CHAPTER XIII.
THE NEW DOLL.
Julius had been unusually fortunate in obtaining a home in Mr. Taylor’s family. His new guardian was a man of wealth; indeed, he was the wealthiest man in Brookville. He owned shares in banks and mining companies, and could have lived handsomely had his farm yielded no income. He had a taste for agriculture, however, though he personally carried on but a small part of his extensive farm. His wife had been born and brought up in an Eastern city, was well educated, and, though she superintended the affairs of her household, did comparatively little work herself, having the aid of two stout, capable girls in the kitchen, who relieved her of all the drudgery, and, being competent for their positions, required very little looking after. It will be seen, therefore, that Mr. Taylor’s household is not presented as that of an average Western farmer. Though, as a class, our Western farmers are intelligent, they lack the refinement and cultivation which Mr. and Mrs. Taylor derived from their early advantages.
I must now explain how they came to take Julius into their family. Though they had been married twelve years, they had but one child, a little girl of five, a{91} pretty and attractive child. Having no son, it occurred to them to receive into their household a boy, who would be company for little Carrie, and whom, if found worthy, they might hereafter adopt and provide for. A boy of the age of Julius can always make himself useful on a Western farm, but it was only partially with a view to this consideration that he was received.
Mr. Taylor resolved to give him a good education, and increase his advantages, if he showed himself to possess capability and willingness to learn.
Comparatively few of the boys who are sent to the West can hope to obtain such homes; but though their privileges and opportunities may be less, they will in most cases obtain a decent education, good treatment, and a chance to rise.
While Julius was upstairs, Mr. Taylor asked his wife:
“Well, Emma, what do you think of the boy I have brought home?”
“He looks bright, but I judge that he has not had much education.”
“Quite right; it will be for us to remedy that. He has been brought up in the streets of New York, but I don’t think he has any bad faults.”
“He described his room as ‘stavin’,” said Mrs. Taylor, smiling. “I never heard the word before.”
“It is an emphatic word of approval among boys. I have heard it among those who are not street boys. They{92} use it where girls would say a thing was ‘perfectly lovely’.”
“I never had much to do with boys, Ephraim. You know I had no brothers, so I am ignorant of their dialect.”
“I presume Julius will enlighten your ignorance before long.”
“I hardly think I shall adopt it. Suppose I should tell Mrs. Green that her dress was ‘stavin’?”
“Probably she would stare. Seriously, I hope our young waif may do credit to our training. He will have a great deal to learn, and much to unlearn; but he looks bright, and I have good hopes of success.”
Here little Carrie entered, and at once monopolized attention.
“What do you think I have brought home for you, Carrie?” asked her father, taking her in his arms and kissing her.
“I don’t know, papa. What is it?”
“It’s a doll—a big doll.”
“How big?” asked Carrie, seriously.
“Bigger than Carrie.”
“Oh, how nice!” said the child. “Where is it?” and she looked around.
“It will soon come in.”
“Where did you get it, papa?”
“It came all the way from New York.”{93}
“How nice of you, papa!”
“And what do you think, Carrie? It can walk all by itself.”
“Really, papa?”
“Yes, and it can talk.”
“Can it talk like me?” asked the unsuspecting child.
“Yes; and a great deal louder.”
“It must be a funny doll,” said the child, reflectively? “What does it look like?”
“Like a boy.”
“Is it a boy doll?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad of that. All my dolls are girls.”
“Well, this is a boy.”
“Did you pay a great deal for it, papa?”
Mr. Taylor laughed.
“I expect it will cost me a great deal before I get through with it; for I forgot to tell you one thing, Carrie—this doll I am speaking to you about, eats.”
“Does it eat dinner?”
“Yes.”
“Shall I have to feed it?”
“I think it will prefer to feed itself, Carrie,” said her father, compelled to laugh by the serious, wondering face of the little girl.
At that moment Julius entered the room.
“There it is now,” said Mr. Taylor.{94}
“That is a boy,” said Carrie, looking somewhat disappointed.
“I told you it was.”
“But you said it was a doll. Are you a doll?” she asked, sliding from her father’s knee, and running up to Julius.
“I’m a pretty big one,” said Julius, amused.
“There, papa, you were only funning,” said the little girl, reproachfully.
“Didn’t I tell you the truth? Can’t he eat, and talk, and walk?”
“Yes, but he isn’t a doll.”
“Isn’t he better than a doll? A doll couldn’t play with you; Julius can.”
“Is your name Julius?” asked the little girl, looking up to our hero.
“Yes.”
“What’s your other name?”
“Taylor,” answered Julius, with a glance at her father.
“Why, that’s our name.”
“Then he must be of our family,” said her father. “Do you want him to stay, and live with us? He can play with you, and tell you stories, and you can have plenty of good times together.”
“Yes, I should like to have him stay. Will you, Julius?”
“Yes, if you want me to,” answered our hero; and{95} he felt strongly attracted to the sweet little girl, who had mistaken him for a doll.
