Jack Hall

The remaining weeks of the school year passed very rapidly with Jack. Indeed, before he had become accustomed to his new life they were gone. After Carlisle’s peroration the two new-comers were allowed to drop into the obscurity which befits small boys, and to find their natural level among their associates. They made friends easily, and Jack in his letters home described Utopia in glowing terms. The lack of a wherry of his own seemed to be the only drawback to his happiness. So picturesquely did he lay this want before his mother that she wrote back that if he made a fair showing in the way of scholarship by the end of the term he should have one, with the consent of Dr. Meredith. Poor Jack little knew his own propensities in imagining that he would find slight difficulty in fulfilling this condition.

But as there were several wherries belonging to the school, he was able within a very short time to gratify his ambition to handle the sculls. He and Horton went down to the lake before breakfast one morning, especially to engage two crack boats for the afternoon, as there was a great demand for them at this time of the year. Jack started off confidently, hoping to dazzle the occupants of the float by the knowingness of his style, but at the third stroke caught a crab which nearly upset him and made him extremely cautious henceforward. After paddling about a little he managed to get the knack of keeping his balance in the cranky concern, but he had to own to himself that he knew very little about rowing, and must begin to learn all over again.

This was rather a come-down for Jack, but he was not alone in his discomfiture. In spite of Haseltine’s brilliant performance against Rogers, his place on the Fullham nine was filled by convalescent players, and he had to endure the mortification of becoming one of the herd who practiced scrub. It galled his pride to be unattached. That the ex-third base of the Rising Suns should be shunted off to find equals among the mass on the practice-field wounded him to the quick. However, he went in hammer and tongs to improve his game, with a determination to be satisfied with nothing short of the captaincy of the school-team at last. It did not take him long to convince the younger boys that he was an authority on base-ball matters. He knew the standing of every team, and the record of every player in the country, and once a week he received from home a newspaper devoted to the interests of the national game, every item in which he could repeat by rote.

There is a certain number of people who argue that it makes very little difference after all whether a boy studies at school or not, provided he is turned out at the end of the curriculum an upright, honorable gentleman, with a clean mind, a manly tone, and generous instincts. While, as between the alternatives of inferior training in the way of books and neglect of the moral character, one could scarcely hesitate which to avoid, the parent content to have his or her son graduate merely a good-natured, well-mannered, easy-going athlete has sadly misconceived the proper relation between master and pupil. Indeed, it may be said that nothing can be more deplorable than a system of education which does not stimulate excellence in scholarship, unless it be one that promotes it at the expense of high principle. We often hear it said that the chief benefit of school or college is the effect on character. Very good; but surely it is no error to maintain that the character of the boy untrained to use his mind intelligently is not highly to be extolled. This idea, boys, of becoming easy-going and nothing else is a very unfortunate one to entertain, especially in our country, where every man is expected to contribute in some way toward making the world more civilized, and a sweeter, happier place to live in. We need to-day the services of keen, disciplined minds in active life, and in its quiet walks those who love learning for her own sake, and are ready to devote patient days to the pursuit of ripe scholarship.

Fortunately for Jack—though he was slow to think it fortunate—Dr. Meredith was determined to have as few dunces as possible at Utopia. He was a fine scholar himself, and had to help him a corps of enthusiastic instructors, most of them men fresh from some university. Experience had already taught him that chronic idleness and dislike for study cannot be cured in a fortnight. Hence he and his assistants were content to peg away at incorrigible pupils without expecting to work wonders all at once, but never yielding an inch nor losing ground once gained.

This studying business was the only part of the school programme which Jack did not thoroughly enjoy. He started off in his old way by merely glancing at his lessons and floundering through them as best he could, never doubting that after a lecture or two on the subject of idleness, he would be permitted to lag along at the foot of the class without remark. He was used to being brought up with a round turn once a month or so, and after the scolding was over knew that he was safe to relapse until the next time. But he could count on that comfortable condition of affairs no longer. The continual pegging away referred to, of which he was now the victim, was inexpressibly irritating. His masters—he had a different one in almost every study—excited both his resentment and his wonder by patiently trying to make him take an interest in his tasks. Instead of being ordered in a peremptory tone to “sit down,” after an egregious mistake, he was kept upon his feet and not only told the answer (generally from the lips of some other boy), but asked to repeat it, and to remember it too at the next recitation. This was harassing, especially so when he found himself obliged to spend part of the afternoon in the schoolroom instead of on the playground, because he persisted in considering his lessons of no account. His little soul was fairly in a ferment of indignation. What was the use of study, he would ask himself. As for books, he would be glad for his part never to see another, unless, of course, one of adventures on the sea or in the far West. Would Latin or arithmetic make him a better oar or a surer short-stop? Not a bit of it, he was certain of that; and so, masters or no masters, he was disposed to let his lessons slide.

