Jack Hall

Three days later the whole school was called together directly after breakfast to hear a communication from Dr. Meredith. No one knew precisely what was in the wind, but all sorts of rumors had been floating about ever since the morning subsequent to the explosion. The only one of these that appeared to have substantial foundation was the report which had gained currency within the last twenty-four hours that Horton was to leave for good. The reason was not known beyond a general suspicion that his departure was connected with the destruction of the tool-house. When it was ascertained that he had actually gone early in the morning without bidding good-by to anybody, the excitement was at fever heat. What added to the mystery was that Jack Hall, whose confession of the daring deed had leaked out, still remained.

Utopia was puzzled, to say the least, and was very prompt in filing into the schoolroom to listen to the expected solution of the enigma. Thither the Doctor came too, on the stroke of the hour, looking sad, and accompanied by all the masters, who ranged themselves about him as at one of the school exhibitions. Before him on the desk lay a suggestive ferule, the unaccustomed sight of which caused expectancy to stand on tiptoe.

“Boys of Utopia School,” said Dr. Meredith with solemnity, “as you all know, an unpardonably malicious piece of mischief was committed against the school property a few days since. It was the last and most offensive in a series of deliberate acts of insubordination which have caused me much annoyance, and which I have put up with too long, I am inclined to think, for the best good of those concerned in them. By chance,” continued the Doctor, after a moment’s delay, “suspicion fastened itself on certain members of the school, who were sent for by me and questioned on the subject. One boy confessed to having been directly connected with the explosion; the others denied all knowledge of it. As it happened, the evidence possessed by us was not definite enough to convict as against his own word any one of those suspected, with a single exception, and I will add that at the time I had no knowledge which of the boys summoned this exception applied to. The janitor who pursued the incendiaries on the night in question found in the basket, which was left by them hanging from the window, a penknife. This penknife,” said the Doctor slowly, “was proved to belong, I regret with deep sorrow to state, to one of the boys who had denied in unqualified terms any knowledge of the outrage which had been committed. That boy is no longer a member of this school. I have written to his parents to remove him, and early this morning he left Utopia.

“If there is anything that is odious to me,” he continued presently, after the murmur which followed this announcement had subsided, “and which I am determined to root out of this school at any cost, it is falsehood. I made a point to caution each one of you against it, my dear boys, at the time you entered Utopia, and my constant prayer is that your souls may be kept clean from this deadly foe to character. What is most threatening to-day in the outlook for the noble development of this great democratic country of ours is the tendency to condone too easily embezzlement, breaches of trust, bribery, and other forms of public and private dishonesty, the kernel of which is deceit, and in the fostering of which lies national ruin. If,” he said, looking round the schoolroom, “there is any boy here to-day who is so unhappy as to have a lie on his conscience, I beseech him as his master and his friend to let it be there no longer. Any punishment that he may be called upon to bear will be as nothing compared with the evil which concealment will work upon his character and life.”

As the Doctor paused and seemed to be waiting for some one to step forward, each boy glanced at his neighbor, wondering for the most part who was meant. Jack, who had been listening with feverish impatience to every word, refrained from looking directly at Bill, but managed to take a peep at him sideways. To all appearances the Pater Primus was completely at his ease and indisposed to follow the hint thrown out to him. No one stirred, and the silence, which became oppressive at last, was broken by the master, who resumed rather sadly:—

“When the boy who was manly enough to confess his wrong-doing left my presence the other day, I thought that it would be necessary for me in order to maintain the dignity of the school to inflict the most serious punishment in my power—that is expulsion. I should have hated to do so, for I like the boy, deeply as I deplore the rank insubordination and gross idleness of which he has been guilty since he came to Utopia. I am ready to believe that it will be more for his good to remain among us than to be sent away in disgrace; and I am heartily glad that the greater fault committed by another enables me to exercise leniency in his particular case. I have been given to understand by those interested in him,” pursued the Doctor, “that he is sorry for his ill behavior and anxious to turn over a new leaf. I shall give him the chance to do so; but I am obliged nevertheless not to pass by without serious notice the wicked breach of discipline which he committed in wantonly destroying the property of the school. There was no excuse for the act whatever, and it was singularly unprovoked and impertinent. Therefore I am compelled to have recourse to a form of punishment which, except in the most extreme cases, should not be employed by a master. I am glad to say that never before while I have been at Utopia has it been necessary for me to whip a pupil. I am about to do so now because of the unusual nature of the offense of which he has been guilty.—Hall, you will come forward to receive a public whipping.”

