon and Graham among them, began to follow Hamlin’s example so far as to nod and say a pleasant word to Clark now and then, but he felt that they were doing this merely to please Hamlin, and did not respond very cordially to their advances.
As to Freeman—Clark’s attempts to draw him away from the Crawford crowd had signally failed. Freeman seemed to have lost all desire for his cousin’s companionship, and coldly and even curtly refused all Clark’s invitations to walk or talk with him.
Clark had little time and less inclination in these days for visiting, but he went occasionally to see his aunt and cousins. One afternoon he found Edith alone, and looking so pale and troubled that he could not help asking what was the matter.
The girl’s lip trembled, and her blue eyes filled with tears as she answered simply, “I’m so worried about Ray, Stanley.”
“What about him, Edith? Is it anything in which I can help you?” he asked kindly.
“Oh, I don’t know. He is so changed lately. He used to be the dearest boy, and now, since he has been with Crawford and Henderson so much, he is so different. He doesn’t seem to care for mamma or me, and he goes out evenings and won’t tell us where he goes, and he seems to have lost all interest in his school work. His last report was the poorest he has ever had.”
“I am so sorry, Edith,” Clark answered, “I’ve tried to get him away from that set, but he doesn’t care to be with me any more. He as much as told me to ‘mind my own business’ and let him alone, the last time I spoke to him.”
“Yes,” sighed Edith, “that’s the way he answers me. But Stanley, Ray isn’t really a bad boy, and I’m sure that something is troubling him, and that is what makes him so cross, lately.”
“Perhaps it is his low rank in class,” suggested Clark.
Edith shook her head. “No, it’s something more than that, I’m sure,” she said. Then she added earnestly, “Don’t give him up, Stanley. He has always looked up so to you, and I’m sure he does care for you a great deal more than for those horrid big fellows that he goes with now, and—and, we must get him away from them somehow.”
Her voice trembled, and Clark’s face expressed the sympathy he felt.
“I’ll do all I can, cousin Edith. If only Crawford and Henderson wouldn’t come back to school, I think there would be much less trouble. They are the evil influence in the class,” he said, thoughtfully.
“Yes, and the evil influence that is leading my brother astray,” said Edith, sadly.
After this conversation, Clark was constantly on the watch for any opportunity to help his young cousin, not only for his own sake, but yet more for that of the sister whose loving heart was so heavily burdened with anxiety on her brother’s account. Clark had the true knightly spirit, and counted it the duty of a boy to care for his mother and sisters, and ward off from them, as far as possible, all sorrow and trouble. No mother ever had a more tender, thoughtful son than his mother had in him, and since he had no sister, he felt himself in duty bound to do for Edith, as far as he could, what her own brother failed to do; and above all, to bring back that brother to the path of duty and uprightness from which he had strayed.
But how to do this was the question—since Freeman avoided him and responded so coldly to all his advances. Clark pretended not to see this, and persisted in being friendly, yet he felt more than a little discouraged, and was often tempted to give it up, and leave the boy to do as he would. It was only the remembrance of Edith’s sorrowful face that kept him from doing so.
Out of school hours, Freeman now spent half his time in Crawford’s rooms, and during the weeks of Crawford’s and Henderson’s absence, he spent every recess with Coyle, Green, and others of like character.
When it was known in school that Crawford and Henderson had been suspended, there was much wondering and speculation among the L. A. O. as to whether or no they would return and make the apology, and give the promise required. After the meeting at Crawford’s rooms, the Antis knew that the two boys would return, but they took good care not to let the L. A. O.’s know anything about the matter.
Every face in the room was full of eager interest and curiosity, as nine o’clock approached on the morning after the two weeks were ended.
When, after the opening exercises, Prof. Keene entered the room followed by Crawford and Henderson, there was a silence that could be felt. Every eye was fastened on the two boys, who stood with downcast faces while Prof. Keene said a few earnest words to the class.
In spite of their bravado, and the hidden purpose that sustained them, both boys found it more of an ordeal than they had anticipated to stand there and acknowledge that they had done wrong and were sorry for it, and to promise that they would endeavor from that time on to keep all the rules of the school, and give no further cause of complaint.
Some of the Antis began to clap, as the two slipped into their seats, but Prof. Keene stopped that instantly, remarking sternly that this was no occasion for applause.
During the remainder of the session, Mr. Horton threw more than one puzzled glance at the two boys. There was something in their faces that he could not understand, but they certainly gave him no cause for complaint, for they were models of good behavior.
The L. A. O.’s cast many curious and wondering glances at them also as the hours passed, and these two, who had so long been ringleaders in disorder, sat apparently unconscious of the half-subdued buzzing and whispering and laughter of their own set, who seemed to be intensely amused at this new state of things. And when not only Henderson, but Crawford as well, had perfect recitations in each study, the surprise of the L. A. O.’s was evident, to the ill-concealed delight of the Antis.
After school, Mr. Horton detained the two boys to say a few earnest words to them, and then to tell them how much pleasure their fine recitations and orderly deportment had given him. As he begged them to use their influence, which he knew to be great, on the side of law and order, Crawford hung his head and a flush of shame dyed his cheeks as he thought how little he deserved commendation; but Henderson looked boldly into his teacher’s eyes and coolly promised to do his best.
“I say, Henderson, you’re a bigger hypocrite than I am,” said Crawford, as they went down stairs.
“Oh, pshaw! What’s one lie more or less?” said the other coolly. “Besides, I’m going to be a model of good behavior now, you know—a perfect little lamb,” and he laughed at the remembrance of “Bobby’s” face, and the way they had “taken him in.”
Never had Mr. Horton been so perplexed and so worried and tormented in his class-room, as in the weeks that followed the return of Crawford and Henderson. Having no clue to the real state of the case, he was completely deceived, and took the greatest satisfaction in the change in these two, while at the same time he was at his wit’s end to understand what caused the increasing disorder and disturbance in the room, and who was at the bottom of it all.
The L. A. O.’s, after much persuasion, had induced three of the Antis to change sides, so that now there were twenty-three L. A. O.’s and thirteen Antis besides Crawford and Henderson. One boy had left the class, and Clark belonged to neither side, so the L. A. O.’s had a large majority; but all the same, thirteen bad boys, especially with two such leaders as Crawford and Henderson, can accomplish a deal of mischief, and this thirteen certainly did.
Could Mr. Horton have been an unseen listener at a spread given to the Antis by Crawford and Henderson at the rooms of the former, he would have understood the matter, for the boys, as they disposed of the feast, laughed and rejoiced over the success of their schemes, and planned yet more and more exasperating trials for their long-suffering instructor.
Among those present at Crawford’s “spread” was Charlie Reed. Thus far Reed had looked upon life as a huge joke, and his one purpose was to get as much fun as possible out of every hour in the day. He had refused to join the L. A. O.’s, because he declared that there was “no fun” in keeping the rules and working for honors. So he was always ready to carry out any mischievous suggestion of the Antis, and not a little of the class disorder might justly have been laid at his door. And after all, he meant no harm. With him it was pure thoughtlessness and love of mischief. One of his favorite amusements was to adorn the blackboard, out of school hours, with absurd sketches of the boys or of the teachers.
One morning before school he had drawn a sketch of a very dudish young man and a lady arrayed in bridal costume; and, lest anybody should fail to recognize the intended likenesses, he had written above this artistic production the legend, “Bobby leading Miss Carr to the altar.”
The boys shouted, as Reed finished his sketch, for Miss Carr was the oldest teacher in the school, certainly twice Mr. Horton’s age, and not at all prepossessing in appearance.
Suddenly a boy at the window called out, “Hi, fellows—look over there. There she comes now, and isn’t she a daisy!”
The boys rushed to the window. It was a rainy morning, and Miss Carr, in waterproof and overshoes, was picking her way through the puddles, and, as it happened, Mr. Horton, who had overtaken her a moment before, was holding his umbrella over her head as they crossed the street.
In watching these two, the boys forgot all about the sketch on the board, even Reed himself never giving it a thought, and there it was when Clark, a moment later, entered the room, Mr. Horton being only a few steps behind him. At that instant somebody cried out in smothered tones, “You’re in for it, Reedy. Look at the board.”
Reed started up with a cry of dismay, but dropped into his seat again as he heard Mr. Horton’s voice in the hall.
Clark glanced at the board, and taking in the situation, instantly snatched the eraser and rubbed out the drawing as he passed the board. It was barely done before Mr. Horton entered the room. He looked in surprise at Clark turning away from the board, but the boy quietly took his seat, while Reed, with a sigh of relief, settled back in his; and as it was almost nine o’clock, the teacher asked no questions.
At recess, Reed joined Clark, who was walking up and down the sidewalk alone, as usual.
“It was awfully good of you to rub out my scrawl, Clark,” he said.
Before Clark had time to reply, Hamlin joined him, and, with a nod, he turned away from Reed, and the latter, after a moment’s hesitation, strolled back to the boys in the playground.
It was that same day that Clark took a roundabout way home for the sake of the air and exercise. He was walking slowly down a shady, pleasant street, when he noticed a pretty little three-year-old girl coming down the steps of a handsome house near the corner. The little thing had evidently escaped from her nurse, for she cast anxious glances back at the open door as she trotted across the sidewalk. She was just in the middle of the street, when a fire-engine came dashing around the corner at full speed. The child, hearing the gong and seeing the galloping horses coming straight towards her, stopped short in a bewildered fashion, too frightened even to cry out. It was impossible for the driver to stop the horses or turn them aside enough to pass her, but in that instant of time Clark sprang forward, his rapid rush carrying both himself and the child just out of the way of the engine. He and the little girl both rolled in the dirt, but neither was hurt beyond a bruise or two.
As he got on his feet and lifted the frightened child, she began to cry and held out her arms to her mother, who, with a white, shocked face, came running down the steps. She held the little one close, and for a moment she could not speak, but then her eyes filled with tears of gratitude as she turned to Clark and tried to thank him. But, boy-like, Clark felt shy and embarrassed now, and tried to slip away through the crowd that had quickly gathered.
“Do tell me your name,” the mother pleaded earnestly.
Clark opened his lips to give it, but seeing a reporter whip out his notebook and pencil, listening eagerly for the answer, and not wanting to figure as a newspaper hero, he said quickly, “I’m very glad that the little girl was not hurt,” and lifting his hat, slipped through the crowd and was gone.
With a disappointed look, the mother carried her little girl into the house, while the reporter, casting an injured glance after Clark, proceeded to gather from the crowd all the particulars of the affair.
When Clark reached the school-room the next morning, Reed was talking away excitedly to a group of the boys, who were listening and questioning him with eager interest.
“And you didn’t find out who the fellow was?” asked Crawford.
“No—he wouldn’t tell my mother what his name was, and the reporter couldn’t find anybody in the crowd that knew him,” said Reed.
“Lucky for your little sister that he happened to be on hand just that minute, whoever he was,” said Sherman.
Reed’s usually bright eyes were suspiciously dim as he answered in a low tone, “Yes—I can’t bear to think of it.” Then he added, “My father says he’d give a hundred dollars to know who the boy was.”
“Queer idea, not to give his name,” remarked Henderson.