Accordingly, Mrs. Hall was made to feel badly by receiving, soon after Jack went home for vacation, a report of his progress as a scholar very far from satisfactory, accompanied by a few lines from Dr. Meredith, calling attention to the fact that her son was inclined to be lazy, and urging her to use her influence to correct this failing. She did, and so persuasively, that Jack promised with sobs—and he was thoroughly penitent—to turn over a new leaf when he went back. He got his wherry, too, in spite of not deserving it, for his mother had not the heart to disappoint him, which gives one the opportunity to suggest that perhaps Jack had been a little spoiled ever since he was a baby. However, if our mothers did not make light of and forgive our shortcomings, who would? Nevertheless, I think he had been sent to Utopia School none too soon for his welfare.

There were changes, of course, when he returned in the autumn. Harry Ramsay, Bedloe, and Goldthwaite of the nine, Burbank captain of the fifteen, and Hazelhurst the champion oar, were gone and their places as leaders filled by others. Bobby Crosby was, on the whole, cock of the school, being captain of the foot-ball team and a rousing fellow generally. The kid, who was only in the second, had been promoted to pitch for the school nine, and Chalmers the old captain of Fullham had succeeded Harry Ramsay, which left two vacancies on the dormitory nine, for one of which—right field—Haseltine was selected, an unusual honor for so young a player.

Both he and Jack felt quite like old boys in coming back as members of the fifth class, and entered upon the new year in the best of spirits. Foot-ball was the school game just now, at which neither of them was slow in acquiring some proficiency. Early in November the autumn athletic meeting was to take place, and there was much training among the competitors for the various events. The school interest which had been much exercised over the two-hundred yard dash waned greatly, however, when it became known that Louis Carlisle had withdrawn, thereby giving a walk-over (according to the general opinion) to Coleman, Junior. Rumor was loud in some quarters in describing Carlisle’s action as a “squawk,” and Jack found difficulty in understanding the reasons which the champion gave for his refusal to run.

It is not easy to explain the origin of friendships, but ever since the evening when Jack had acted so pluckily in not crying out when he felt what he believed to be the branding-iron on his arm, Carlisle had shown an interest in him. If this were not the cause that had attracted the older to the new boy, it may have been the lack of jealousy which our hero had showed at Haseltine’s success against the Rogerines. At any rate, for some reason or other Carlisle had taken to him from the very first, evincing a liking by superintending Jack’s rowing on the lake; asking him to walk on Sunday afternoons; and, now that as a member of the second class he had a study to himself, by inviting his young crony to share its comforts whenever he might see fit to do so. The good will thus shown was duly appreciated, and the intimacy between them became marked and firmly established.

At first Jack was chiefly absorbed by and grateful for the instruction in the way of handling the oars, and of making progress in the various sports in which he was interested, which he received from his new friend, so that he thought of very little else; but he found it pleasant, nevertheless, to establish himself from time to time in Carlisle’s cosy apartment and listen to his mentor prattle on about whatever happened to be in his mind at the moment. Carlisle had a way of ignoring the youngster’s presence and of talking as though he were all alone, merely appealing to Jack in much the same way as one will appeal to an imaginary second self, not expecting an answer. Indeed, Jack was quite incapable of answering the conundrums proposed to him in this manner, and much of what he listened to was very perplexing to him. He enjoyed it, however, though he found it very difficult to understand how anybody could spend so much time over books and study as Carlisle did. His amazement found voice when, early in the term, Carlisle announced his intention not to try for the school nine, and to knock off from exercise of every sort except a daily row on the lake to keep himself in condition.

“What, not go in training for any of the running races?” asked Jack.

“No.”

“Why not? You’re sure to win.”