“Then you may lead him out to dinner, Carrie,” said Mr. Taylor, as Jane, one of the servants, opened the door and announced that dinner was ready. “Perhaps you will have to feed him, as he is a doll, you know.”
“Now you are funning again, papa,” said Carrie, shaking her curls. “Will you sit by me, Julius?”
“I should like to, Carrie,” said our hero; and hand in hand with the little girl he walked into the next room, where a table was neatly spread for dinner.
It was a new experience to Julius. He had never had a sister. Those girls with whom he had been brought in contact had been brought up as he had been, and, even where their manners were not rough, possessed little of the grace and beauty of this little child of fortune. She seemed to the eyes of our young plebeian a being of a higher type and superior clay, and, untutored as he was, he could appreciate in a degree, her childish beauty and grace.
Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were pleased to find that the little girl’s happiness was likely to be increased by this accession to their household.
“I think, Carrie,” said her mother, “you like Julius better than if he were a doll.”
“If you don’t,” said Julius, “I’ll turn myself into a big doll with pink eyes.”
“You can’t,” said Carrie, seriously.
“Maybe I can’t myself, but I might get a big magician to do it.”
“Is that a fairy,” asked the little girl.
“I guess so.”
“The difference is,” said her father, “that magicians are men, but fairies are women.”
“I don’t want you to,” said Carrie, “for then you couldn’t talk to me, and play with me. Please stay a boy.”
“I will as long as you want me to,” said Julius, gravely.
Our hero did not feel wholly at his ease, for he was not used to dining in company. In the cheap eating houses which he had been accustomed to patronize, when he was in luck, very little ceremony prevailed. The etiquette in vogue was of the loosest character. If a patron chose to sit with his hat on, or lean his elbows on the table, there was nothing to prevent. But Julius was observing, and carefully observed how Mr. and Mrs. Taylor ate, being resolved to imitate them, and so make no mistakes. He found it difficult, however, to eat with his fork, instead of his knife, as he had always done hitherto, and privately thought it a very singular and foolish custom. His attempts were awkward, and attracted the attention of his new guardians; but they were encouraged{97} by it to believe that he would lay aside other habits springing from his street life, and, after a while, shape his manners wholly to his new position.
When dinner was over, Mr. Taylor said: “Julius, would you like to go out with me and see the farm?”
“Yes, sir,” said our hero, eagerly.
“I thought you were going to play with me,” said little Carrie, disappointed.
“Julius can’t play with you all the time, my dear,” said her mother. “After supper perhaps he will.”
“Shall I change him into a doll?” asked her father. “Then he’ll have to stay in.”
“No,” said Carrie; “I like a boy better.”{98}
CHAPTER XIV.
FIRST LESSONS.
“I suppose you don’t know much about farming, Julius?” said Mr. Taylor, after supper.
“No more’n a horse,” said Julius.
“Some horses know considerable about farming, or at least have a chance to,” said his new guardian, with a smile.
“I guess they know more’n me.”
“Very likely; but you can learn.”
“Oh, yes,” said Julius, confidently. “It won’t take me long.”
“I shall put you in charge of Abner, who will give you some instruction. You will begin to-morrow morning with helping him to milk.”
“All right, sir.”
“He gets up at five o’clock. He will knock at your door, as he comes downstairs. He sleeps on the floor above. Now I want to ask a few questions about other matters. I suppose your education has been neglected.”
“I was to college once,” said our hero.
“How was that?”
“I carried a bundle of books from a bookseller in Nassau{99} Street to one of the purfessors of Columbia College.”
“If that is the extent of your educational advantages, you probably still have something to learn. Have you been to school?”
“Not much. I went to evenin’ school a few times.”
“Can you read and write?”
“I can read a little, but I have to skip the hard words. I ain’t much on writin’.”
“Here is a little book of fairy stories. You can read one aloud to Carrie.”
“I can’t read well enough,” said Julius, drawing back reluctantly.
“That is just what I want to find out,” said Mr. Taylor. “Don’t be bashful. If you can’t read well, you shall have a chance to improve.”
“Are you going to read me a story, Julius?” asked little Carrie, delighted.
“I’ll try,” said Julius, embarrassed.
He began to read, but it soon became evident that he had not exaggerated his ignorance. He hesitated and stumbled, miscalled easy words, and made very slow progress, so that Carrie, who had been listening attentively, without getting much idea of the story, said, discontentedly, “Why, how funny you read, Julius! I like better to hear papa read.”{100}
“I knew I couldn’t do it,” said Julius, disconcerted, as he laid down the book.
“You will soon be able to,” said Mr. Taylor, encouragingly. “Now I will tell you what I propose to do. In the forenoon, up to dinner time, you shall work on the farm, and in the afternoon I will assign you lessons to be recited in the evening. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” said Julius. “I don’t want to be a know-nothin’ when I get to be a man.”
It is hardly necessary to explain that in using the term “know-nothing” Julius had no thought of its political meaning.