“Well—he was a brave fellow, anyhow,” said Crawford. “Tell you what—I wouldn’t care to run in front of a fire-engine, going at the rate they always do go.”
“Nor I,” said Coyle, “He ran the risk of being awfully hurt, if not killed.”
“That’s what I call courage,” remarked Hamlin emphatically, going over to Clark, who had taken his own seat on the other side of the room.
“Did you hear what Reed was telling, Clark?”
“Yes, I saw the account in the paper,” answered Clark quietly, “but I didn’t know until just now that the little girl was Charlie Reed’s sister. I didn’t know where he lived.”
“Yes—it’s his only sister. She’s a beautiful child, and they’re just devoted to her—the whole family. I never saw Reed so stirred up over anything before. You know he generally turns everything into a joke, but he doesn’t feel like joking this morning. Pity they can’t find out who the fellow is—isn’t it?”
Clark muttered some unintelligible reply, and Hamlin, surprised and a little disappointed at the other’s apparent lack of interest, turned away to his own seat.
Even to his mother Clark did not mention the affair; and she, as she read the account in the paper, had no suspicion that her own son was the modest young hero who had refused to give his name; while Reed never dreamed that it was his quiet schoolmate that had saved his home from being a house of mourning. But somehow, he could not forget the affair, or shake off entirely the impression that it had made on him. He began to realize that life is not all “fun,” and the coarse jokes of the Antis began to lose their flavor for him, and finally he amazed and rejoiced the L. A. O.’s by asking for admission to their number. The enthusiastic welcome that he received from those whom he knew to be the “best fellows in the class” was all that was needed to make him heartily glad of the break that he had made.
Henderson had tendered his resignation as captain of Company C the day after he was suspended. He was surprised that he had received no notice of the acceptance of the resignation, and had more than once questioned the officers of his company since his return to school, but none of them knew anything about the matter; so he was feeling very uncomfortable about it, when, one morning, he received a summons to Professor Keene’s office. He answered the summons promptly. Ten minutes later, he left the office with his face brighter than it had been for many days.
“I say,” he said, as he joined Crawford, who was waiting for him, “would you believe it, Crawford, Keene won’t accept my resignation?”
“And you’re to remain captain?” said Crawford.
“Yes, and if Company C doesn’t win the prizes this time, I’ll know the reason why. There’s Griffin ahead. Come on, I want to speak to him.”
Griffin was first lieutenant of Company C, and was quite as anxious for that company to win as was Henderson himself, and so he entered heartily into the latter’s plans for long and frequent drills during the next four weeks.
Eager as the boys themselves were to win the prizes, some of them were inclined to grumble before the month was over. They didn’t think quite so much practice was necessary; but though they complained, they had to submit to the captain’s orders.
It must be confessed that, as the important day approached, the recitations did not improve, but the teachers were lenient, and made all possible allowances.
This annual drill was always an affair of great interest to all the pupils of the two high-schools. Even the boys not in the battalion, and the girls, were quite as much interested as the cadets themselves, and this year the interest was increased by the offer of a costly and very beautiful gold medal in addition to the prize banner. The banner had been held for the last two years by Company B of the Eastern school, and of course that company and that school were as determined to retain it, as the companies of the Central were determined to win it.
There was no finer company in the battalion than Company D, of which Gordon was captain and Hamlin lieutenant. The boys of this company had a hearty respect and affection for their officers, both personally and officially. It was Gordon’s way to do his best whatever the work in hand might be, and through all the past year he had carried out that principle in regard to his military duties as well as in his work in the class-room; and because he was always fair and just as well as friendly with them, whether in the drill, on the playground, or wherever they were together, the boys of his company were always ready to carry out his wishes. This year, they were one and all determined that their captain should wear the gold medal, and they themselves the red ribbons of the prize company. Gordon himself wanted it too—of course he did—but he would have scorned to win by any but fair means, while Henderson was determined that by fair means or foul, Company C should stand first.
The drill was to take place on the baseball grounds. There were in the two schools seven companies, and each was to drill for thirty or forty minutes, four companies drilling the first afternoon, and the remaining three, the second.
Company C was second on the list of the first day, and Company D was the last on the next day.
Henderson kept his company drilling from eight till ten o’clock on the last night before the drill, and neither he nor any of his men were in their seats in the school-room, the next morning. In fact, very few of the cadets in either school put in an appearance that morning, and no very great interest was manifested in the lessons by any of the pupils, and the classes were dismissed an hour earlier than usual.
The weather was all that could be desired, being clear and cool for a summer day. The gates were not to be opened till four o’clock, but long before that time a great crowd had assembled, and horns, bells and bugles kept up an unceasing din, while gay silk banners bearing the letters of the different companies, and canes and batons wound with ribbons were waving everywhere.
Every high school pupil who could be there was there, and all wore ribbons. The boys wore small strips on which were printed the company letters, but the girls fairly rioted in ribbons. Some wore them as hat-bands, some as shoulder-knots with long streamers. Many had batons wound with two or three colors, with bows and streamers at the end, while yet others, and these usually very bright or pretty girls, wore the colors of two or three, or even more companies, in one big cluster.
As soon as the gates were opened the seats were rapidly filled, and long before the drill began every one of the six thousand places was occupied.
Crawford had hired one of the boxes, and Freeman sat there with him. Edith was there, too, but she sat with some of her friends on the other side. Edith was a very pretty girl, and Crawford would gladly have given her a seat in his box. Indeed, when he saw her, he sent Freeman to ask her to join them, but she returned them a polite refusal, and remained where she was, to Crawford’s secret vexation; nor was this feeling lessened, when, a little later, he saw the cordial welcome she gave to Clark, and the readiness with which she made room for him at her side.
The judges were three army officers, and promptly at the appointed hour they appeared on the field, and a moment later, Company A marched in on the opposite side, welcomed by ringing cheers and shouts from their friends, and ear-splitting horn salutes from their foes—that is, those whose sympathies were with other companies.
Quiet fell upon the throng of spectators as the drill began, and all eyes watched the boys in blue, some in breathless anxiety lest there be some slip or blunder—some in equally great anxiety lest there should not be.
The company did itself credit, and as all went smoothly, its eager well-wishers began to believe that this time A would surely stand first, when, almost at the last moment, the captain dropped his sword. Poor fellow—he felt badly enough about it without the groan that he could not help hearing, from the grand stand, and though not another slip occurred, and he marched his men off the field in fine style, he and they knew well that their chance was gone.
As they passed off, Company C marched on. Henderson’s dark face was full of grim determination, yet there was a shadow of anxiety in his glance as it rested for a second on the last man in the rear rank. That was Baum. If any one blundered, it was safe to be Baum; but Baum had done finely for the past month, surely he would do his best to-day. So ran Henderson’s thoughts, as he led his men forward. No danger of Henderson making a blunder. He meant to go to West Point yet, for all his tastes were for a military life, and he had the manual at his tongue’s end. No danger of his getting rattled. He was sure of himself and sure of his men—all but Baum.
And Company C did well. As Henderson’s strong voice rang out, his orders were obeyed with the promptness and exactness of clockwork. The judges nodded approval, and made memoranda on their programs, as order after order was given and obeyed. Henderson’s eyes shone, and his heart beat high with proud satisfaction, and then—then, at last that wretched Baum blundered. When the company was ordered to load and fire, lying down, his discharge was so far behind the others that a shout of derision broke from some of the rougher boys among the spectators, and Henderson felt an insane longing to seize Baum’s gun and whack him over the head with it.
And Baum, knowing well what was in his captain’s heart, felt his heart sink into his boots as he wondered if he could possibly fire at all the second time. How he did it he never knew, but the second discharge was fine, and the poor fellow drew a breath of relief as he braced himself to meet the storm that he knew would burst upon his head the moment the drill was over. And it did. Henderson hardly waited to get off the field, before he burst into a torrent of angry abuse and vituperation, so bitter and so profane that it shocked the others into silence, and no other boy said anything to Baum about what had happened; and he, dropping into the most unnoticeable place he could find, pulled his cap over his eyes and brooded over his “hard luck.”
Henderson, his face still dark with anger, joined Crawford and Freeman, and sat there glowering at Company E. This being notoriously the worst drilled of the seven companies, he had no fear of its gaining the prize, and he gave but little heed to what passed till Company B came on. Then he roused himself, and hastily scrawling a line on a slip of paper, told Freeman to “Give it to that cub over yonder,” the cub referred to being Baum.
Baum read the message, and his gloomy face lightened a little, as he nodded to Henderson, and then proceeded to tear the note into tiny bits, and presently he slipped away.
Shouts and cheers greeted the appearance of Company B, and banners bearing that letter were raised and waved from every quarter. Pink was the company color, and a large and very beautiful banner of pink silk with B embroidered in the center, was set up in the front row of the bleachers as the company marched forward.
Henderson scowled, and whispered something to a little fellow just then passing his seat with a basket of candies and chewing gum for sale. A silver dollar slipped into the basket, and a few minutes later the candy boy delivered a second message to Baum, who had returned to his seat.
Now all eyes were watching Company B, which seemed in a fair way to win fresh laurels, as one manœuvre after another was swiftly and dexterously executed. There was no blundering Baum to spoil the shooting, and the captain of Company B, easy and self-possessed, was in no danger of dropping his sword or committing any other blunder.
Henderson’s watchful face darkened yet more as the minutes passed, and he cast uneasy glances toward the quarter where Baum now sat among a noisy group.
In one of the manœuvers the company approached quite close to the place where this group was sitting, and suddenly a score of voices shouted an order, quite drowning the voice of the captain as he gave an entirely different one. Only the men nearest to the captain understood his order. The others, confused by the unexpected call from the seats, hesitated, wavered, and obeyed the wrong order, and Company B’s chance for the prize was gone.
“Good, good!” hissed Henderson in Crawford’s ear. “Baum managed that beautifully. I can almost forgive him for his blunder now.”
“Did you tell him to do it?” asked Crawford.
“’Course I did. Didn’t I tell you I’m bound to have that banner by fair means or foul?” replied Henderson. “We’re ahead now, spite of Baum’s blunder,” he added, with his low, cruel laugh.
“Oh, look, look! Somebody’s pulled down their banner,” cried Freeman.
Sure enough, as Company B marched out with flushed and frowning faces, their beautiful new silk banner was suddenly discovered to be missing from the place where it had been raised. Who did it, or where it was, only Henderson, Baum and the candy boy knew; but late that night, the banner, soiled and rumpled, and looking as if it had been trailed in the dirt, was left on the doorsteps of the captain of Company B. The person who left it there rang the bell and disappeared before the door was opened.
A year before, Freeman would have been quick to condemn such mean and contemptible doings as these; but now he said nothing, as Henderson openly rejoiced over the discomfiture of Company B; and Crawford, though he said little, evidently saw nothing amiss in the methods employed.
“Here come the F’s. No danger of their winning,” Freeman said, as the final drill of the first day began.
Company F was the last formed of the seven. It had had but little practice, and nobody expected it to win, and nobody’s expectations were disappointed.
There might about as well have been no school the next day, for so great was the prevailing excitement that it was impossible for the boys to settle down to work.