“I think I am,” Carlisle answered, with a smile. “There’s no one that I know of who’s come up since last year.”

“There’s Coleman, Junior,” said Jack doubtfully. He did not suspect his friend of funking, but the remark popped out in spite of himself.

“Yes, I know. Some of the fellows will say I’m scared. Well, let them. I don’t care. As I’ve told you before, Jessup will beat Coleman, if nothing happens. I can’t afford to waste my time merely to please a few fellows.”

Jack could not understand speaking of winning the championship of Utopia on the running track as a waste of time.

“Shan’t you kick foot-ball either?” he went on.

“No; I’ve had my fill of games for the present,” Carlisle answered, in his soliloquizing way. “I’ve made up my mind that it pays to do a few things well, and to stick to them instead of straying all over the lot. I’ve kept going at full pitch in sixty different directions ever since I was your age, and it’s time to quit. I can’t stand it, that’s the long and short of it. ‘Je plie et ne romps pas,’ is a motto that can be run into the ground.”

“What does that mean?” asked Jack. “I suppose it’s French.”

“Tough on my accent,” responded Carlisle, with a grin. “Yes, it’s French, and means ‘I bend and do not break.’ But bending is about as uncomfortable as breaking, in the long run, youngster.”

“What are you going to do then?” continued his interrogator, for Jack like most American boys was not to be deterred from obtaining information for lack of persistence in asking questions.

“I’m going to study, chiefly.”

“Study?” Jack stared aghast. “I shouldn’t think there’d be much fun in that,” he added, after a pause.

“Because you don’t know anything about it.”

“I hate study,” observed Jack dogmatically.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“I tell you I do. I detest it!”

“Oh, no, you don’t, for you have no conception what it is,” replied Carlisle, laughing. “I don’t believe you ever did an hour’s real study in your life.”

This view of the case had not occurred to Jack, and he was not prepared to gainsay the statement. Something prompted him to glance around the room at the rows of books nearly covering two walls of the den, and the three or four poetically conceived pictures in tasteful frames to which he had never given a second thought before. On the table were writing-materials and other paraphernalia suggestive of a student. “You see,” continued Carlisle quietly, “I’m fond of study. I really enjoy Latin and Greek and history. We’re just beginning Homer, and there are parts of it that are delightful. I don’t care much for algebra, but they say it strengthens the mind. I shan’t go in for anything very desperately, though, this year,” he added. “I’ve been thinking over Dr. Bolles’s numerous lectures to me on the subject, and have decided to limit myself to three things,—study, the school paper, and rowing,—and not to overtax myself at any one of them. If I don’t, Dr. Bolles says there is no reason why I shouldn’t grow rugged. It’ll be pleasant to feel at the end of each day that I haven’t used up every spark of vitality I possess.”

To Jack, whose ideas of responsibility were at this time excessively vague, this sort of talk must have sounded almost unintelligible. However, it soaked in with everything else that was part and parcel of his daily experience; and whatever he may have thought of the views expressed, he lived to see Carlisle’s prediction regarding Coleman verified by Jessup’s comparatively easy victory in the two hundred yard dash at the athletic meeting in November.

These half-yearly meetings were great occasions at Utopia. In addition to the foot-races, which included both long and short distances, there was rope-climbing, fence-vaulting, standing and running high jumps, sparring and wrestling in three classes,—feather, middle, and heavy weight,—and a tug of war between teams from the several dormitories to end up with. Altogether the scene was decidedly Olympian. There were so many events that almost every boy felt that he had a chance in one direction or another. Jack entered for the feather-weight wrestling, but only to be thrown, after a savage tussle, flat on his back, and to have his shoulders pinned to the ground by Carpenter, who, though a year older, was just about his size. It was a very even contest, though, everybody admitted. He also was one of the field of seven who contested with Jessup the two-hundred yard race, having been advised by Carlisle to go in just to show what he was made of, and he was rather proud at coming in fifth, being beaten by Hopedale, of the next higher class, only by a shave. Haseltine, who also entered, was sixth, which was a considerable comfort to Jack.