There was a painful silence, and then poor Jack, who had been sent for by the Doctor late on the previous evening and informed as to what was in store for him, arose and walked down the aisle. His blood was boiling with shame and anger, but at the same time he had made up his mind to submit to the flogging and to bear it without flinching, in acknowledgment of the kind words of encouragement and friendship which his master had spoken to him when he told him what his punishment was to be,—words which made Jack see more clearly than before how reckless and foolish he had been, and resolve with bitter tears before he went to sleep to try once more to resist temptation. Now, galling as was the ordeal, and though the tears of mortification welled into his eyes in spite of resolute biting of the lips, he walked quietly up to the desk.

Dr. Meredith had risen and stood ready with the ferule.

“Hold out your right hand, Hall.”

Jack obeyed.

Down came the blows—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen;—no love pats, but genuine hard stinging blows which were meant to hurt, and which did hurt.

“Now, the other hand.”

Fifteen more followed no less scorching than their predecessors.

“That will do. You may take your seat.”

Jack, whose only consolation at the moment was that he had not winced, got back to his desk somehow or other, and heard as in a daze the faltering voice of his castigator in conclusion:—

“I hope to heaven, my dear boys, that it will never be necessary for me to do such a thing again. I would much rather, believe me, that every one of those blows had been on my own hands. The pain would have been far less than what I suffered in inflicting them.”

A moment later Jack knew that the school had arisen and was pouring out of the room. He had covered his face with his hands and bent his head upon the desk. Sob followed sob in quick succession, and his heart seemed to be bursting. Carlisle, who had remained behind, stood over him and stroked his head gently. After such an experience, a nature strong and virile as Jack’s must needs find a vent for its pent-up anguish. But bitter as were his feelings, he knew in his heart that he had deserved his punishment.

It was many weeks before Jack recovered his spirits. At first he walked about with a crestfallen air, like one in disgrace. He kept apart by himself, and instead of the spirited leader of old, seemed subdued and unimpressionable. He did not enter for the spring events either at the athletic meeting or on the lake, and was judged by many to have lost all interest in sports. His changed demeanor gave a chance to Bill French to circulate the opinion expressed at the time of his confession, that he was a flat, and such is the tendency of boys to deprecate what they cannot understand that there were some who in their surprise at his apparent listlessness adopted Bill’s view of the case. Even Haseltine was staggered at his friend’s lack of enthusiasm over the prowess of the school nine, which, under the captaincy of the “Kid,” had been plucking unexpected laurels from visiting and visited teams, and rallied him on it. Hasy, by the way, had been very sore at heart himself that Jack alone should have had to bear the brunt of the tool-house escapade. Accordingly, after musing over the matter for a fortnight, he had gone one day to the Doctor, without mentioning the matter to any one, and made a clean breast of his own participation in the affair, with the expectation and almost with the hope of being made to suffer for it. But, quite to his astonishment, Dr. Meredith, after hearing his story and thanking him for having had the courage to own up, which was unquestionably the manly thing to do under the circumstances, declined to take advantage of the confession further than to talk to him kindly for half an hour on the desirability of a little more steadiness and more interest in study on his part.

“If only you felt half the concern regarding a poor recitation that you do about muffing a fly, you would be at the head of your class, Haseltine,” the Doctor had said genially,—a proposition which to his listener had seemed to border almost on the ludicrous. As if, forsooth, comparison could be made as to the relative importance of the ability to hold on to a difficult sky-scraper and any excellence in the class-room under the sun!

Hasy’s opinion on this point was so unqualified that a certain disposition to take his lessons more into account, which Jack was beginning to show, struck the young base-ball enthusiast as stronger evidence than any other adduced of his friend’s unnatural condition. Not that he for a moment went over to Bill French’s faction,—indeed, his contempt for that worthy’s behavior had been quite in proportion to Jack’s,—but as he found it impossible to understand how his crony could derive satisfaction from this new habit of trying to learn his lessons beforehand instead of letting them be hammered into him in the schoolroom, he was naturally puzzled and felt almost provoked. Indeed, his disapproval of his friend’s behavior was so sweeping that he failed to perceive that Jack in a quiet way was getting into very good form on the river by force of daily practice under the tutorship of Carlisle. Because Jack did not spurt, and appeared indisposed to tackle any and everybody, the impression was current that even in rowing, as in everything else, he was down on his marrow-bones.