The interest was even greater than on the first day. Before school and at recess hot discussions were carried on over the first three drills of the previous day, and much sympathy was expressed for Company B.
“It was a contemptible piece of business—calling out the wrong order as those fellows did,” Hamlin said indignantly, “and I, for one, am heartily ashamed that any of our fellows had a hand in it.”
“Who says any of our fellows did have a hand in it?” said Coyle, angrily.
“I know they did, for I saw some of them yelling,” replied Hamlin, “and a fellow that sat right by them gave me the names of some of our fellows who shouted the wrong order.”
“He might have been in better business,” growled Coyle, to which Hamlin quickly responded, “They might have been in better business. And then to pull down B’s flag just then, was too mean for anything.”
“The B’s are all Easterns. It’s time the Centrals got the prize,” cried Green.
“I want the Centrals to win, as much as anybody, I guess,” replied Hamlin, “but if we can’t win fairly I’d rather lose.”
“You would—would you?” said Henderson. “Well, I wouldn’t, then. That banner and medal ought to belong to a Central company. All’s fair in love and war,” he added, winking at Green.
“Well, I know that Company D will do its level best this afternoon, and I don’t believe that anybody wants those prizes any more than we do, but if we win, we’ll win fair,” answered Hamlin, and Gordon, who had just joined the group, added quietly, “So we will, Hamlin.”
“Not much danger of Company D winning,” said Henderson with a sneer. “The good little boys will get left again, this time.”
“Perhaps—if yesterday’s doings are repeated,” said Hamlin significantly, as the bell called them to order.
Gordon and Hamlin were the only members of Company D at school that morning, and Mr. Horton dismissed them at one o’clock.
As they left the building Hamlin said, “Gordon, I believe Henderson means to play us some mean trick like that they served Company B yesterday. He’s bound and determined to win the prizes, and I believe that he’ll stop at nothing to gain his end.”
“I’m a good deal of your opinion, Hamlin,” Gordon replied. “He’s perfectly unscrupulous, but I really don’t believe that he could rattle us as he did them yesterday. You see, we shall be on the lookout for him, now.”
“I don’t think myself that that plan would succeed with our men, but you see he’ll probably hatch up some new scheme that we haven’t thought of,” said Hamlin.
“Well, we won’t borrow trouble, Hamlin,” said Gordon. “We’ve only to do our best, and not worry over what may happen.”
Again, as on the day before, Crawford and Freeman were in one of the boxes, and Henderson was with them, and Clark again joined Edith and her friends, but to-day he was even more grave than usual, and his dark eyes cast quick, searching glances here, there and everywhere, but most frequently at the end of the row, where Baum, Green, Coyle and others of the Antis were gathered.
“Why Edith, you have come out in company colors too, to-day,” Clark said suddenly, noticing the pale blue ribbons she wore.
Edith colored a little. “The girls would make me wear them,” she said. “They are all interested in Company D. Two of them have brothers in that company, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Clark, absently.
Edith, following the direction of his eyes, leaned forward, and looked intently at the group of boys he was watching. “Do all those boys belong in your section?” she asked.
“Most of them do,” Clark answered, “and they are no credit to the section either—some of them.”
“I wish Ray would come back here with us,” Edith said, sadly. “He used to go everywhere with me, but he never goes anywhere with me now.”
Clark longed to say something to comfort her, but he did not know what to say, so he was silent.
Promptly at four o’clock, Company E appeared. In spite of her troubled thoughts, Edith could not help laughing, as a woman in the front seat, at sight of her boy in the ranks, cried out, “There he is! There’s Johnny!” and as a welcoming cheer greeted the approaching company, Johnny’s mother not only joined heartily in it, but, rising, swung her umbrella in the air and pounded the rail in front with it, while she shouted, “Hurrah for Company E!”
But the crowd was a good-natured one, and those around her only laughed as they dodged to avoid the blue umbrella that seemed quite likely to hit somebody over the head, so great was its owner’s excitement.
Company E drilled well, and the joyful excitement of “Johnny’s” mother increased as one evolution after another was performed without mishap. But alas! There are so many chances, and so many possible mistakes! The captain of Company E was so unfortunate as to lead his men so near the grand stand in one of the marches, that the commanding officer ordered them off, and this so confused the men that their firing was by no means up to the mark.
Company G, the next in order, had a fiery, nervous little captain, who was himself the cause of failure, as, in giving an order, he stepped back too quickly, and ran into one of his men so violently as to throw him down. The man recovered himself well, without throwing anyone else out, but Company G’s chance was lost, and that they realized this was evident from the faces of the boys as they left the field, passing near the entrance, the last of the seven—Company D.
That this company had many friends among the spectators was evident from the noisy welcome that rang out at its approach, and not once during the two days had such a general silence marked the intense interest as now. Edith’s friends had eyes and ears for nothing that was going on around them. They scarcely breathed as Gordon’s clear voice rang out, and his men, as if animated by a single spirit, obeyed his orders.
Gordon’s sister sat next to Edith. Her fair face was flushed with excitement, and her eyes never for an instant turned away from the boys in blue, and their young captain. Once, when a gentleman near exclaimed, “That’s the finest shooting yet,” Bessie Gordon’s hand clasped Edith’s tightly, and her eyes shone with satisfaction, but she spoke no word.
The company had just obeyed the order to lie down and load, when Stanley Clark, with a smothered exclamation, sprang from his place and dashed across to the open seats. As Edith looked after him in surprise, Bessie gripped her hand again, crying out, “Oh Edith, Edith, look!” and Edith looked just in time to see a giant powder-cracker strike the ground not two yards in front of the prostrate boys, where it exploded with a tremendous bang, the sound mingling with the discharge of the guns.
Instantly, there was a medley of shouts, cries, cheers and hisses, but Company D and its captain might have been blind and deaf for all the attention they paid to the uproar. Not a man had flinched when they saw that big cracker coming straight towards their faces, and not a gun had failed to send its volley at the command to “fire!”
Professor Keene and the other teachers quieted the excited crowds in the seats as quickly as possible, and without the slightest interruption the drill proceeded, but when it was over, and Captain Gordon, having saluted the chairman of the judges, turned to lead his company off the field, the audience went wild. Cheer upon cheer rang out. Banners, handkerchiefs, ribbon-decked parasols were waved with reckless disregard of everybody and everything, while the retiring company was literally pelted with flowers.
“It is evident that the audience has decided which is the prize company,” remarked Professor Keene with a smile, to Bessie Gordon, “and I quite agree with the general verdict.”
Bessie’s eyes were full of quiet happiness, now, but her cheeks were still a little pale from the nervous excitement of seeing that blazing cracker flying straight towards those faces that she knew would not move a hair’s breadth to avoid it.
“Here comes the band,” cried half a dozen voices, as the strains of martial music drew all eyes again towards the field, where the regimental drill was now to take place while the judges were making their decision.
But nobody paid very much attention to this. All were awaiting impatiently the announcement of the decision, and when the chairman of the committee declared Company D to have won the prizes, cheer after cheer expressed the satisfaction of the audience; and when the beautiful gold medal was handed to Captain Gordon, his men looked as proud and happy as if each one of them was to wear it himself. It was evident that they did not take half as much pride in their own red ribbons as they did in their captain’s honors.
“Aren’t you proud of your brother?” said a girl near Bessie; and Bessie answered frankly, “Indeed I am, Mollie.”
“You have reason to be, Miss Bessie,” added Professor Keene. “I am proud to have him in my school. His influence is always on the right side.”
Bessie’s eyes shone with delight at this public compliment to her brother; but Edith turned away with tears in her eyes and an aching heart, because her only brother could receive no such commendation.
The next morning’s mail carried to every member of Company C, and also to Clark, Freeman and Crawford, a request from Professor Keene to be at his office that morning at ten o’clock. There was some grumbling, as it was Saturday, and the summons interfered with various holiday plans; but more than one face was shadowed with uneasiness and anxiety, and among this number was that of Captain Henderson.
“I’m afraid you’re in for it, Hen,” Crawford said to him on the way to the school.
“They can’t prove anything against me,” replied Henderson, uneasily; “not if you and Freeman don’t blab.”
“I shan’t, of course, and I don’t believe Freeman will. He’s a plucky little chap.”
“I’m not so sure of him as you seem to be, Crawford; but if he does let out anything, I’ll pay him out for it. He may be sure of that,” said Henderson.
When they reached the school, they found most of the company already there, and Clark and Freeman appeared a few minutes later.
The professor told Clark, Crawford and Freeman to remain in his office, while he led Henderson and his company to one of the class-rooms.
Closing the door, he stood for a moment in silence, looking from one to another of the faces before him, and some of the boys felt plainly uncomfortable beneath that searching glance. It seemed an endless time to these before the professor said, “Boys, I was intensely mortified over some of the occurrences at the drill, yesterday. I can make allowances for excitement and high spirits and thoughtlessness; but that any of my boys should have been guilty of such meanness and rowdyism, such shameless and reckless efforts to prevent others from winning the prizes, has pained and shamed me more than I have words to express.
“In the four years that these competitive drills have been held, there has never before been anything like the outrageous affair of yesterday—the throwing of that cracker.”
He paused for a moment, then went on slowly, “When I think what the results might have been had that cracker exploded towards the boys, I feel as if no punishment could be too severe for those who would risk the destruction of eyesight, or even life itself, to keep others from winning a well-deserved prize. It was only God’s mercy that prevented such awful consequences.
“Think, for one moment, boys, how some of you would be feeling to-day, if that deed of yesterday had blinded or killed some of your schoolmates!
“A thorough investigation has been ordered, and no effort will be spared to find out and to punish the guilty persons, unless they confess their guilt. If any boy will confess his share in the matter, I will do my best to lighten his punishment, but anyone who will not confess and who shall be proven guilty need look for no mercy.”
While the professor spoke, some of the boys shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and some cast furtive glances at Henderson, who stood leaning against a desk, with a hard look in his eyes and his lips close shut.
Suddenly, Professor Keene turned towards him. “Henderson, what do you know about this affair?” he asked.
Henderson looked full into the professor’s searching eyes, and answered calmly, “Nothing whatever, sir.”
“You had nothing to do with it in any way?” pursued the professor.
“No, sir,” said Henderson.
With a disappointed look and a half sigh, the professor turned from him.
“Boys,” he said, “you have heard Henderson’s denial—now I call upon you. If anyone here knows anything about this matter, I beg him, for his own sake, to speak now. Do not let any school-boy notion against telling of another keep anyone silent. This is a very grave affair, and it is your duty to tell whatever you know about it.”
As the professor paused, Baum lifted his head and took a step forward, but the professor did not see him, and a threatening look from Henderson made him drop his eyes and keep silence.
“So,” said the professor sadly, “you all deny any knowledge of this thing? Boys, you don’t know how heartily I wish that I could believe you, but I am sorry to say that there is evidence against some of you, and some of you have not given your teachers reason to put implicit faith in your statements. I sincerely hope, however, that in this case you have told the truth. You will remain here until I return.”
He left the room, closing the door after him.
The boys did not talk much after his departure. Henderson tried to laugh the matter off, but no one responded to his flippant remarks, and, after a little, he sauntered to the window and stood there looking out in silence.