But the contests with the gloves were what took his fancy more than anything else, and he was fired at once with the desire to learn boxing. This was easy to do, for Dr. Meredith was decidedly of the opinion that boys should understand the art of self-defense, which was accordingly taught at the gymnasium by Dr. Bolles and his assistant, to all who desired to receive instruction. There were a good many competitors for distinction in this line, and the rivalry resulted in some hitting and receiving of tolerably hard knocks, which now and then bore fruit in the shape of a bloody nose or black eye in spite of well-padded gloves. And yet, notwithstanding all this emulation, it was very rarely, if ever, as Jack soon realized, that the combatants had occasion to make practical use of the knowledge thus acquired, so long as they were at Utopia. Indeed, it may almost be stated as a general truth that the American boy does not go in for the deliberate slugging contests one reads about as common among the youth of the Mother Country. Unless from a spirit of sheer imitation, it is unusual, I believe, for you young fellows to settle bad blood by a cut-and-dried fight after the manner of “Tom Brown and ‘Slugger’ Williams,” with whose thrilling set-to you should all be familiar. Plenty of you get mad and in the heat of the moment slap a fellow’s face, or slang him until he cuffs you; and then there is give and take for a few moments, in the course of which science may get in an upper cut or some such telling stroke; but your friends are almost certain to drag you apart before much damage is done, and hold you back until you have cooled down. The idea of forming a “ring” with backers and sponges “to fight it out” doesn’t seem to occur to either of you, or, if it does, public opinion—and by that I mean school opinion—is against you. I rather think that any boy, whether a Utopian or otherwise, can count on the fingers of a single hand the number of regular out-and-out fights in the course of his school-days he has either participated in or been present at.

There must be some reason for this, and you do not need to be told that American boys are neither effeminate nor afraid to use their fists when occasion requires. Lack of pluck is not a national failing. We stood up at Bunker Hill against bullets long enough to convince our enemies that there was mettle in us, and there are graveyards within walking distance of every lad under the stars and stripes who may read this story, in which can be noted the tribute of posterity to those who died in defense of their country. There is no sort of doubt that our boys can hit straight from the shoulder whenever it is worth their while to do so.

I have an idea—it may be a mistaken one, though I am fatuous enough to have faith in it—that the world in growing older has grown wiser, and less cruel and brutish. We elders proscribed duels long ago on the score that they were unmanly and inconsistent with the requisites of Christian character; and dreadful as are the preparations which even to-day are going on in so many countries of the globe with an eye to deadly strife, there can be no doubt that civilized nations are much less ready to plunge into war than they used to be, and much more inclined to submit their differences to arbitration. There are cynics—at least they seem such to me—who maintain that there must always be wars until the end of time, if for no other reason than to dispose of the surplus population, and that national reluctance to engage in them proceeds from economic rather than humanitarian scruples. But those of us who still believe that mankind is surely, even if slowly, making progress toward a higher state of civilization, cannot but be of the opinion that wholesale resorts to force to settle disputes must inevitably become less and less frequent, from the growing conviction among human beings that they are a relic of barbarism. Already has this conviction made such headway that the most autocratic governments would hesitate at the present day to declare war without first invoking the aid of referees, if the matter at issue were capable of peaceable solution.

In like manner it is fair to believe that the doctrine of forbearance is so much in the air that you boys have become inoculated with its spirit, and have learned to abstain from blows until every other remedy has failed. There is no cowardice in such a policy. Mere fighting for the sake of fighting savors of the brute, not of the gentleman. But this is to be borne in mind notwithstanding, though I have no doubt that you do not need the prompting: when you are struck, hit back with all your might. Be slow to strike the first blow, or to provoke assault, but beware of letting forbearance outrun its usefulness as a virtue. Sunday-school teachers may argue as they will, but the world will never learn to applaud or to respect the man or boy who allows his rights to be trampled on without stubborn resistance.

December brought with it ice and snow, coasting and skating, which for the time being overruled all other sports and interests for Jack. For a good four months the school was face to face with winter, which means in this country something worthy of the name,—genuine stinging cold, which makes boys’ cheeks glow if they move briskly, but numbs their fingers if they sit still; and a roaring fire in the great schoolroom in the evening, around which it is the fashion to group and sing. At this last-named trysting-place serviceable friendships are formed, and, in the case of Jack, an old one is renewed. December brought with it Bill French, the same Bill as of yore, and yet developed, as it were, in that he is no longer the street urchin of a year ago, indifferent as to his clothes and hair. Bill has spruced himself eminently, and is quite the little gentleman now in his cut and manner. He does not take much part in sports himself, but he knows all about them, and is eager to back this sprinter or that oarsman for anything from a nickel up to five dollars, which is a fabulous sum at Utopia, as you may well imagine. He has at the very outset created a profound sensation by managing to retain greenbacks to the amount of five times that sum about his person, in spite of the school rule that all money, save a very small stipend for the pocket, is to go into the Doctor’s strong-box for safe-keeping.