So far as his own feelings went, it cannot be denied that Jack was far from cheerful during the weeks intervening between the date of his punishment and the end of his fourth-class year; and when vacation was at hand, he looked back on his efforts at improvement with a glum heart. Secretly and almost sullenly he had tried hard to redeem himself; but though others might see indications of progress, it seemed to our hero as though he was just as much in the slough as ever. He had always entertained the fancy that if at any time he should take it into his head to do well at his books and become a pattern of exemplary conduct, he would find it a perfectly simple matter to do so. Accordingly the poor fellow was now learning the lesson which so many have to learn, that continued neglect and frowardness can only be atoned for by humiliation and despondency.

These were principally experienced in regard to his lessons, as he found slight difficulty in avoiding flagrant breaches of the rules now that the meetings of the Big Four were discontinued. The illustrious society had never been actually disbanded; but the transportation, so to speak, of one of its choice spirits, and the lack of cordiality existing between at least two of those remaining, had caused a hiatus in its proceedings which still gaped. An overture on the part of the Pater Primus to meet and talk matters over was rejected by Jack and Haseltine with scorn; and though Bill would have liked to get together by himself, as the saying is, and expel his mates with a view to reorganization, he probably had some doubts regarding the constitutionality of such a proceeding, or else was afraid of having his head punched, for he abstained from action in the matter.

But keeping up to the mark in his Latin and history and algebra was a very different affair, as Jack realized as soon as he tried to buckle down to work. He scarcely knew what to do in order to study, and it seemed at first as though he used to make a better showing when he trusted to luck, the prompting of those beside him, and the various other straws at which struggling dunces clutch when floundering in recitation. The exhibitions of ignorance which he made, now that he was bent on distinguishing himself, covered him with confusion in the presence of his instructors, and his hopeless attempts beforehand to compass the mysteries of irregular verbs, subjunctive clauses, and other grewsome obstacles in the pathway of learning, reduced him to despair. He detested study more than ever, and felt as though he should never be anywhere but at the foot of his class, struggle as he would. Pegging away seemed to make no difference. Could any one, he asked himself, tell from their respective showings in the schoolroom which had prepared his lesson in advance, Haseltine or he?

When a boy has acquired a reputation for idleness, it naturally takes time to convince those in authority over him that he is trying to do better. Some masters of course are quicker than others in noting the symptoms of change, which, as has been intimated in Jack’s case, are not apt to be obvious at the start; and the masters at Utopia were no exceptions to this rule. Although several of them had discrimination enough to recognize in the poor boy’s halting, blushing efforts the germ of awakened ambition, there were one or two who, with his recent whipping in mind, judged these signals of distress as indications that he was obstinately continuing in his old ways. Consequently his mistakes were treated by them with severity, which took the form, according to the disposition of the master, of stern reproof or of sarcasm. It was in vain that Jack’s eyes filled with tears on such occasions, for his misguided tormentors saw in them merely the simulated grief of the crocodile or unrighteous anger.

The cup of his bitterness was filled to overflowing one day just previous to the end of the term, when Mr. Opdyke, his Latin master, called him up to recite in Virgil in the presence of some visitors. Mr. Opdyke, though ambitious that his class should make a good appearance, being also a very conscientious man, felt obliged to conduct the recitation just as he would have conducted it had no stranger been present, and consequently to call up a sprinkling of poor as well as of good scholars, in order to give a just impression as to the general average.

Jack trembled in every limb as he heard the unwelcome words:

“Hall, you may go on.”

The class was reading the third book of the Æneid, and the passage which had fallen to Jack’s lot began with the five hundred and sixty-first line:

Jack managed to scan it through tolerably well, and then began to translate.

“Not less than commanded they did”—

“Mind your tense, Hall.”

“Er—do”—

“Go on. ‘They do not otherwise than commanded.’”

“At first”—

“Well? What does ‘primus’ agree with?”

“Palinurus,” says Jack at length.

“Correct. ‘And Palinurus was the first to turn,’ or, literally, ‘Palinurus first turned.’ What is ‘contorsit’ from, Hall?”

“Contorgo,” essays Jack valiantly.

“Nothing of the sort.—Anybody?”

“‘Contorqueo,’” cries a small lad, who has shot up his hand.

“Correct, Barrows. ‘Contorqueo.’ Go on, Hall.”