“But I’m afraid I won’t learn very fast,” he said hesitatingly.
“Perhaps not just at first, but you will soon get used to studying. I will be your teacher; and when I am too busy to hear your lessons, Mrs. Taylor will supply my place. Are you willing, Emma?”
“Certainly, Ephraim; it will remind me of the years that I was teaching school.”
“Next winter I will send you to the public school,” said Mr. Taylor. “By that time you will, I hope, have learned so much that you will be able to get into a class of boys somewhere near your own age.”
“I shouldn’t like to be in a class with four-year-old babies,” said Julius. “They’d take me for a big baby myself.”{101}
“Your pride is natural and proper. Your grade in school will depend on how well you work between now and winter.”
“I’ll study some to-night,” said Julius, eagerly.
“Very well. The sooner you begin the better. You may take the same story you have been trying to read, and read it over three times carefully by yourself. When you come to any words you don’t know, you can ask Mrs. Taylor or myself. To-morrow evening you may read it aloud to Carrie, and we can see how much benefit you have derived from your study.”
Julius at once set to work in earnest. He had considerable perseverance, and really desired to learn. He was heartily ashamed of his ignorance, and this feeling stimulated him to make greater exertions.
The next morning he was awakened by a loud knock at his door.
“What’s up?” he muttered, drowsily.
“Get up, Julius,” Abner called, loudly.
Julius opened his eyes, and stared about him in momentary bewilderment.
“Blest if I didn’t forget where I was,” he said to himself. “I thought I was at the Lodgin’ House, and Mr. O’Connor was callin’ me. I’m comin’,” he said, aloud.
“You’ll find me at the barn,” said Abner.
Julius hurried on his clothes, and proceeded to the barn, where he soon found Abner in the act of milking.
“Is it easy to milk?” he asked.
“It’s easy when you know how,” said Abner.
“It don’t look hard.”
“Come and try it,” said Abner.
He got off his stool, and Julius took his place. He began to pull, but not a drop of milk rewarded his efforts.
“There ain’t no milk left,” he said. “You’re foolin’ me.”
In reply Abner drew a full stream into the pail.
“I did just like you,” said Julius, puzzled.
“No, you didn’t. Let me show you.”
Here followed a practical lesson, which cannot very well be transferred to paper, even if the writer felt competent to give instructions in an art of which he has little knowledge.
Julius, though he had everything to learn, was quick in acquiring knowledge, whether practical or that drawn from books, and soon got the knack of milking, though it was some days before he could emulate Abner with his years of experience.
The next day Julius undertook to milk a cow alone. So well had he profited by Abner’s instructions, that he succeeded very well. But he was not yet experienced in the perverse ways of cows. When the pail was nearly{103} full, and he was congratulating himself on his success, the cow suddenly lifted her foot, and in an instant the pail was overturned, and all the milk was spilled, a portion of it on the milker.
Julius uttered an exclamation of mingled dismay and anger.
“What’s the matter?” asked Abner, rather amused at the expression on the face of Julius, notwithstanding the loss of the milk.
“Matter! The darned brute has knocked over the pail, and spilled all the milk.”
“Cows is curis critters,” said Abner, philosophically. “They like to make mischief sometimes.”
“Just let me get a stick. I’ll give her a dose,” said Julius, excited.
“No,” said Abner, “we’ll tie her legs if she does it again. It doesn’t do much good beating an animal. Besides,” he added, smiling, “I s’pose she thought she had a right to spill the milk, considerin’ it was hers.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Julius. “That’s the way she pays her board.”
“I s’pose she didn’t see it in that light. Better luck next time, Julius. It wa’n’t your fault anyway.”
The cow stood placidly during this conversation, evidently well pleased with her exploit. Julius would like to have given her a beating; but Abner, who was a kind-hearted man, would not allow it.{104}
“It would be a bully idea to make her go without her breakfast,” said Julius, whose anger was kept fresh by the sight of the spilled milk.
“Wal,” said Abner, “you see there’s this objection. If she don’t have no breakfast, she won’t give as much milk next time.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“She can’t make milk out of nothin’. Don’t you have no cows in New York?”
“Oh, yes,” said Julius, laughing; “the mayor has a whole drove of ’em, that he pastures in Central Park.”
“Does he get pasturin’ for nothin’?” asked Abner, in good faith.
“In course he does. Then there’s a lot of bulls in Wall Street.”
“Do they let ’em go round loose?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t they ever get rampagious?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t they do mischief?”
“I guess they do. They’re always fightin’ with the bears.”
“Sho! you don’t mean to say you’ve got bears in New York.”
“Yes, I do. They’re in Wall Street, too.”
“I shouldn’t think they’d allow it,” said Abner, whose knowledge of finance and the operators who make Wall{105} Street the theatre of their operations was very rudimentary.
“Oh, ain’t you jolly green!” said Julius, exploding with laughter.
“What do you mean?” demanded Abner, inclined to feel offended.