Meantime, the professor questioned Crawford, but, like the others, he steadily denied any knowledge in regard to the affair.
“You may join the others in the class-room,” said the professor, and, as Crawford left the office, he turned to Freeman. Freeman’s face was pale and disturbed, and as he stood before the professor his eyes were downcast, and he looked as if he might himself be the guilty one.
“Freeman, will you answer truthfully the questions that I am going to ask you?” said the professor.
He was feeling greatly disheartened, for he did not believe that the boys that he had questioned were all of them innocent or ignorant, yet every one had declared himself so.
“Yes, sir.” Freeman’s voice was low, and he did not look up as he answered.
“Do you know who called out the wrong order to Company B last Thursday?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who threw the cracker at Company D yesterday?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any knowledge whatever about these doings—who suggested them, or who had any part in carrying them out?”
Lower yet dropped the boy’s head, and his voice was almost inaudible, but again the answer was “No, sir.”
The professor’s tone changed then. There was a ring of contempt in it as he said curtly:—
“You may go.” And Freeman went.
Then the professor turned to Clark.
“Clark,” he said, sadly, “I can forgive anything sooner than a lie. Will you tell me the truth?”
“If I can, sir. I will certainly tell you nothing but the truth,” replied the boy. His eyes met his teacher’s as boldly as Henderson’s had done, but with a very different expression in their clear depths.
The professor gave a sigh of relief. He was skilled in reading boys’ faces, and he felt instinctively that he could trust this boy.
“Tell me what you know about this miserable business,” he said.
“I know very little,” replied Clark. “I had been afraid that there might be trouble because of the strong feeling in regard to the prizes; and while Company D was drilling, I saw a lot of the rougher fellows whispering together. Then I saw one of them leave his seat and speak to a boy—not a high-school boy I am sure, certainly not a Central boy—and give him something, and then this boy walked to the back of the stand. He waited a moment, and then I saw him light a match, and it flashed across my mind what he was going to do. I ran across to try to stop him, but the stand was so crowded that I couldn’t reach him in time. He saw me coming, and I think that that made him throw the cracker before he was quite ready, and maybe that is why he threw it as he did, so that it did not explode towards the boys.”
“He was gone, I suppose, before you could get to him?” said the professor.
“Yes, he disappeared. I think he dropped from the back of the seats to the ground.”
“Should you know him if you should see him again?”
“I cannot tell, sir,” replied Clark.
The professor mused for a few minutes, then he asked, “Can you tell me the name of the boy who talked with this fellow, and gave him something?”
Clark hesitated.
“I know who it was, Professor,” he said at last, “but the boys of section D have more than once accused me of telling tales, though I have never once done so. In this case I think that you ought to know who this boy was; but, sir, won’t you try to find out some other way first? If you fail to find out by other means, I cannot refuse to tell you, but please do not ask me now.”
“Very well, my boy, I will not ask you to-day, but I think likely it will be necessary for me to ask you again later. I want to thank you, Clark, for what you have told me. It is a relief to question a boy upon whose word I can rely. I need not ask you to keep silence as to what has passed this morning. I know you will do so.”
He rose, and held out his hand, and Clark grasped it and departed with a breath of relief that that ordeal was over.
Crawford, Henderson and Freeman left the school together, but Freeman turned off at the first cross-street. He was in no mood for Crawford’s careless gaiety and Henderson’s sneers and flings. He was going along with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, when, turning a corner, he almost ran into his cousin. He would have passed on without a word, but Clark put his arm affectionately across his shoulders, and fell into step with him.
“I was just going around to your house, Ray, to see if you would go with me for a tramp over the hills,” he said; “I don’t feel like settling to work to-day, and I don’t believe you do. Come on—won’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Freeman, wearily.
“Don’t you feel equal to it?” Clark asked.
“Yes, I’m well enough; ’tisn’t that,” replied the boy.
Clark thought that he looked very far from well, but he had his reasons for urging his request.
“You go on home, then, and tell Edith, so she won’t be worrying about you, and I’ll go home and get some luncheon to take along with us, and then I’ll stop for you. We can take the cars up to the end of the line, and walk the rest of the way.”
“Well, I don’t care. Suppose I might as well go as to mope ’round at home,” said Freeman, and with a cheery “That’s good, I’ll be at your house within twenty minutes,” Clark hurried away.
It was cool and restful in the open car, and Clark, seeing that his cousin was disinclined to talk, left him to his thoughts, with only a word now and then. Even after they left the car, and struck into the woods, they spoke but little.
Clark led the way to a cool, shady spot where he knew there was a spring of clear, cold water.
“There!” he said, “sit there and rest, Ray. That big tree trunk makes a splendid support for a tired back. I brought some lemons and sugar, and now I’m going to make some lemonade with this spring water. It’s almost as cold as ice. You can take out the rest of the stuff while I’m gone.”
But when he returned with his kettle of lemonade, the lunch-basket stood, unopened, where he had left it, and his cousin sat with his eyes on the distant hills—his thoughts evidently far away. Clark made no remark, but set out the luncheon himself.
“Come now, pitch in, Ray,” he said, “I’m as hungry as a bear, and I hope you are too. I don’t want to have anything to lug home but the basket and kettle. Here—try my lemonade,” and he filled a glass, and passed it to his cousin.
“I’m not hungry,” objected Freeman, but Clark laughed at him.
“Well, you ought to be. Take hold and keep me company, else I shall be ashamed of my healthy appetite.”
With merry talk and gay jokes he beguiled Freeman out of his despondent mood, and presently the little fellow found himself eating and drinking, and felt much the better for it. When the meal was finished, Clark threw himself down on the grass, and again a silence fell between the two. Clark was wondering how he could win his cousin’s confidence, and Freeman had fallen again into troubled thought.
“Ray, you don’t look happy,” said Clark, suddenly.
“Happy!” echoed the other, “I’m too miserable to live.”
“Can’t you tell me all about it, Ray?” said Clark, in a voice so full of sympathy, that, in spite of himself, Ray’s eyes filled with tears, but he choked them back.
“I’ve nothing to tell,” he said, coldly.
Silence again, and once again Clark broke it.
“Ray,” he said, “do you remember your father?”
Freeman looked up in surprise at the question.
“Yes, I remember him well,” he said. “I was eight, you know, when he died. Oh, Stanley, I wish my father had lived. I believe I’d be a better fellow to-day, if he had.”
“I remember him so well,” said Clark, slowly. “Mother used to tell me stories about him when he was a boy. He was her twin brother, you know, and she was as devoted to him as Edith is to you. I used to think that if I could ever be such a boy as Uncle Raymond was, I should be about right.”
Freeman’s eyes were shining now. He had forgotten all about himself, and was thinking only of the father whose death he had never ceased to mourn.
“Yes,” he said eagerly, “almost the first thing I can remember is walking in the street with him, and feeling so proud because he was so grand and handsome, and even now, it seems to me that he must have been nobler and finer than most men. It makes me proud to think I bear his name.”
“Raymond,” said Clark, earnestly, “are you bearing it so that he would be proud of you—if he were here now?”
The boy threw himself down, and burying his face in his hands, broke into bitter sobs.
“Oh, no, Stanley, no,” he cried; “I’m ashamed—ashamed, when I think how I’ve dragged his dear name in the dirt. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do!”
The agony of shame and bitter sorrow in that woeful cry, wrung his cousin’s heart. He laid his hand lovingly on the bowed head as he said:—
“Turn right about, Ray, and make a new beginning. Determine that from this time on you will never do or say one thing that you would be ashamed to have Uncle Raymond know.”
“Oh, but you don’t know how bad I’ve been. Why, Stanley, I lied to Prof. Keene this very morning. I did know about that cracker. I carried the message from Henderson to Baum, myself.”
“I knew you did, Ray.”
Freeman sat upright and stared in blank amazement.
“How did you know it?” he said.
“Perhaps I ought to say I guessed it, for of course I did not know what message you carried to Baum, but I saw Henderson speak to you, and then I saw you go to Baum, and I thought you gave him something. Afterward, when I saw him hand something to the rascal that fired that cracker, I guessed at once that Henderson had sent you to do the abominable errand for him.”
“Did you tell all this to the professor?” questioned Ray.
“No, Ray, I gave the professor no names, but I may have to tell him about Baum. I cannot tell him about you.”
Freeman’s head went down on his hands again and he groaned out:—
“That isn’t all, either, Stanley. It was I that snapped the marble that broke Raleigh’s glasses, and I lied about that, too.”
“Did you do that, Ray? I was afraid it was you, but I hoped I was mistaken. Why didn’t you own up when Mr. Horton gave you the chance? He wouldn’t have been hard on you. He knew it was an accident,” said Clark.
“But it wasn’t, Stanley. At least, I meant the marble to hit Raleigh’s head, though of course, I didn’t think of his glasses. I’ve had a hand in all the mischief that has been done in the room these last two terms, and I’ve lied like a trooper right straight through it all. Stanley—I don’t believe I can help lying now.”
“Nonsense, Ray!” Clark spoke sternly, now. “Don’t be so weak as to give up trying to make a man of yourself. I tell you, Ray, your father’s son must be a true, honorable man. You have to take his place in the world—fill his place to your mother and Edith.”
“Oh I wish I could, Stanley. You don’t know how much I wish it sometimes. You think I don’t try, but I do. Lots of times I’ve made up my mind that I would break with Crawford and all that lot, and then he’d come and coax me to go for a drive or a sail, and I’d give in and go and do anything they wanted me to, though I knew all the time I was breaking mother’s heart and Edith’s. I’m just a weak good-for-nothing—I never shall amount to anything in the world,” he added, hopelessly.
“Raymond,” said Clark, solemnly, “I believe that you have come to a turning-point in your life. You’ve been going down hill—you acknowledge it. Now, if you will, you can turn right about, and go up. It will be hard at first, I know, but I’ll stand by you, and Hamlin will too, I’m sure, and when Gordon and the rest see that you mean to do the right thing, they’ll back you up too.”
“Oh, Stanley, I wish I could. I do so wish I could,” cried the boy. “But you forget about the drill. Prof. Keene will find out that I lied to him, and he’ll expel me—and mother”—he broke off, and groaned.
“Ray, if things at school could be made all right for you, would you really break with Crawford and that crowd, and try to live down this year’s doings?”
“Oh, I would, I would so gladly,” cried the boy, “but it can’t be. It can’t be made right about the drill.”
“It can in one way, Ray. If you will go to Prof. Keene and tell him what you have told me, and how sorry you are for it all, I’m sure he will forgive you.”
Freeman fairly gasped. “Go to the professor? Oh, I never could in the world!” he said, “and Henderson—he vowed he’d kill me if I told a soul, and you must never let him know that I’ve told you, Stanley.”
“Ray, you must go to the professor. He told me that he was determined to get to the bottom of the affair, and what he sets out to do, he does. He suspects Henderson, I am sure, and I believe that he will ferret out the whole business. Then you would be punished sure; but if you go and confess of your own accord, it will make all the difference in the world to him; I am certain of it.”
“But Henderson, Stanley. I’ve no right to tell on him,” said the boy.