“And Palinurus was the first to turn the rudder”—

“Where do you find anything about rudder?” inquires Mr. Opdyke, with the irony of desperation.

“‘Rudentem.’”

“Indeed! Barrows, tell Hall what ‘rudentem’ means.”

“A rope,” suggests the youth named, too elated evidently by his first success.

“Timmins?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Brown?”

“Roaring.”

“That’s right. What part of speech is it?”

“Present participle, accusative case, from ‘rudo.’”

“Correct,” says Mr. Opdyke. “‘Rudens’ means ‘a rope,’ Barrows. Some authorities ascribe its derivation to ‘rudo’ on account of the rattling noise made by a rope. Conjugate ‘rudo,’ Barrows.”

“‘Rudo, rudire’”—

“Haseltine?”

“‘Rudo, rudare’”—

“Brown?”

“‘Rudo, rudere, rudivi, ruditum.’”

“Correct; ‘rudire, to roar, bellow, bray, rattle.’ ‘Rudentem proram, the hissing prow.’ Quite the other end of the ship to what you thought it, Hall. You may continue.”

There is an audible titter, which enrages poor Jack, who remembers that he had spent a good ten minutes the night before in trying to arrive at the meaning of “rudentem.” He staggers on through the next line by dint of Mr. Opdyke’s explanation that “remis ventisque” means “with oars and sails,” and is a regular phrase for “using every effort.” He gets a little heart by successfully conjugating “tollimur” and explaining the metaphorical use of “Manes,” his knowledge of which is directly traceable to study, if his master did but know. He gets a cropper, however, in endeavoring to struggle with “desedimus,” which he had looked for in vain under the heads of desedo, desedeo, and disedeo. When the omniscient Brown tells him that it is the preterit of desido, Jack is ready to kick himself in his disgust.

Only two more lines remain, over which Mr. Opdyke, believing, perhaps, that the context is a little difficult to master, is disposed to assist him, as, for instance, by explaining that “cava saxa” refers to “the rocks at the bottom of the sea,” and that “ter spumam elisam,” which Jack has not incorrectly rendered “the foam thrice dashed to pieces,” is significant of the mariners’ seeing the sky through a curtain of foam.

“By the way, Hall, give the principal parts of elisam.”

Jack flushes proudly. Again hard work is its own reward.

“Elido, elidere, elisi, elisum.”

Mr. Opdyke may be surprised, but he does not show it. He is the sort of man who expects his pupils to know their lessons, and displays emotion only when they fail. Besides, “elisam,” though a revelation to Jack, had several times made its appearance before during the year. He merely says shortly,—

“Well, finish.”

“We see,” starts off Jack, with confidence, but he is brought up short with another “Mind your tense.”

“We saw the foam thrice dashed to pieces and the roaring stars.”

“What?”

“The foam thrice dashed to pieces”—

“No, no; translate ‘rorantia astra.’”

“Roaring stars,” answers Jack, a trifle less assuredly than the first time. He had felt morally certain when he was preparing the lesson that this must be the meaning of the phrase from the look of it.

“Indeed!” comes again with withering scorn from his master’s lips. “Did you ever see a star roar, Hall? I have heard of boys roaring, but never of stars.”

A shout of amusement from the class, which Mr. Opdyke is not very prompt to suppress, greets this somewhat significant sally. When it has subsided, poor Jack, who is scarlet with confusion, having been told, “That will do,” after taking his seat hears Brown once more correct his error by explaining that “rorantia” is the neuter accusative plural present participle of “roro,” from “ros, dew,” and that “rorantia astra” means “dripping stars”; as, to quote the after-remark of Mr. Opdyke for Jack’s especial benefit, “any boy might have found out by looking in the lexicon.”

Jack’s heart, as he sat down, was sore within him. The visitors, smiling in spite of themselves, had evidently heard enough, for they now rose and began to thank profusely Mr. Opdyke, whose impassive calm boded no good, as the class well knew, to those who had been found wanting. In the midst of the leave-taking the bell rang, which was the signal for the close of the recitation, and a moment later the master turned and said, “Next time we will stop at line six hundred and eleven. I wish to speak to Hall a moment.”

When every one else was gone Jack approached the desk with compressed lips and with every disposition to break down and sob. He had studied his Virgil hard, as he thought, and though the passage which he had been called upon to translate was the last in the lesson, he was not conscious of having shirked it. He had done his best, and what a pitiful showing his best was! However, although his doll seemed very full of sawdust, he was not going to give old Opdyke the satisfaction of perceiving his complete unhappiness.

