Jack Hall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Jack. “Are you?”

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

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

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

“The Massasoits,” said Jack.

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

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

“Where were you raised?”

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

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

“Short stop.”

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

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

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

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

“What’ll you give?”

“I’ll swap one of my agates for him.”

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

“I guess not. That knife cost a lot of money.”

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

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

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

“I’ll throw in a blood alley.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hurrah!”

“Two”—

“Hurrah!”

“Three”—

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

“The Utopias must have won,” whispers Haseltine.

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

“Because the others cheered first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Utopia!” cried the conductor vociferously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right,” said Jack; “I’m Hall.”

“And I’m Haseltine.”

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

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

“By gum!” Jack muttered belligerently.

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

“What do you mean?” asked Jack.

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

“At Utopia?”

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

“I wouldn’t.”

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

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

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

“What is?” inquired Haseltine.

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

“He’s captain, isn’t he?” asked Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are their real names?” Jack inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scrub one”

“Two”

“Three”

“Four”

“Five”

“Six”

“Seven”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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