“I think you have, in such a serious business as this. I think he deserves heavy punishment. But, Ray, you need not mention his name. You can tell what you did without implicating anyone else. Oh, Ray, do it. Your father would tell you to do it, if he could speak to you.”
Freeman turned his face away, and sat silent for many minutes. When he spoke again, his voice was low and firm.
“I’ll do it, Stanley,” he said, “but I must do it right away. Will you come with me?”
“Gladly,” and without another word, Clark picked up the basket and led the way homeward.
An hour later, Professor Keene was informed that two boys wanted to speak to him, and going down to his library, found Clark and Freeman awaiting him there. Clark stayed only until Freeman’s confession was made; then he quietly left the room and waited on the sidewalk for his cousin.
It was a long time that he had to wait. Indeed, it was nearly dark before Freeman joined him, and the two walked on together in a silence that Clark dared not break and Freeman could not.
“Not going home, Ray?” Clark said, inquiringly, as his cousin turned another way.
“I must see Mr. Horton before I go home,” Freeman answered. “I told the professor I would.”
Mr. Horton was quite as much surprised as the principal had been, when he heard what Freeman had to say to him; but he, too, was very kind, and most heartily glad to know that this one, at least, of his troublesome pupils would henceforth cease to be a trial in the class-room.
When Freeman left Mr. Horton’s house, he looked worn and weary, yet there was an expression of relief—of peace even, in his pale face. He looked as if he had laid down a heavy burden that he had long been bearing; and this, indeed, was just what he had done.
“Now I can go home,” he said. “But, oh, Stanley, I can’t be thankful enough that you persuaded me to own up to it all. You saved me from being suspended, if not expelled, for Professor Keene and Mr. Horton had found out all about it.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Clark, in surprise. “Why, how had they found it out so quickly?”
“Mr. Horton sat where he could see both Henderson and our fellows in the bleachers.”
“Queer that the boys didn’t see him,” said Clark, wonderingly.
“His eyes were troubling him, and he wore dark glasses that day. I suppose that’s why we didn’t notice him. And, Stanley, he even knew that I threw the marble that smashed Raleigh’s glasses, and if I hadn’t acknowledged it to-night, he was going to call me up before the school next Monday. So you see, Stanley, I owe it all to you that I am to be let off so easily.”
“Without punishment, Ray?” questioned Clark.
Freeman’s sensitive face flushed, even in the darkness, as he answered in a voice that he vainly tried to steady, “No—I’ve got to make acknowledgment before the whole school, and apologize to Mr. Horton.”
Clark flung his arm affectionately across the boy’s shoulders.
“It will be a tough job for you, Ray, but I’m sure you’ll brace up and be a man about it; and if you do it in manly fashion, no fellow that amounts to anything will ever cast it up to you again.”
Freeman made no reply, and presently, at his own gate, he bade his cousin “good-night,” adding only, “I’ll never forget this day, Stanley.”
Before Freeman slept, he had to tell his story once more, to his mother and Edith; but he knew them too well to shrink from their verdict, and he knew, too, that they would but too freely forgive and forget all his wrong-doing in the gladness of the assurance that henceforth he would do his best to make up to them for all that he had made them suffer.
The interest and excitement over the drill had by no means died out when the school assembled on Monday morning. Nothing else was discussed by the pupils who were there early, and all sorts of reports as to the punishment of those who had been guilty of such flagrant misdeeds were current.
Eager eyes watched for the appearance of Henderson and the members of his company, but when nine o’clock struck, none of them had been seen, and Freeman’s seat was also vacant.
Crawford did not appear until the last moment, and then he dropped into his seat with an evident desire to avoid notice.
Mr. Horton looked grave and troubled, and his brief morning prayer was so full of deep feeling that it impressed even the most careless of his pupils. As soon as the opening exercises were over, he told the class to form in line and march to the hall, and much more silently than usual, and in perfect order, the boys passed up to the hall, where, in a few minutes, the whole school was assembled.
All the teachers except Professor Keene were on the platform, and every face was grave and sad.
Never had those nine hundred boys and girls gathered there on an occasion like this, and never had such a breathless silence reigned in any of their gatherings as reigned now during the few moments while they awaited the appearance of the principal.
They had not long to wait. He came upon the platform, followed by Freeman and eight of the members of Company C, but Henderson was not among them.
Professor Keene’s words to the school were very brief, but very grave and earnest. Then he turned to the boys on the platform, and gave them such a severe reprimand as he had never before given in public to any of his pupils.
Turning again to the assembled school, he said: “To perform such a duty as this, is almost as hard for me as for those whom I am obliged thus publicly to reprimand, but I am very glad to be able to add that every one of these schoolmates of yours has made to me private acknowledgment of his wrong-doing, and has promised henceforth to do his duty in the school, and to try, by his conduct in the future, to efface from all our memories the dishonorable doings of last week; and similar acknowledgment will now be made before us all.”
As the professor took his seat, Freeman stepped forward. His face was colorless, and his voice so low and husky that only those near the platform could hear him at first. Then he caught sight of Clark’s face, full of loving sympathy and encouragement. He seemed to gather strength from that look, and drawing himself up, he made a frank, manly apology to his teachers and to the school, and earnestly declared that it should be his purpose in the future to do his duty in the school as faithfully as he possibly could. As he dropped into the nearest chair, the professor held out his hand, and said in a low tone, “You did well, Freeman, and I am sure that you will live up to what you have promised.”
Baum was the next to speak, and perhaps to no boy in the school could the ordeal have been more trying than to him. He was one of the most silent of boys, never speaking unless spoken to, and then replying in the fewest possible words. He never originated any mischief in the school-room, and would certainly not have done what he did at the drill, but for his intense and bitter mortification over his blunder, and Henderson’s angry, scathing censure before the company. Desperate over all this, he snatched at the opportunity to redeem himself in his captain’s estimation, without stopping to think about the right and wrong of the services required of him.
But in the two days past, he had had time to think the matter over, and he was sincerely ashamed now of what he had done. As he stood there facing the school his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and his heart beat so that he could scarcely breathe, while the perspiration stood in great drops on his forehead.
“Go on, Baum,” said the professor, in a low tone, and the boy burst out, “I don’t know how to speak, boys, but if I should talk all day, I couldn’t begin to tell you how I despise myself for what I did, and for lying about it afterwards. If I ever cut up so again, hope I may be shot.”
Had the boys dared, they would have given a hearty cheer for Baum, but they knew better than to attempt it; but when, feeling sure that he had made a fool of himself, he dropped into his seat with flushed face and trembling hands, he had really risen many degrees in the estimation of his classmates—though he would not have believed it had any one told him so.
The other seven boys made their apologies with more or less sincerity, and then the classes were sent to their separate rooms. But the intense feeling of the morning had unfitted them for study or recitation, and both teachers and scholars were glad when the bell gave the signal for recess.
“Say, Gordon, let’s go and speak to Baum. He came out like a man in the hall this morning,” said Hamlin. “There’s too good stuff in him to be wasted on that rough crowd he goes with.”
“That’s what I was thinking this morning,” said Gordon, as he followed Hamlin. Baum was leaning against the fence watching the various groups. He looked surprised when the two boys approached him, and when they stopped and spoke to him, his plain face lighted up with pleasure. To be thus publicly sought out by the captain and lieutenant of the prize company was an honor that Baum knew how to appreciate, and from that hour he ceased to find pleasure in the companionship of the Antis, and privately resolved that, if possible, his name should be on the list of L. A. O.’s next quarter.
“Where’s Freeman?” asked Hamlin, as he and Gordon joined Clark.
“He’s gone home. Horton told him to. He was not fit to come to school to-day, anyhow, but he wanted to be in the hall this morning,” answered Clark.
“He spoke well there,” said Hamlin, “and it must have been an awful hard thing for him to do.”
“So he did,” said Gordon, “and,” he added, “I hope that you and he will both join the L. A. O.’s next fall. We want your help, Clark.”
Clark was so taken by surprise, that for a moment he could not speak, and in that moment Gordon and Hamlin passed on.
“I’m glad you said that, Gordon,” Hamlin said, as soon as they were out of hearing; “Clark deserves it, and if the other fellows in the society will only treat him as they ought, he’ll be glad enough to join us, I know, and he’ll be a big help, too. There won’t be more than one meeting of the society this term, will there?”
“That’s all,” answered Gordon, “and I want to give all the Antis one more chance to join us. They are subdued now, and some of them, I think, might join if we ask them now—but if we wait till fall, they will have gotten over all this, and perhaps, be as bad as ever.”
“I’ve not much faith in Green’s promises,” said Hamlin.
“Nor I,” said Gordon. “He looked to me as if he apologized to escape being expelled, and not because he was really sorry for having had a hand in this business.”
“They say Henderson has cleared out. Have you heard anything about it, Gordon?”
“I heard so. Somebody said his father was so furious over his disgrace that he had turned him out of doors.”
“Well, it’s a bad business,” said Hamlin, “but one thing I’m sure of, and that is, that there’ll be a heap less trouble in section D next year if Henderson is not here.”
“I think so, too, though if Crawford is here there’s sure to be trouble enough.”
“Yes, he and Green are a bad team. I hope Freeman will keep away from them now.”
“Clark thinks he will,” said Hamlin.
“I hope he’s right,” replied Gordon; “I believe there’s good stuff in little Freeman.”
The school year was nearly ended now, and for the next two weeks written examinations were held almost every day.
When the last reports were given out, the L. A. O.’s all stood well, and some had excellent records. Clark and Gordon each had a hundred for the quarter, while Henderson and one or two others were well up in the nineties; but in spite of all this, the class record was a very poor one.
At the last meeting of the L. A. O.’s, this was the first subject discussed. Parliamentary methods had not, as yet, been introduced into these meetings to any extent, and all the discussions were perfectly free and informal.
It was Raleigh who began. “I’m about sick of this old school,” he began gloomily. “Just see how we’ve worked and dug these last two terms, and, in spite of it all, section D stands no higher than it did the first quarter. We’re still at the bottom of the heap, and still known in the city as the ‘tough section.’ I’ve made up my mind to cut it all next year and go to a private school. My father says I may.”
“And my father says I must,” said Bates, who had long since joined the L. A. O.’s. “After the doings at the drill, he said I shouldn’t come back here next year.”
“Oh, come, now, fellows, that’s too mean—to back out that way,” said Hamlin. “My father told me I could go somewhere else, if I wanted to, and I said, ‘No, sir-e-e! I’m not going to desert the old Central in that fashion.’ I’m coming back next year, and I’m going to do my best to make D the finest section in the school.”
“Good for you, Hamlin,” said Gordon’s clear, quiet voice. “My father was a high school-boy, and he says that in his time the school stood higher than any private school in the city, both as to scholarship and character. I mean to come back next year, and do all I can to bring the reputation of the school up to that point again.”
“But we can’t do it,” grumbled Raleigh. “See how it is now. After all our hard work, a dozen mean, lazy cubs have spoiled our class record, and, worse than that, made section D the talk of the town.”