Accordingly the Latin master, who believed himself an adept in reading youthful character, conceived the sullen air of determination manifested by the culprit before him as consistent with a purpose to remain a dunce, and, acting on this presumption, regarded the offender sternly, and said:

“My patience is exhausted, Hall. I have put up with your negligence until I can do so no longer with any respect for myself or regard for your good. I shall report your case to Dr. Meredith forthwith. There is nothing you can say which will alter my determination,” he added sharply, as Jack seemed about to speak.

“Very well, sir,” Jack answered.

Mr. Opdyke gathered up his books and was gone without bestowing a look on his unhappy victim, who, led by that which he had just heard to foresee his dismissal from school, went sadly to his room, bewailing his unlucky stars—“rorantia astra.” The Doctor would surely take in very bad part this report of neglected studies coming so soon after his former disgrace.

In his unhappy plight he decided to go to Carlisle, to whom he told the story of his misfortunes and from whom he obtained the sympathy he was in need of. For Carlisle had not failed to observe Jack’s efforts to overcome the difficulties of the Æneid in spite of his young crony’s unwillingness to come to him for help, and was able with sincerity to support the dejected lad’s protestation that he had really studied hard.

“Studied! You have studied like a Trojan, Jack. It’s an outrage in Opdyke to accuse you of negligence. It serves you right, though, for not letting me tutor you a bit. ‘Rudentem, the rudder,’—and what was the other? Oh, yes,—‘roaring stars.’ Excuse my laughing, old fellow, you outdid yourself.”

“I don’t care so much what Opdyke thinks,” said Jack ruefully, “but I can’t bear to have the Doctor suppose I’m the same old quarter of a dollar. It’s no use my trying to learn anything, though. The harder I work the worse exhibition I make. When you’re gone next year, I don’t know what’ll become of me.”

“But I shan’t be gone. I’m going to remain another year.”

“Really?” exclaimed Jack jubilantly. “What has induced you to change your mind? When did you decide?”

“Only this morning. I’ve been talking it over with Dr. Bolles, and he thinks it would be more sensible of me not to go to college for another year. There’s no hurry, for I’m only seventeen, and though I’m feeling first-rate he believes that by waiting I should build myself up completely. So I’m to pass my entrance examinations this June and come back to the school as assistant in Latin next fall. It’s all arranged; and you’ll have to mind your P’s and Q’s, I can tell you, when you’re reciting to me, youngster.”

These last weeks of the school year were always busy ones in every sense. Beside being examination time, at the close of which was the annual exhibition day when the parents and friends of the boys came often from a great distance to see their sons declaim or recite in public, they were busy also in an athletic way. On the morning preceding that on which the prize declamation was held it had become an established custom for the four eight-oared crews to compete together and subsequently for the best single scullers at Utopia to demonstrate by a two-mile contest which could pull the fastest. During the same week also the school nine endeavored to pit itself against the most formidable base-ball team that could be lured to Utopia.

This year, as you already know, Jack took no active part in either of the aquatic tussles. He saw, as was expected, the Mohicans again crowned cocks of the lake, chiefly owing to the dashing stroke set them by Tom Bonsall, and heard with a feeling akin to envy the statement go the rounds that Tom was to have a walk-over in the single-scull contest. There were no entries against him, and by paddling over the course he would have the right to claim the silver cup annually put up as a prize by a generous patron of the school. Somehow or other there was just at this time a dearth of fast scullers among the boys of the first two years, and here was a third-classer sweeping all before him without opposition even.

The single-scull race had been fixed for as late as possible in the afternoon, in order to give any one who had taken part in the four-oared contest time to get rested. But, naturally, as few foresaw any amusement in watching Tom go over the course alone, interest in the event was very slight until the rumor got abroad shortly after twelve o’clock that Carlisle was going to have a try for the cup. It had already been announced early in the day not only that he had come out at the head of the school, but that his standing in the way of scholarship was proportionately higher than that of any previous Utopian. No one was surprised at this; but the news of his entry for the single sculls caused a veritable sensation, which found voice in a general prediction that he would be beaten. As for Jack, when he heard it, he waved his cap above his head and shouted himself hoarse. He had such faith in his friend’s ability to do anything that he tried to do, that, as astounding as the announcement was, even to him, Jack would not permit himself to doubt the result. The odds were ostensibly against Louis, it is true, for Tom was the pink of condition and was open to slight criticism in the way of style, as Jack was very well aware, and I don’t think our hero was quite able yet to appreciate to the full the value in such an affair of steady, systematic training void of splurge or notoriety, although familiar with the fact that his friend was in excellent practice. And yet, notwithstanding, Jack had a hope which from the first amounted almost to conviction that Carlisle would win.