“The bulls and bears I am talkin’ of are men. They’re the brokers that do business in Wall Street.”
“How should I know that? What do they give ’em such curis names for?”
“I don’t know,” said Julius. “I never heard. Didn’t you ever go to New York?”
“No; but I should like to go. It costs a pile of money to go there, I expect. I wish you’d tell me something about it.”
“All right.”
Then and at other times Julius gave Abner a variety of information, not always wholly reliable, about New York and his former life there, to which Abner listened with greedy attention.{106}
CHAPTER XV.
TEMPTATION.
Though Mr. Taylor owned several hundred acres, he retained but forty under his personal charge. The remainder was rented to various parties, who paid him either in money or grain, according to the agreement made. Being fond of agriculture, he would have kept the whole in his own hands, but that it would have increased so largely the cares of his wife. A large number of farm laborers would have been required, whom he would probably have been compelled to receive under his own roof, and his wife would have become in effect the mistress of a large boarding house. This he was too considerate to require, or allow.
Even of the forty acres he reserved, but a small portion was cultivated, the remainder being used for pasturage or mowing. During the greater part of the year, therefore, he found Abner’s services sufficient. Only during haying and harvest he found it necessary to engage extra assistance. Mr. Taylor was, however, an exception to the general rule. Ordinarily, Western farmers, owning a large number of acres, carry on the whole themselves; though it is doubtful whether their profits{107} are any greater than if they should let out the greater part.
It will be seen, therefore, that Julius was fortunate in his position. He had to work but half the day, while the remaining half he was at liberty to devote to making up the many deficiencies in his early education. He was sensible enough to appreciate this advantage, and showed it by the rapid improvement he made. After he had begun to improve in his reading, he had lessons assigned him in writing and arithmetic. For the latter he showed a decided taste; and even mastered with ease the difficulties of fractions, which, perhaps more than any other part of the arithmetic, are liable to perplex the learner.
“You are really making excellent progress, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor to him one evening. “I find you are a very satisfactory pupil.”
“Do you, sir?” said Julius, his eyes brightening.
“You appear not only to take pains, but to have very good natural abilities.”
“I’m glad I’m not goin’ to grow up a know-nothin’.”
“You certainly won’t if you keep on in this way. But there is one other thing in which you can improve?”
“What is that?”
“In your pronunciation. Just now you said ‘goin’’ and ‘know-nothin’.’ You should pronounce the final letter, saying ‘going’ and ‘nothing.’ Don’t you notice that I do it?”{108}
“Yes, sir; but I’m used to the other.”
“You can correct it, notwithstanding. By way of helping you I will remind you whenever you go wrong in this particular way; indeed, whenever you make any mistake in pronunciation.”
“I wish you would,” said Julius, earnestly. “Do you think they’ll put me in a very low class at school?”
“Not if you work hard from now to Thanksgiving.”
“I’d like to know as much as other boys of my age. I don’t want to be in a class with four-year-olds.”
“You have got safely by that, at least,” said Mr. Taylor, smiling. “I like your ambition, and shall be glad myself, when you enter school, to have you do credit to my teaching.”
There was nothing connected with the farm work that Julius liked better than driving a horse, particularly when he had sole charge of it; and he felt proud indeed the first time he was sent with a load of hay to a neighboring town. He acquitted himself well; and from that time he was often sent in this way. Sometimes, when Mr. Taylor was too busy to accompany her, Mrs. Taylor employed him to drive her to the village stores, or to a neighbor’s, to make a call; and as Julius showed himself fearless, and appeared to have perfect control even of Mr. Taylor’s most spirited horse, she felt as safe with him as with her husband.
Julius had been in his new place about six weeks, when{109} his integrity was subjected to a sudden and severe test. He was sent to a neighbor’s, living about a mile and a half away, and, on account of the distance, was told to harness up the horse and ride. This he did with alacrity. He took his seat in the buggy, gathered the reins into his hands, and set out. He had got a quarter of a mile on his way when he suddenly espied on the floor of the carriage, in the corner, a pocketbook. He took it up, and, opening it, discovered two facts: first, that it belonged to Mr. Taylor, as it contained his card; next, that its contents were valuable, judging from the thick roll of bills.
“How much is there here?”
This was the first question that Julius asked himself.
Counting the bills hurriedly, he ascertained that they amounted to two hundred and sixty-seven dollars.
“Whew! what a pile!” he said to himself. “Ain’t I in luck? I could go to California for this, and make a fortune. Why shouldn’t I keep it? Mr. Taylor will never know. Besides, he’s so rich he won’t need it.”