“I know—it has been mighty rough on us this year,” admitted Gordon; “but, Raleigh, we won’t have quite so much to fight next year. Henderson won’t be here, and I hope we can win over most of the Antis, and break up their society altogether. Freeman, I’m sure, will join us, and I reckon Baum will, and Ridley. There won’t be so many of the tough fellows left, and they’ve all had a lesson that I think they’ll not have forgotten by next fall.”
“Henderson won’t be back, of course,” said another, “but Crawford will, and Green and Coyle, I suppose, and they can keep us from making any decent class record.”
“Crawford has behaved himself since he came back,” said Hamlin quickly, “and nobody need say anything against his scholarship now. He came near a hundred this last report.”
“He does well enough in class,” admitted Raleigh rather reluctantly, “but he and Henderson have put the Antis up to all sorts of tricks this last quarter. They didn’t deserve the marks they got for deportment.”
“I admit all that, Raleigh,” said Gordon, “but, as I said before, the Antis have had a pretty severe lesson, and I can’t believe that they’ll dare to do much to make trouble next year; and they’re most all bright enough, so, if they do make up their minds to work—I mean, if we can any way arouse their ambition and awaken a feeling of pride in the section and the school—we can make a splendid record without any question.”
School reopened the second Monday in September, and long before nine o’clock the boys and girls began to gather about the steps, waiting for the janitor to open the doors.
Hamlin had overtaken Clark and Freeman, and when the three reached the schoolhouse gate they found a goodly number there before them, and many voices called out greetings, especially to Hamlin.
“There’s a newcomer,” Clark said; “up there near the door.”
“The chap with the rosy locks?” answered Hamlin. “Yes, he’s new, but he seems to be making himself very much at home. He’s talking away with the old fellows as if he had known them all his life. There! Jimmy’s opening the doors. Let’s wait here a bit. I don’t care to hustle through that crowd.”
“Evidently, he of the rosy locks doesn’t either,” remarked Clark, noticing that the red-haired boy had not passed in with the throng, but remained on the upper step with two or three other boys.
“Look at him, will you! Well, if he isn’t a cheeky cad!” exclaimed Hamlin a moment later, as the boy they were watching pulled off his hat and made a low bow to a group of girls passing to the other door. Among these girls was Gordon’s sister, and Grace Harlan, a cousin of Hamlin’s.
“I’d like to punch his head for him. He doesn’t know those girls—not one of them spoke to him,” Hamlin added.
“Wonder if he’ll be in our section,” said Clark, as the three boys passed up the steps.
“Hope not,” replied Hamlin. “We don’t want any of his sort in section D.”
A shout of welcome met them as they entered their own class-room, and Clark felt happier than he had ever felt before in that school-room as one and another called out a friendly greeting. Several took pains to speak to Freeman, whose sensitive face showed his appreciation of the kindness.
“Wonder if Green isn’t coming back,” said Gordon, noticing his vacant seat.
“No,” volunteered Coyle, “he’s gone to work.”
Gordon and Hamlin exchanged glances of satisfaction at this information, and both thought, “One less of the Antis.”
Green had been one of the most disagreeable boys in the class, and very few felt sorry that he would come among them no more. Several other seats were vacant, but only one of the L. A. O.’s had failed to return. That one was Bates, who had gone to boarding-school.
Soon after the opening exercises were over, Prof Keene appeared with four new boys, and Hamlin threw a doleful glance at Clark, for the first of the new-comers was the red-headed boy whom they had seen on the steps. The second was a tall, handsome lad of perhaps seventeen, and the other two were ordinary looking boys of ordinary ability, not destined to have much influence one way or the other on the standing of section D.
Of course the school could not get into smooth running order that first day, and the recess was prolonged to nearly twice its usual length. A group of the L. A. O.’s quickly got together in a corner of the playground, and, as Hamlin, Gordon, Raleigh and Sherman were among the number, the talk soon drifted to the subjects dear to all their hearts—the L. A. O. and the standing of D section.
“Say, fellows,” Hamlin began, “with Green and Henderson gone, seems to me we might get the few Antis left to join us now. If they’d only do their best, we could easily put old section D at the top this year.”
“There’s Crawford left—and Coyle,” remarked one, doubtfully.
“Coyle’s a bad lot, I know, but he’s only one; and somehow, I’ve a notion that Crawford has come back with different ideas, this term,” said Gordon.
“Why—what makes you think that?” questioned Raleigh.
“I don’t know really,” answered Gordon, thoughtfully, “only somehow there’s a different air about him. There he is over there, now.”
Every eye in the group followed Gordon’s glance to where Crawford stood leaning against the fence. There was no one near him, and something in his attitude, and in the expression of his face, convinced more than one of the boys that Gordon was right, and that Crawford was changed somehow.
“Suppose there’d be any use in asking him to join the L. A. O.?” questioned Sherman, after a moment’s silence.
“I should say ask him, by all means. He can’t do more than refuse,” said Gordon; “and we must ask the new fellows, of course. Hamlin, will you interview Rosy or the black-eyed chap?”
“Neither. I’ll take the other two fellows,” said Hamlin, promptly.
“All right, then I’ll see to the black-eyed fellow; and Sherman, you might interview Rosy. I’m going to speak to Crawford, now.”
Crawford looked greatly surprised as Gordon approached, and yet more surprised when the latter made known his errand. He dropped his eyes, the color mounted in his dark cheeks, and for a moment he was silent. Then he looked Gordon full in the face and said slowly:—
“Do you really want me, Gordon?”
“I certainly do, or I would not have asked you,” was the quiet reply.
“And the other fellows?” questioned Crawford.
“I think we shall all be glad to have you join us, Crawford,” said Gordon.
“Gordon—I don’t suppose you know what it is to be ashamed of yourself through and through. I do—and I don’t enjoy the feeling.” There was a ring of pain in Crawford’s voice as he spoke, and Gordon could not question his sincerity. He held out his hand saying, heartily:—
“The best of us go wrong so often that we can’t afford to be hard on anybody who is honestly sorry, Crawford. I want you on our side this year to help us make the old Central proud of section D.”
Crawford grasped the offered hand and then turned away without another word, but Gordon felt that the look on his face was more eloquent than any words could have been.
When he went back to the group in the corner and reported his success, some of the boys looked doubtful. They found it hard yet to believe that Crawford was in earnest, but at least they were glad to be able to hope that he would no longer lead the idle and troublesome element into fresh mischief.
“If Coyle could only be gotten rid of, now,” remarked Raleigh, “we might hope to make a fine record this year, so far as deportment goes. It remains to be seen what kind of students these new fellows are.”
“That black-eyed chap looks as if he had brains,” remarked Reed.
“Looks to me as if he thought he had the monopoly of brains,” put in Hamlin.
“He does have rather a high and mighty air,” said Sherman. “May be only shyness, though. Some fellows put on airs like that when their hearts are in their boots.”
“He isn’t troubled with shyness—anything but,” retorted Hamlin.
“Neither is Rosy, for that matter,” remarked Clark laughingly.
“You’re right there, Clark,” said Hamlin; “but there goes the bell. Say, Gordon,” he added, as they moved towards the door, “can’t we have a meeting of the L. A. O. to-morrow, to let these new fellows get an idea of what we want to do this year?”
“All right,” responded Gordon, “we’ll say after school to-morrow, then.”
When, the next day, Gordon called the meeting to order, his face beamed with satisfaction as he looked around and saw that almost the entire section was present. The only exceptions were Coyle, Barber, one of his special friends, and the black-eyed boy whom Gordon was to have invited to join them.
This was the first of these meetings at which Clark, Freeman or Crawford had been present, but certainly no one in the room was more interested than these three, who for such different reasons had hitherto been absent.
Gordon was usually very quiet and rather reserved, but he was very fond of the Central high school, as his father had been before him, and he had come back full of the desire that it should stand as high, if not higher, this year, than in the old days when his father was so proud of its reputation. So, to-day, he was so eager and so full of enthusiastic plans for raising the standard of the class, and gaining for it first rank in the school, that before long the other members of the L. A. O. caught something of his spirit, and all sorts of plans and propositions were made. It was unanimously resolved that every member should do his very best in class, and that not even the drill or ball games should be allowed to interfere with the great object.
Three of the new boys were present at this meeting, but only Dixon, or “Rosy,” as he was already dubbed in the class, made any remarks. He was on his feet half a dozen times, asking questions, making suggestions, or offering amendments.
When the meeting was over, and all but Gordon and Hamlin had left the room, the latter threw himself into a seat exclaiming, “Well, I reckon we’ll get enough of that Rosy before the year is ended! He’s of a retiring disposition, isn’t he?”
Gordon laughed. “He won’t have so many questions to ask next time,” he said.
“Won’t? Don’t you believe it. He’ll always have a raft of ’em to reel off. He may be a very nice chap, but deliver me from having anything to do with any more of the sort. But how about his royal highness with the black eyes? Wouldn’t he condescend to accept the invitation?”
“No,” said Gordon quietly, though his face flushed at the question.
“Oh, come, Gordon, you might as well out with it. Your face gives you away. What did he say?”
“Well,” said Gordon with a half laugh, “he drew himself up and looked at me as if I were a toad or a snake, and remarked that he had come here to study—not to fool away his time in clubs or any such nonsense, and that he would thank me to leave him alone.”
“Whew!” whistled Hamlin, “he’ll be pretty popular here, won’t he?” Then he added, indignantly, “Well, if he isn’t a cool customer! I reckon he’ll be let alone emphatically, hereafter.”
“Yes,” said Gordon, “but there’s one good thing. If he’s a fine scholar, and I fancy that he is, he’ll help the section that way, in spite of himself; and certainly, that sort of a fellow won’t be cutting up or getting others into mischief, so he won’t work against the L. A. O.”
“That’s so,” answered Hamlin; “but what a chump he is to take such a stand as that, and lose all the good times he might have here.”
“Yes,” assented Gordon, “but see here, Hamlin, let’s not tell the other fellows anything about this. It would turn them all against him, and I don’t think he’s likely to make many friends anyhow.”
“Evidently he does not care to make any,” said Hamlin.
“It seems not, but you know if the fellows get set against him, some of them will do their best to make it hot for him. You and I don’t want to have any hand in that sort of thing, so we’ll keep mum about this—shan’t we?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” grumbled Hamlin. “I feel as if I’d like to kick him myself, and I reckon most of the boys would feel the same way. We’ll let his royal highness severely alone, since that’s his pleasure. By the way, what is his name, anyhow?”
“Somebody said it was Everett St. John. Perhaps it’s on the strength of his aristocratic name that he puts on so many airs,” replied Gordon.
On the outer steps a group of boys stood talking and laughing—among them, Rosy. He stepped forward, and slipped his arm familiarly through Hamlin’s, as the latter came down the stairs with Gordon.
“I say, Hamlin,” he began, not in the least disconcerted at Hamlin’s straightening out his arm like a poker, “I wish you’d introduce me to Grace Harlan. She’s a cousin of yours, isn’t she?”
“Miss Harlan is my cousin,” answered Hamlin coldly, “but I never introduce boys to her except at her own request.”
“Ho, ho, Rosy—got squelched that time,” snickered Coyle, as Hamlin and Gordon passed on.