“How did you manage to hold on to it?” whispered Jack, whose admiration for Bill’s cunning ways is still deep.

“Didn’t give it to him, that’s all.”

“Didn’t he ask you for it?”

“What if he did? It’s my money, not his. Father gave it to me, and I mean to spend it as I choose.”

This deliberate springing in the teeth of authority was something new at Utopia, and, like most novelties, gave its originator notoriety at once. Jack felt proud at being on such terms with the new school favorite, who before long took upon himself the airs of a leader among the younger boys, with revolt as a motto. The Doctor was all very well, but he, Bill French, was not going to bend the knee to any Doctor, no matter how wise and good. He had come there to have a good time, and he meant to have it.

It took Bill some months, naturally, to raise his standard. His methods, as you know, were for the most part underground like the mole. He did not believe in being found out, and he had no intention of getting into open trouble with the powers that were, if he could help it. His fad was for managing and directing, and he was content to suggest, and to let others work out his theories without asking for more than a tithe of the glory. Great schemes must move slowly to insure success.

So Bill to the ordinary eye appeared rather a desirable addition than otherwise to the make-up of the school. He had always been rather quick at his books, and found no difficulty now in taking a respectable place in Jack’s class, where he kept his head above water easily, thus hoodwinking one of the eyes of Argus. Where Bill really showed himself in his true kidney was about the aforesaid fire on cold winter nights, when he had an opportunity to fascinate the circle snuggled around him by hints as to what might be done if one only dared. Many listened, and Jack most eagerly of all. Were they not Americans? Bill argued. And when did a true-born patriot, whether man or boy, put up with being hedged about with laws which he despised? As a proof of what might be accomplished in the way of resistance without difficulty, the arch-conspirator excited the envy of all whom he took into the secret by exhibiting on his return to school at the beginning of the fourth-class year a pair of white mice in the corner of one of his bureau-drawers. Nor was Bill stupid enough to let them remain there long enough to fall under the eagle eye of Mrs. Betty, who was liable to come prowling round at any time with power paramount to overhaul to her heart’s content. When the little creatures, a month later, presided over a family,—another triumph for their proprietor,—it was in the pocket of a pair of trousers hanging harmlessly from a peg.

The influence of genius such as this was hard to resist, and had it stopped here, authority might justifiably have been disposed to regard it without concern; but Bill was not always so happy in his infringements of the law. He was wont to exhibit with pride a small silver case in which reposed real cigarettes,—no blood-sucking rattan subterfuges, but the genuine aristocratic article, which he was in the habit of smoking when he could safely do so with the air of a thorough-going sport, as any one at Utopia who witnessed the performance would agree. At such times Bill was a decidedly agreeable companion. In the first place he could talk knowingly by the hour on dogs and horses, a subject which was imperfectly understood at Utopia prior to his arrival. All the cant phrases of the stable were at his command, and he replenished them by the perusal of a weekly sporting paper to which he subscribed, and which put Haseltine’s base-ball sheet completely in the shade. In his opinion, life at the school was tame, and stood in need of thorough reorganization.

Much as Jack admired Bill, he was not really surprised to hear Carlisle observe, some weeks after the first appearance of that wily youth, “I don’t care much for your new friend, youngster.”

“Why not, Louis?”

“I guess he’s sneaky, isn’t he? Looks it, any way.”

“He’s mighty smart,” answered Jack evasively.

“I dare say.”

“You ought to like him,” pursued Jack, “for he’s a first-rate scholar. He could stand a good deal higher if he chose to study.”

Carlisle laughed. “I set store by study I know,” he said, “but it isn’t a free pass to my favor, as you appear to think. Strange as it may seem, I prefer you, idle as you are, to your industrious friend. And by the way, Jack, you have been worse than ever, lately. You must brace up or you will have the Doctor down on you.”