To one who had been brought up, or rather who had brought himself up, as a bootblack in the streets of New York, the temptation was a strong one. Notwithstanding the comfort which he now enjoyed there were moments when a longing for his old, independent, vagrant life swept over him. He thought of Broadway, and City Hall Park, of Tony Pastor’s, and the old Bowery, of the busy hum and excitement of the streets of the great{110} city; and a feeling something like homesickness was aroused within him. Brookville seemed dull, and he pined to be in the midst of crowds. This longing he was now able to gratify. He was not apprenticed to Mr. Taylor. It is not the custom of the Children’s Aid Society to bind out the children they send West for any definite term. There was nothing to hinder his leaving Brookville, and either going back to New York, or going to California, as he had often thought he would like to do. Before the contents of the pocketbook were exhausted, which, according to his reckoning, would be a very long time, he would get something to do. There was something exhilarating in the prospect of starting on a long journey alone, with plenty of money in his pocket. Besides, the money wouldn’t be stolen. He had found it, and why shouldn’t he keep it?
These thoughts passed through the mind of Julius in considerably less time than I have taken in writing them down. But other and better thoughts succeeded. After all, it would be no better than stealing to retain money when he knew the owner. Besides, it would be a very poor return to Mr. Taylor for the kindness with which he had treated him ever since he became a member of his household. Again, it would cut short his studies, and he would grow up a know-nothing—to use his own word—- after all. It would be pleasant traveling, to be sure; it would be pleasant to see California, or to find himself{111} again in the streets of New York; but that pleasure would be dearly bought.
“I won’t keep it,” said Julius, resolutely. “It would be mean, and I should feel like a thief.”
He put the pocketbook carefully in the side pocket of his coat, and buttoned it up. As he whipped up the horse, who had taken advantage of his preoccupation of mind to walk at a snail’s pace, it occurred to him that if he should leave Brookville he would no longer be able to drive a horse; and this thought contributed to strengthen his resolution.
“What a fool I was to think of keeping it!” he thought. “I’ll give it to Mr. Taylor just as soon as I get back.”
He kept his word.
“Haven’t you lost your pocketbook, Mr. Taylor?” he asked, when, having unharnessed the horse, he entered the room where his guardian was sitting.
Mr. Taylor felt in his pocket.
“Yes,” said he, anxiously. “It contained a considerable sum of money. Have you found it?”
“Yes, sir; here it is.” And our hero drew it from his pocket, and restored it to the owner.
“Where did you find it?”
“In the bottom of the wagon,” answered Julius.
“Do you know how much money there is in the wallet?” asked Mr. Taylor.{112}
“Yes, sir; I counted the bills. There is nearly three hundred dollars.”
“Didn’t it occur to you,” asked Mr. Taylor, looking at him in some curiosity, knowing what he did of his past life and associations, “didn’t it occur to you that you could have kept it without my suspecting it?”
“Yes,” said Julius, frankly. “It did.”
“Did you think how much you might do with it?”
“Yes; I thought how I could go back to New York and cut a swell, or go to California and maybe make a fortune at the mines.”
“But you didn’t keep it.”
“No; it would be mean. It wouldn’t be treating you right, after all you’ve done for me; so I just pushed it into my pocket, and there it is.”
“You have resisted temptation nobly, my boy,” said Mr. Taylor, warmly; “and I thank you for it. I won’t offer to reward you, for I know you didn’t do it for that; but I shall hereafter give you my full confidence, and trust you as I would myself.”
Nothing could have made a better or deeper impression on the mind of Julius than these words. Nothing could have made him more ashamed of his momentary yielding to the temptation of dishonesty. He was proud of having won the confidence of Mr. Taylor. It elevated him in his own eyes.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, taking his guardian’s proffered{113} hand. “I’ll try to deserve what you say. I’d rather hear them words than have you pay me money.”
Mr. Taylor was a wise man, and knew the way to a boy’s heart. Julius never forgot the lesson of that day. In moments of after temptation it came back to him, and strengthened him to do right.{114}
CHAPTER XVI.
THE NEW TEACHER.
On the first Monday after Thanksgiving the winter school commenced. Julius looked forward to the day with eager interest. He had studied at home faithfully in the afternoon, according to Mr. Taylor’s proposal, and had really made remarkable progress. His ambition was aroused, and he had labored to reach an equality with other boys of his age. He was encouraged to believe he had done so, and therefore was not afraid of being mortified by his standing in the assignment of scholars to classes.
“Who is to be the teacher this winter?” asked Mrs. Taylor, at the breakfast table, turning to her husband.
“It is a nephew of Deacon Slocum. I believe his name is Slocum.”
“Do you know anything of him?”
“No; I only know that the Deacon actively interested himself to get him the appointment. Most of the parents would have preferred Dexter Fairbanks. He has experience, and is known to be an excellent teacher.”
“How came the deacon to carry his point?”
“By asking his nephew’s appointment as a special favor. I only hope he will prove a good teacher.”{115}
Julius listened to this conversation with attention. He felt that he was personally interested in the matter. He hoped the new teacher would be a good one, for he really wished to learn. If I should say, however, that this was all that our hero had in view, I should convey a false idea. He expected to have a good time, and meant to get what enjoyment he could as well as profit. By this time he was pretty well acquainted with the boys who, like himself, were to attend the school, and no longer felt like a stranger.