It was a great race—that battle royal between Tom Bonsall and Louis Carlisle, and properly is recorded among the famous rowing matches of Utopia School. If this book was not devoted chiefly to the experiences of another hero, I should like nothing better than to describe in detail how the two oarsmen, who were well matched in point of size, pulled an even race to within a quarter of a mile of the finish at a pace but little below that of the best school record; how the younger boy in his desire to overcome his antagonist increased his speed and gained a lead of half a boat’s length, to the delight of his backers, only to get blown and yield his advantage, inch by inch, until the rival shells were once more abreast; and how Tom in his distress then lost his head and began to splash, giving an opportunity for his senior’s steady, thoroughly digested stroke to bring him to the fore and win the race with comparative ease amid the vociferous cheers of a rapturous crowd, among whom there was no one more wild with transport than our friend Jack. It was a fit ending to the victor’s career at Utopia,—a career which had won him no enemies, and gained for him the respect and affection of masters and pupils alike, most of whom, however, as they admired him walking up to the boat-house, apparently still fresh and a picture of ruddy health, had but little appreciation of how largely he owed his great increase in vigor to knowledge of his own needs and to self-restraint—qualities whose value in the foundation of character it would be difficult to overestimate.

But for lack of space I might doubtless narrate also with abundant circumlocution, and not fear to tire those of you most fond of base-ball, how the Stars won a victory by a single run—a ten innings game—from the school nine in spite of the stimulating presence of applauding friends—some of them of the gentler sex—decked with the Utopia color; and despite, too, the fact that the “Kid” was in magnificent form, and our friend Hasy had been within a fortnight, on account of his brilliancy at the bat and in the field, made permanently a member of the team in the position of third-base man, which you will remember was the same proud position he filled when with the formidable Rising Suns. How the defeat came about it was not easy to explain, as every one had felt sure of the game, which suggests that we are very apt in this world to come to grief when we despise our adversaries. It was a good thing for the “Kid,” however, and for Haseltine too, to have the conceit knocked out of them, as I have no doubt the Doctor thought also, seeing that the nine had carried all before it hitherto during the term. It does not do for boys, or for men either, who wish to hold their own and to go on improving, to get too cocky.

Notwithstanding these diversions, Jack could not help feeling very nervous in regard to the outcome of Mr. Opdyke’s report to the Doctor, of which he had heard nothing, although a fortnight had now elapsed since his pitiful recitation in Virgil. Since then he had been in to the yearly examinations in the various subjects allotted to boys of his year, but without feeling much encouraged to believe that he had made a good showing. It was a new experience to him to be worrying as to whether or not he had answered this or that question correctly, and yet he was so wrapped up in trying not to be at the foot of the class that he could think of nothing else. It seemed to him as though he could no longer bear the thought of being regarded as an idle, lazy fellow.

Before breakfast, on the morning of the school exhibition, he received word that he was to go to Dr. Meredith’s study, a summons which made him feel sick at heart, for he believed that he knew what was in store for him. Greatly to his surprise he was greeted by the head master with a pleasant smile, and could scarcely believe his ears as he listened to these words:—

“Hall, your work during the past term has been a great improvement on what you have done before. There is great room for improvement yet, my dear boy, but if you continue as you have begun there will soon be no cause to complain of you.”

There can be little doubt that Jack went home for vacation with a light heart, especially when I add that he had the satisfaction of being assured by Carlisle, just before they parted for the summer, that if he would only stick to his present stroke and not try to get on too fast, he would certainly in time give that rising young oarsman, Bonsall, all he could do to keep his laurels.

“I’ve taught Bonsall a lesson, though, that he’ll be quick to profit by, if he’s the clever fellow I judge him to be,” said Carlisle. “You’ve no child’s play cut out for you, youngster; it’ll be nip and tuck between you, and all I can say is, let the best man win when the time comes. I hope I shall be on hand to see the struggle.”