“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ll get somebody else to introduce me. Miss Harlan is the prettiest girl I’ve seen in an age,” responded Rosy serenely, while Hamlin was growling in Gordon’s ear, “Introduce him to Grace, indeed! I think I see myself doing it.”
Being a little late next morning, Hamlin took a short cut to school, passing through a side street where he seldom went. He was going along at a rapid pace when he saw Dixon come out of a door half-way down the block. When Hamlin reached the place he glanced up at the still open door. It was a low saloon.
“Dear me,” he thought, “I wish that fellow had never come near the Central. It was bad enough before, but now that I know that he goes into such holes as that—what am I to do about it? He’ll probably get other fellows in there, too. Wonder if I ought to tell Bobby.”
But to “tell on a fellow,” even in a case like this, was very repugnant to Hamlin.
“I can’t do it yet a while,” he decided, “but I’ll keep a sharp eye on him, and if I ever see him in such a place again, I’ll warn him that I’ll report him unless he stops it.”
Dixon was standing by the school gate, and greeted Hamlin with the utmost cordiality, seeming not to notice the coldness with which the other responded. It was impossible to freeze Dixon—he simply would not be frozen.
On this morning the regular recitations were to begin, and Gordon, Clark and Hamlin were eager to hear the new boys recite, that they might judge whether they would be helps or hindrances in that which our boys were so anxious to accomplish this year—to make D the banner section of the school.
They knew that two other sections, at least, were as eager and as determined as they to hold the first place, and one or two poor scholars might bring the record down in spite of all that could be done by others in the class. So eyes and ears were alert that morning in section D.
The first recitation was that of the Latin class. Clark had easily held first rank in this, though Hamlin, Gordon and Sherman were all excellent scholars. The lesson this morning was from Virgil, and according to the usual custom, the class was seated, each boy standing only during his own recitation.
“Reed, you may begin,” Mr. Horton said, “and when you have read five lines, the next may continue.”
One after another, the boys rendered the lines, and, though some had blundered, nobody had failed when it came to Clark. Clark never had been known to fail in Latin translation. The others attended to his recitation only because it was sure to be better than their own; but to-day they wanted him to get through so that they might listen to Everett St. John, who was the next in order.
The lesson was from Virgil, and Clark’s lines ended with the words of Æneas, which he translated thus:—
“By its own fortune, a tempest drove us, carried over different waters, to the Libyan shores—if by chance, the name of Troy has come through your ears. I am the pious Æneas, known by fame above the air, who carry with me in my ship the Penates torn from the enemy. I seek Italy, my country, and a race from greatest Jove.”
As Clark took his seat, St. John rose and said coolly:—
“Those last lines were very roughly rendered, Mr. Horton. It is much better this way:—
“A tempest, by its own chance, drove us, borne from ancient Troy (if, perchance, the name of Troy has reached your ears), over various waters, to the African shores. I am the pious Æneas, known by fame above the sky, who bear with me, in my fleet, the Penates snatched from the foe. I seek Italy, my fatherland, and an ancestry that sprang from sovereign Jove.”
Then, without noticing in the least the astonished and indignant glances of the boys, who resented the criticism on Clark, not so much because it was Clark, but because it was the finest Latin scholar in the class, St. John proceeded with his own five lines, translating not only very correctly, but into choice and elegant English.
Mr. Horton’s face expressed his satisfaction at such an acquisition to the classical department. He even forgot the rudeness shown to Clark, who had come to be one of his favorite pupils, so greatly did he enjoy the thought of teaching such a scholar, and he turned with a sigh to the next boy, whose lame, halting sentences formed so great a contrast to St. John’s.
Nobody except the one reciting paid much attention then, until Dixon arose. It was impossible to ignore Dixon anywhere. Already he had succeeded in making both friends and enemies, and now the eyes of all the class were fixed on him.
“Good!” thought Gordon, as Dixon read smoothly on. “He won’t pull us down, and if St. John’s as good in other things as he is in Latin, he’ll help us up in spite of himself. Guess he’ll go ahead of Clark. I’m sorry for Clark, though.”
And much the same thoughts were in the minds of many of the boys when the recitation was over. Slowly, but surely, the feeling that had been so strong against Clark was dying out. Some few of the boys still stood aloof from him, however, and recalled, at intervals, the charges made against him early in the previous year. But Hamlin’s strong friendship for him, and his own quiet, steady doing of his duty, and holding himself apart, yet without any show of enmity or ill-feeling, had had their effect upon his schoolmates, and most of them were ready now to be friends with him; while all, whether friends or not, were proud of his scholarship, and had come to look upon him as the leader of the class in that line. So they were inclined to resent St. John’s arrogant assumption of superiority, and to wish that Clark could “dig in and get ahead of him,” as Reed expressed it.
In mathematics it was much the same, though here Hamlin and Gordon stood almost as high as Clark; would have stood quite as high, if they had had Clark’s power of concentration and application.
“I’ve had to learn how to study,” he had said once to Hamlin. “If you and Gordon had been obliged to do it, as I have, I shouldn’t be a bit ahead of you.”
With Everett St. John, it was not necessity, but the instinct of a born student that gave him the power to grasp and master whatever he studied. In the geometry class, his clear, concise demonstrations awakened at once the despair and the admiration of most of the class, while they aroused in our three boys an eager determination to work as they never had worked before over those lines and angles.
Gordon drew a long breath, as he joined Clark and Hamlin at recess.
“Well, one thing is certain, and that is that St. John is bound to help our record, if he keeps on as he has begun,” he said.
“Yes, and carry off all the prizes, too,” grumbled Hamlin.
“That’s so,” said Freeman, who was standing by. He spoke sadly, for his only chance of a college education lay in his gaining one of the scholarships offered as prizes to the senior class.
“Well,” laughed Hamlin, “he may win all the scholarships, but he certainly can go to but one college, so somebody else is bound to have a chance.”
“That reminds me,” said Clark, “I heard last evening that two new scholarships had been offered.”
“Where?” asked half a dozen voices.
“One to Lehigh, and one to Jamestown College, I believe.”
“Good!” said Hamlin. “That makes six scholarships, and if his royal highness—Mr. Everett St. John—should come out No. 1, as likely as not he would not go to any college that offers us a scholarship. He’s so high and mighty that he’d probably go only to the toniest and most expensive college in the country.”
“Rosy came out pretty well, too,” said Reed.
“Yes, better than I thought he would,” said Gordon. “Anyway, I’m glad that neither of ’em is likely to pull us down. I believe old section D has a fair chance to come out No. 1 this year.”
“Certainly looks like it,” responded Hamlin, “and nobody has worked harder to bring it about than you have, Gordon.”
“I’m so glad that Raleigh concluded to come back this year,” was all Gordon answered.
For several weeks things went smoothly in section D. Mr. Horton was delighted, for a more orderly class-room could not be desired. Once in a while, Coyle and Barber would try to start some mischief, but they were in far too great a minority for anything of that sort to prosper. By the first of November, they and St. John were the only members of the class who were not also members of the L. A. O.; and to be a member of the L. A. O. this year meant to be not only pledged to use all one’s influence for good order in the class-room and gentlemanly deportment in all places and at all times, but it also meant now to be fully determined that no effort should be spared on the part of each member to place section D at the head of the old Central.
In short, Gordon and Hamlin had succeeded in imparting their enthusiasm, in greater or less degree, to every boy in the class with the exception of the three mentioned; and this enthusiasm received fresh impetus at the weekly meetings of the L. A. O.
Besides, the duller boys of the class were continually watched and helped by the class leaders, and helped in such friendly fashion, and so thoroughly, that their pride was not hurt, and a healthy ambition to help themselves was being awakened in them.
Decidedly the most unpopular boy in the class was Everett St. John, but this fact troubled him not at all. So long as his schoolmates let him alone, he cared not the least what they thought of him, and they did let him severely alone, for, after a week or two no one ever spoke to him. Those who had ventured to do so had been met so coldly, not to say rudely, that they had no desire to repeat the experience. But however much they might dislike him, they could not fail to appreciate and admire his ability. Never before had section D had such fine recitations as St. John’s in Latin and English literature.
The inevitable result was that those who had stood highest in the class heretofore were stimulated to fresh effort, and soon found themselves doing much better work than they had supposed themselves capable of doing—to Mr. Horton’s great satisfaction.
Nor was the spirit of ambition limited to section D. It spread to other sections, and other teachers began to be encouraged by increased application, and consequently, better recitations in their classes.
It was a singular fact, that this most unusual improvement in the spirit of the school should have been so largely due to a new scholar who cared nothing whatever about the school, and was solely interested in himself and his own work; but so it was.
In October, there came a sudden stir of interest and excitement of a different sort, namely, the appointment of Henderson’s successor in the battalion.
Gordon was now major, and Hamlin had taken his place as captain of Company C.
The appointments had heretofore been made by Prof. Keene, and the liveliest interest was awakened when he announced that, this time, the captain was to be elected by vote of the officers of the battalion and all the members of Company C.
No one was eligible for the captaincy except those members of the senior class whose average during the previous years had been ninety or more, and of these there were but eight, and of these, two—one of whom was Clark—had not been in the battalion at all, and so of course could not be candidates. The names of the remaining six were put on the bulletin board, and Prof. Keene announced that the vote would be taken after school on Friday of that week.
Graham and Raleigh stood highest on the list, each having averaged ninety-four for the previous years. Then came Griffin, the first lieutenant of Company C, with an average of ninety-two; then Fry, Cole and Edson, with averages of ninety-one and ninety. The last three belonged to another section.
Prof. Keene had supposed that the choice would lie between Graham and Raleigh, and as he was perfectly willing that either should hold the position, he had decided that the one that the boys preferred should be captain. He had not imagined that any one of the other four would be considered at all, and was wholly unprepared for the strong feeling and sharp rivalry that was soon developed. Neither was he fully aware of the character of some of the boys in Company C. There were a few fine fellows in the company, but there were more who were idle and indifferent to everything but “fun,” and a few who were really bad, and who would not hesitate to sacrifice the best interests of the school to carry out their own schemes. Some of these last had been friends of Henderson, and these had by no means forgotten the occurrences at the competitive drill. They resented Henderson’s enforced departure, and the disgrace that had fallen upon the company rankled in their minds. To these, the idea of having Graham or Raleigh for a captain was most distasteful.
Coyle was second lieutenant of Company C, and he and Barber, who belonged to another company, quickly made up their minds that, if possible, these two should be defeated on Friday.
Monday was “drill day,” and when the drill was over, Coyle privately asked all of Company C except the first lieutenant, who was a particular friend of Graham’s, to stop and talk the matter over. The discussion was held with closed doors, and a lively one it was.
Coyle was the first speaker.
“I say, fellows,” he began, eagerly, “we’ve got a chance now to choose our captain, and I move that we boom Griffin. I, for one, don’t want any such prig as Graham or Raleigh put over us. Griffin here is worth a dozen such chaps.”
All eyes were turned on Griffin as Coyle sat down, and somebody called, “Speech, speech.”
“I’m not much of a speechifier,” said Griffin, rising, “but I appreciate the honor you have done me, and if I’m elected, I’ll do my best to help you win the red ribbons next June.”
Then Barber sprang up.