One thing I must add. When we first made acquaintance with Julius, in the streets of New York, he was meager and rather undersized. Want and privation had checked his growth, as was natural. But since he had found a home in the West, he had lived generously, enjoyed pure air, and a sufficiency of out-of-door exercise, and these combined had wrought a surprising change in his appearance. He had grown three inches in height; his form had expanded; the pale, unhealthy hue of his cheek had given place to a healthy bloom, and his strength had considerably increased. This change was very gratifying to Julius. Like most boys of his age he wanted to be tall and strong; in the city he had been rather ashamed of his puny appearance; but this had disappeared, and he now felt able to cope with most boys of his age.{116}
Some minutes before nine a group of boys assembled in front of the schoolhouse.
“Have you seen the new teacher?” asked Julius, addressing John Sandford.
“No; they say he only came to Brookville late last evening.”
“Where is he going to board?”
“At Deacon Slocum’s, so father says. The deacon is his uncle.”
“I hope he isn’t like his uncle, then,” said Henry Frye. “The deacon always looks as stiff as a fence rail.”
“I wish we were going to have Mr. Fairbanks here again this winter. He’s a regular, tiptop teacher.”
“So he is,” said Henry.
“Mr. Taylor says it’s the deacon’s doing, getting his nephew appointed.”
“Of course it was. Mr. Fairbanks was willing to teach. I wish we could have had him. He used to go out at recess, and play ball with us sometimes.”
“Could he play well?” asked Julius.
“I bet he could. Do you see that tree over there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he knocked a ball as far as that one day.”
“He must have been pretty strong in the arms,” said Julius, measuring the distance with his eye.
“He was that.”
“Did he ever lick the boys?”{117}
“No; he didn’t need to. We all liked him, and didn’t give him any cause.”
“Maybe this teacher will be a good one.”
“I hope so; but I know he isn’t as good as Mr. Fairbanks.”
“Isn’t that he, coming up the hill?” asked Teddy Bates.
“It must be,” said John Sandford. “He bends backward just like the deacon. Tall, too; looks like a May pole.”
Forty pairs of eyes scanned with interest the advancing figure of the schoolmaster. He was very tall, very thin, with a pimply face, and bright red hair, and a cast in his right eye. He would hardly have been selected, either by a sculptor or an artist, as a model of manly beauty; and this was the impression made upon the youthful observers.
“Ain’t he a beauty?” said Henry Frye, in a low voice.
“Beats the deacon all hollow,” said John Sandford; “and that’s saying a good deal.”
“He’s got the family backbone,” said Julius, who had been long enough in the town to become well acquainted with the appearance of most of the inhabitants.
“That’s so, Julius.”
By this time the teacher had come within a few feet of his future scholars.{118}
“Boys,” said he, majestically, “I am Mr. Slocum, your teacher.”
The boys looked at him, and two of the younger ones said, “Good-morning.”
“You will at once enter the schoolhouse,” said the new teacher, with dignity.
“Isn’t the bell going to ring?” asked Henry Frye.
“Yes. On the whole, you may wait for the bell.”
He entered the schoolhouse, and a minute later reappeared at the door ringing the bell violently.
Probably few persons are the objects of more critical attention than a new teacher, for the pupils who are to be under his charge. It is to many an embarrassment to be subjected to such close scrutiny, but Mr. Theophilus Slocum rather liked it. He had an exceedingly high opinion of himself, and fancied that others admired him as much as he admired himself. Of his superior qualifications as a teacher he entertained not the slightest doubt, and expected to “come, see and conquer.” He had taught small schools twice before, and, although his success was far from remarkable, he managed to keep the schools through to the end of the term.
Such was the teacher who had undertaken to keep the winter term of the principal school in Brookville.
Mr. Slocum took his place at the teacher’s desk, solemnly drew out a large red handkerchief, and blew a sonorous blast upon his nose, and then began to speak.{119}
“Boys and girls,” he commenced, in a nasal voice, “I have agreed to teach this school through the winter. They wanted me in two or three other places, but I preferred to come here, in order to be near my venerable relative, Deacon Slocum. I expect you to make great improvement, considering how great will be your advantages. When I was a boy I used to take right holt of my studies, and that’s the way I have rose to be a teacher.” (Significant looks were exchanged between different scholars, who were quick to detect the weakness of the speaker.) “I was not raised in this State. I come from Maine, where I graduated from one of the best academies in the State. I come out here, hoping to advance the cause of education in the West. I don’t think all the best teachers ought to stay in the East. They ought to come to the great West, like I have, to teach the young idea how to shoot. Now, boys and girls, that’s all I’ve got to say, except that I mean to be master. You needn’t try to cut up any of your pranks here, for I won’t allow it. I will form the classes, and we will begin.”
For an hour and a half the new teacher was engaged in classifying the scholars. Then came recess, and on the play ground, as may well be supposed, not a few remarks were made upon the new teacher, and his speech.