Both were silent for a moment. It was something new for Carlisle to lecture, as he would have called it. He had always shrunk from preaching to his friend deliberately, intimate as were their relations, preferring to indicate by chaff and indirect suggestions what might be in his mind regarding Jack’s needs. But these few words were spoken so seriously that the culprit looked at him astonished.

There was a reason for them. Dr. Meredith, having great faith in the influence for good which the larger boys at a school like Utopia can exert upon their juniors, lost no occasion to impress upon his favorites their duty in this respect. Only the day before he had chanced upon Carlisle strolling down toward the river alone, and had joined him.

“You’re looking better, Louis, I’m glad to see. Your more sober life agrees with you.”

Somehow or other the Doctor knew the imperfect joint in the armor of every one of his pupils, and he was no less prompt to seize an opportunity to speak a word of encouragement, than he was courageous in probing a weakness to the core.

“I’m in first-rate condition, sir. Gained five pounds this term.”

“I wish, now that your hand is in, you’d see what you could do with Hall,” the Doctor had continued. “I am disturbed at the way the boy is going on. He seems a manly, spirited fellow, and I like him, but he won’t study. In fact, he’s getting more of a shirk every day.”

“Yes, sir, he doesn’t study much, that’s a fact,” observed Carlisle.

“A word from you, Louis, might do an immense amount of good. He’d listen to you when he wouldn’t to me.”

Carlisle had hung his head and remained silent. He knew very well what Doctor Meredith meant, for had he not observed Jack’s idleness with increasing regret, and yet been content to pass it off with an occasional jest? All his talk during their intercourse had been about himself, concerning which he could discourse glibly enough; but such speculation as he was wont to indulge in, however suggestive to an intelligent listener, was scarcely the sort of pabulum by which to convert a hobble-de-hoy offender like Jack. He had been conscious for some time of what with his disposition to call things by their right names he considered his own selfishness and self-absorption, and this solicitation of the Doctor’s thrust them forward into the light.

“I know what you would say,” his master had continued. “You have a horror of sermonizing. You don’t wish to spoil your relations with him, as you think, by being serious. You are right, Louis, in that. But I don’t believe, if you look at the matter squarely, that you would drive Hall into his shell by letting him see that you don’t approve of his present way of going on.”

“He knows I approve of study.”

“Yes, for yourself,” had answered the sagacious Doctor. “Let him understand thoroughly that it is just as imperative for him.”

“I’ll try, sir,” the older boy had answered, after a pause.

“I shall be infinitely obliged to you; and while we are on the subject, what sort of a boy is this William French? I understand that he and Hall are old cronies. Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” had added the Doctor, who sympathized with the code of honor which prompts a schoolboy to abstain from speaking ill of one of his companions.

“He doesn’t seem to me very straightforward,” had blurted out Carlisle, instigated perhaps by a desire to protect Jack from the evil machinations of the new-comer.

“Indeed! That is not a pleasant trait. Thank you, Louis. Such boys as you can do a great deal to help me, if you only will, without in any way impairing your obligations as ‘good fellows.’”

The first result of this conversation has been indicated. Carlisle’s words, limited as they were, came at a moment when Jack was sorely in need of them. Although he made no comment at the time, other than to look grave, and though he sought to brush the remembrance of them away as speedily as possible, he was nevertheless face to face with the consciousness—a consciousness of which he had caught occasional glimpses before of late—of dissatisfaction with himself. What was more, it enthralled him like a net, and the more he struggled held him the tighter. Vague lack of content with one’s own career is not synonymous with an intention to reform, but it is a step in the right direction. Jack would never be able to feel again, except through utter callousness of soul, that satisfaction in wrong-doing which exists before the sense of responsibility is awakened.

There is little further to chronicle regarding the second year of Jack’s school-life, which sped along from week to week without revealing much outward change in his daily routine of duties and pleasures; the former endured with unwillingness and neglected so far as was possible, the latter participated in with untiring enthusiasm. In the class-room he was the same mischief-making, idle urchin as ever, distinguished for his dog’s-eared, caricature-lined books of study, and an utter ignorance of their contents. On the playground every faculty seemed alert, and all his energy centred in excelling at whatever pastime he was for the moment fascinated by.