“Griffin hasn’t got quite such high marks as those other fellows,” he said, “but he’s no end better up in tactics, and I’d rather have him for captain if he wasn’t.”
Coyle started vigorous applause at this, but now another spoke up.
“I haven’t a thing to say against Griffin,” he began. “He’s well up in the drill, and understands the duties of a captain; but the same is true of Graham, and I’m sure that most of the officers will vote for him. I don’t believe we could elect Griffin.”
“Oh, shucks! We can elect him if we all hang together,” cried Coyle, springing to his feet again. “Now see here—there are twenty-two officers, and in Company C there are forty men. Now if the company will go solid for Griffin, even without a vote from a single officer, we shall elect him by a big majority.”
Carr, a boy with a quiet, resolute face, now rose and said quietly, “I shall vote for Graham, because I believe that he can do more for Company C than any other on the list.”
Barber hissed then; whereupon another boy sprang up and cried, “I move that any fellow that hisses be put out. If we can’t discuss this matter like gentlemen, we’d better adjourn right now. Every fellow here has a right to his own opinion, I take it—and I’ve just as much right to vote for Graham as Barber has to vote for Griffin, and I intend to do it.”
Barber, seeing that the tide of feeling was with the last speaker, jumped up, and, with a good-natured laugh, exclaimed, “Don’t lay that little hiss up against me, boys. It was only a whistle that slipped up on my front teeth.”
The laugh that followed scored one for Barber and the candidate that he favored.
But Coyle’s quick eyes had been watching the faces of the boys, and now he sprang up again.
“It’s getting late,” he said, “and I move that we adjourn, and meet again Wednesday after drill. That will give us all time to think the matter over, and make up our minds whom we’ll vote for. But see here,” as a general movement expressed the approval of the motion to adjourn, “don’t forget that Griffin stands A No. 1 in tactics, and we all want to win the gold medal and red ribbons next June.”
“Three cheers for Coyle and Griffin,” shouted somebody, and in two minutes the room was empty; but as the boys hurried homeward, the talk was all about the election.
Coyle and Barber were the last to leave the room.
“I’d like to punch the heads of some of those fellows,” growled Coyle. “If the company would only go solid for Griffin, it wouldn’t matter how the officers voted.”
“No, we’d have nearly two-thirds majority,” answered Barber, “and I’d give something to see Graham and Raleigh defeated. I believe I care more for that than to put Griffin in. They’re all so mighty high and tony in section D this year, a fellow can’t have a bit of fun. Might as well be in a reform school, and done with it.”
“Right you are,” responded Coyle. “Gordon and Hamlin have managed somehow to get hold of about all the section except you and me, and they’ve set ’em all to digging. Not much like last year, is it? Who’d ever have believed that Crawford would go over to the L. A. O.! He’s as meek as Moses now-a-days.”
“So he is,” echoed Barber, “an’ if we have Graham or Raleigh for captain, the drill will be as bad as the school-room. They’ll make the fellows toe the mark and be down on ’em like sixty for the least thing wrong.”
“We just won’t have Graham or Raleigh,” cried Coyle, positively. “You and I must see the fellows we’re sure of before to-morrow night, and find some way of putting Griffin in.”
“I don’t see how we’re going to do it, if some of the company vote for Graham, and you see they will, from what they said to-day,” replied Barber.
“I see that they mean to now,” said Coyle, “but it does not follow that they will be of the same mind next Friday. It’s our business to make ’em change their minds. Now go home and think hard, Barber, and I’ll set my wits to work, and see if we can’t fix up some plan that will win the day for ‘we, us and Company’ C,” said Coyle, as he stopped at his own home.
Usually Coyle was asleep two minutes after his head touched his pillow, but that night he lay awake more than an hour or two, his thoughts busy with plots and plans to accomplish his purpose.
He was at Barber’s door soon after eight o’clock next morning, and that young gentleman, swallowing the last of his breakfast with most unhealthy rapidity, joined him in response to his impatient whistle.
“I’ve thought of a way to spike Graham’s guns,” Coyle began, and while his companion listened with eager interest, he proceeded to unfold his scheme.
“That’s fine,” Barber exclaimed, slapping Coyle on the shoulder, as the latter ceased speaking. “I’m sure our crowd will catch on to that little game, and I believe we can rope in most of the Grahamites without much trouble.”
Coyle looked pleased at the other’s hearty approval.
“You and I must let the fellows we’re sure of into our scheme, and then we’ll tell the doubtful ones enough to secure their votes, and no more,” he said.
Before school, at recess, and after school that day, Coyle and Barber were busy boys. Barber gathered in a corner of the playground, at recess, all the members of Company C whom he knew to be strongly in favor of Griffin, and to them unfolded Coyle’s plan.
Meantime, Coyle joined another group of the members of Company C. After listening for a few minutes, to what one and another had to say, he remarked casually, “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’d about made up my mind to let Griffin go, and vote for Graham. He’s a prime fellow if he is a little too stiff—but something I heard this morning made me rather inclined to stick to Griffin.”
“What was it you heard?” questioned several of the group.
“Why, that Gordon and Hamlin are working for all they are worth, to get self-government into the battalion.”
“Self-government? What do you mean by that?” queried one, while all listened for the reply.
“Don’t you know how they manage in some of the military schools? The boys elect a judge and jury from their own number, and if any boy does anything contrary to rules, they try him and pronounce sentence themselves, subject of course to the principal’s approval.”
“Well, what’s the matter with that? We’d have it all in our own hands, and we could make our punishments as light as we pleased,” laughed one.
“Not much—if Graham or Raleigh was captain, and Gordon judge, as he would be. Those fellows are both right under Gordon’s thumb, and he thinks it’s a sin to smile in school hours. He’s crazy on the subject of the reputation of the Central, and he’s got every fellow in our section, except Barber and me—and his royal highness, St. John—to work for honors. You can see how it will be if his candidate, Graham, is elected—no more jolly times for Company C. All but three or four of the officers are ready to back Gordon and Hamlin, whatever they propose, and if they put their self-government scheme through, we fellows in Company C, that like a bit of fun now and then, won’t have any show at all. Cigarette smoking will be a capital crime, and if a fellow happens to say ‘by ginger’ he’ll be in disgrace for a month. We’ll get no favors—you’ll see. It will be the fellows that dig into Latin and geometry day and night, that will be favored, and those of us that like to see a little of life and have a good time now and then, will get sat upon every time.”
“But are you sure that Graham favors this self-government scheme, Coyle?” questioned one.
“Heard Graham himself say to Hamlin that if he was elected, that’s the thing he’d work for—another form of the L. A. O. they’re so proud of in our section,” replied Coyle.
“If that’s so, I’m inclined not to vote for Graham. How about Raleigh? Is he of the same mind?” questioned another.
“Like as two peas in a pod,” replied Coyle, promptly.
“Well, then, I’ll vote for Griffin. He’s as good in the drill as either of the others, and who cares for two or three credits less in his average?” said a third.
“That for his average,” cried another, snapping his fingers. “This is our last year in the old battalion, and I’d rather Company C would carry off the prizes in the next annual drill than to come out number one in the school myself.”
“Well,” said Coyle, “You know Griffin can’t be beat as a drill-master, and he’s a jolly good fellow besides, and not the one to be always snooping around to see if a man happens to have a cigarette or a pack of cards in his pocket. We don’t want a straight-laced parson like Graham put over Company C. Why not all vote for Griffin and done with it? I think it would be fine, anyhow, to carry the election against Gordon’s candidate. Gordon thinks he’s a bigger man than Professor Keene himself, and it would take him down a peg or two to see Griffin put in place of his shadow, Alec Graham.”
“’Twould be a good joke on Gordon, wouldn’t it!” remarked one.
“Make him open his eyes a little.”
“And show him that somebody else in the school besides himself has a little influence,” added Coyle, cunningly fanning the flame that he saw he had kindled.
Before the bell rang, all in the group had agreed to vote for Griffin. This made thirty so pledged, besides Griffin himself, Coyle and Barber, and one of the other captains, thirty-four in all, which would give Griffin the majority. Coyle and Barber were outwardly quiet, but inwardly jubilant.
The next morning, Coyle went to school with a new suggestion, over which he and Barber chuckled delightedly before they talked it over with the Griffin faction.
After drill that day, a meeting was held to talk over the election, the officers being anxious to get an idea of what the boys of Company C meant to do. Their surprise was unbounded when Coyle announced that he could speak for thirty-three who would vote for Graham.
“For Graham,” repeated Hamlin, incredulously, “Why, that’s fine. Looks as if Graham would have a unanimous vote.”
“No, sir, I’m going to vote for Raleigh,” cried one, and three or four others shouted, “So am I.”
But at this Raleigh, who was the only one of the candidates present, sprang to his feet.
“I’m awfully obliged to you,” he cried, “but I came in just on purpose to say that I’d rather remain lieutenant of Company D; honest, I would. I fit in there pretty well, I believe, and I’m not sure that I’d make a good captain; and anyhow, I’ve made up my mind to have my name withdrawn, and I do hope that those of you who would have voted for me, will vote for Graham as I’m going to do. I’d be just pleased to have a unanimous vote for him.”
“Three cheers for Lieutenant Raleigh,” shouted one of his friends, as Raleigh, very red in the face, dropped into his seat.
Then Gordon arose. “You see how it is,” he said; “Raleigh absolutely refuses to be a candidate for promotion, and the matter seems to rest between Graham and Griffin; or at least, I supposed it did, until Coyle made his statement just now. I think with Raleigh, that it would be fine to have a unanimous vote for Graham. He would be sure then that he would have the support of Company C, and I know how much it means to a captain to feel that his men are all friendly, and ready to back him up in whatever he plans for the good of his company.”
Here Coyle winked at Barber, and scowls and grins were noticeable among Griffin’s friends. Hamlin’s quick eyes noted this little by-play, and a vague feeling of distrust and uncertainty began to trouble him. He sprang up and said, “You all know, I am sure, that it is because the school has taken a higher stand this year, that Professor Keene decided to let us choose the captain of Company C, and he’s sure to be satisfied if we elect Graham, for you all know that we haven’t a finer all-around fellow in the school. For myself, I’ve only one objection to him as captain of Company C, and that is, that I’m awfully afraid that, under his training, you will be so perfect in drill that you’ll get the red ribbons away from Company D next June.”
“You bet we mean to,” shouted a coarse voice from Company C, as Hamlin sat down, and there was something in the rude tone that stirred the anger of more than one of Graham’s friends.
When the meeting was over, Hamlin said to Gordon, “Do you suppose Coyle meant what he said, or is there some trick under it?”
“Why, how could there be any trick? He said positively that thirty-three of them were pledged to vote for Graham, and none of the rest denied it.”
“I know he did,” said Hamlin doubtfully, “but I was watching the faces of those fellows while you were speaking, and I believe there’s something underhanded going on. I don’t trust Coyle. He’s tricky.”
“I know he is,” responded Gordon, “and he’d as soon lie as tell the truth any time; but if he’d been lying to-day, some of those fellows would have contradicted him, I’m sure.”
“Well, I hope it’s all right, but somehow I don’t feel sure of it,” was Hamlin’s response.