“He’s a conceited jackass,” said John Sandford. “You’d think, to hear him talk, that we had no good teachers in the West till he came.”{120}
“He’d better have stayed where he came from,” said Henry Frye. “I don’t believe they wanted him in two or three other places.”
“I wish he had gone to one of them, for my part. I wouldn’t cry much. How much better Mr. Fairbanks was!”
“I should say he was,” said Tom Allen. “You wouldn’t catch him making a jackass of himself by making such a speech.”
“I hope he knows something,” said Julius, “for I want to learn.”
“I don’t believe he does,” said John. “When a man talks so much about what he knows, I think he’s a humbug. Did you hear what he said about taking right ‘holt’? It seems to me a teacher from one of the best academies in Maine ought to know better.”
“He puts on airs enough,” said Tom Allen. “If he expects he’s going to tread us under foot, he’ll find himself mistaken.”
Tom Allen was the largest boy in school—large-framed and muscular, through working on a farm. He was tractable if treated justly, but apt to resist if he felt that any attempt was being made to impose upon him. He was a little dull, but tried to improve. He was a scholar whom it was the interest of the teacher to secure as a friend, for he could render very efficient assistance in case of trouble. He was not particularly pleased with{121} the tone of the new teacher’s opening speech, regarding it as unnecessarily aggressive, as well as betraying not a little self-conceit. He had been a trusted supporter of Mr. Fairbanks, who had patiently endeavored to clear up difficulties in his lessons, and, not being naturally quick, he encountered them often. It would have been well if Mr. Slocum had understood the wisdom of conciliating him; but the new teacher was very deficient in good judgment and practical wisdom, and was by no means as well versed as he pretended to be in the studies which he had undertaken to teach. It was a proof of his want of tact that he had begun his career by threatening the school, and parading his authority very unnecessarily.{122}
CHAPTER XVII.
A FIRST-CLASS HUMBUG.
Julius found, to his great satisfaction, that he was placed in a class of boys of his own age and size, and that the lessons assigned were not beyond his ability to learn. Teddy Bates, on the other hand, who had had no opportunity of increasing his knowledge since his departure from New York, was placed in the lowest class. He was astonished to find his old companion so far above him.
“How did you do it, Julius?” he asked at recess.
“I have been studying at home ever since I came here. Mr. Taylor helped me.”
“You didn’t know no more’n I do when you came out here.”
“That’s so, Teddy.”
“You must have studied awful hard.”
“That’s because I wanted to make up for all the time I’d lost. I was a reg’lar know-nothing when I began.”
“Like me,” said Teddy.
“You haven’t had the same chance I have,” said Julius, wishing to save the feelings of his friend.
“I’ve had to peg shoes all day. I didn’t get no time to study.”{123}
“Never mind, Teddy. You’ve got a chance now. Do the best you can, and if you get stuck, I’ll help you.”
“What a lot you must know, Julius! You’re in the highest class. Do you think you can get along?” asked Teddy, with newborn respect for his friend on account of his superior knowledge.
“I ain’t afraid,” said Julius, confidently. “You can work your way up, too, if you try.”
“I ain’t as smart as you are, Julius.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” said our hero, though he secretly doubted it, and with good reason. There was no doubt that Julius surpassed his friend, not only in energy, but in natural talent.
The boys soon discovered that their new teacher was by no means equal in scholarship to the favorite whom he had superseded. Notwithstanding he had graduated, as he asserted, at one of the most celebrated academies in Maine, he proved to be slow at figures, and very confused in his explanations of mathematical principles. It may be well to let the reader into a little secret. Mr. Slocum had passed a few months at an academy in Maine, without profiting much by his advantages; and, having had very indifferent success in teaching schools of a low grade at home, had come out West by invitation of his uncle, under the mistaken impression that his acquirements, though not appreciated in the East, would give him a commanding position at the West. He was destined to{124} find that the West is as exacting as the East in the matter of scholarship.
Mr. Slocum betrayed his weakness first on the second day. Frank Bent, a member of the first class, went up to him at recess with a sum in complex fractions.
“I don’t quite understand this sum, Mr. Slocum,” he said. “Will you explain it to me?”
“Certainly,” said the teacher, pompously. “I dare say it seems hard to you, but to one who has studied the higher branches of mathematics like I have, it is, I may say, as easy as the multiplication table.”
“You must be very learned, Mr. Slocum,” said Frank, with a grave face, but a humorous twinkle in his eye.
“That isn’t for me to say,” said Mr. Slocum, complacently. “You know the truth shouldn’t be spoken at all times. Ahem! what sum is it that troubles you?”
“This, sir.”
“Yes, I see.”
Mr. Slocum took up the arithmetic, and looked fixedly at the sum with an air of profound wisdom, then turned back to the rule, looked carefully through the specimen example done in the book, and after five minutes remarked: “It is quite easy, that is, for me. Give me your slate.”
He worked on the sum for the remainder of the recess, referring frequently to the book, but apparently arrived at no satisfactory result.{125}
“Do you find it difficult, sir?” asked Frank, mischievously.
“Certainly not,” said the teacher; “but I think I see why it is that you didn’t get it.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because the answer in the book is wrong,” replied Mr. Slocum. “Ahem! I have discovered other errors before. I believe I will write to the publishers about it, Really, it ought to be corrected in the next edition.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Frank, amused; for he didn’t credit the statement about the error.
“What do you think Slocum says?” he said in a whisper to Julius, who sat at the same desk with him.
“What is it?”
“He says the answer to the fifth sum is wrong in the book, and he is going to write to the publishers about it.”
“The fifth sum! Why, I’ve done it, and got the same answer as is in the book.”
“How did you do it?”
“Just like the rest. It’s easy enough. I’ll show you.”
“I see,” said Frank. “The teacher worked on it for ten minutes, and then couldn’t get it. I guess he don’t know much.”
“I don’t see anything hard about it,” said Julius. “All you’ve got to do is to follow the rule.”
“I’ll tell him you did it when we recite. See what he’ll say.”{126}
“First class in arithmetic,” called Mr. Slocum.
The boys took their places.
“Our lesson to-day treats of complex fractions,” said Mr. Slocum, pompously. “Does any boy know what complex means?”
“Difficult,” suggested one boy.
“Not exactly. It means complicated. That is, they are puzzling to ordinary intellects, but very simple to those who have studied the higher branches of mathematics, such as algebra, geometry, triggernometry”—this was the way the teacher pronounced it—“and so forth. I have studied them all,” he added, impressively, “because I have a taste for mathematics. Many of you wouldn’t be able to understand such recondite studies. I will now ask each of you to give the rule. Julius, you may give it first.”
The rule was correctly recited by each member of the class.
“That is very well,” said Mr. Slocum, blandly. “I will now explain the way in which the sums are done.”
Mr. Slocum went to the blackboard, and, keeping the book open, did the sum already done in the book, giving the explanation from the page before him.
“You see that there seems to be no difficulty,” he said, with an air of superior knowledge. “I have, however, detected an error in the fifth sum, about which one of the class consulted me during recess. The book is evidently{127} wrong, and I propose to write to the publishers, and acquaint them with the fact.”
Here Frank Bent raised his hand.
“What is wanted?” asked the teacher.
“Julius Taylor has done the sum, and gets the same answer as the book.”
“Julius, do I understand you to say that you got the same answer as the book?” demanded Mr. Slocum, rather discomposed. “I am afraid,” he added, severely, “you copied the answer out of the book.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Julius, bluntly.
“You may go to the board, and perform the problem, and explain it after you get through,” said the teacher.
Julius went to the board, and did what was required; writing down at the close the same answer given in the book.
“Now elucidate it,” said Mr. Slocum, who, like many superficial persons, thought that the use of long and uncommon words would impress others with an idea of his learning.
Julius had never heard the word before, but he supposed it must mean “explain,” and accordingly explained it—so well, that even Mr. Slocum understood the operation, and perceived that it was correct. It was rather an awkward situation, to admit that a pupil had succeeded where he had failed; but Mr. Slocum was equal to the emergency.{128}
“Ahem!” he admitted, “you are correct. I did the sum by a recondite process which is in use in the higher branches of mathematics, and I probably made a mistake in one of the figures, which led to a different result. The method in the book is a much more simple one, as I explained to you a short time ago. Frank Bent, you may take the next sum and do it on the board.”
It so happened that Frank, who was not very strong in arithmetic, made a mistake, and got a wrong answer.
“My answer doesn’t agree with the book,” he said.
Mr. Slocum looked at the operation; but, though his face wore an expression of profound wisdom, it was too complex for him. He was, however, thoroughly up in the science of sham.
“You have made a mistake,” he said, sagely. “Can any boy point it out?”
Julius raised his hand, greatly to the relief of the teacher.
“Julius, you may come up to the board, and point out the right method of performing the sum.”
Our hero did so; thereby affording information to the teacher, as well as to his classmates.
“Very well,” said Mr. Slocum, patronizingly. “Julius, you do me credit. Bent, do you understand the sum now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must pay more attention next time. You can’t{129} do anything without attention and talent. When I was a student at one of the most celebrated educational institutions in Maine, I was noted for my attention. When the principal handed me the first prize at the end of the term, he said to me: ‘Theophilus, you have gained this testimonial by your attention and natural talent.’ I am sorry that I left the prize at my home in Maine. It would give me pleasure to show it to you, as it might encourage you to go and do likewise. We will now go through the remaining sums. John Sandford, you may try the sixth sum.”
So the recitation proceeded. In spite of his pompous words, the scholars began to suspect that the new teacher was a first-class humbug. There is reason to believe that they were not very far from the truth.{130}
CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. SLOCUM’S STRATEGY.
“I don’t believe Mr. Slocum knew how to do that sum,” said Frank Bent, at noon. “He got off by saying that he did it in another way; but I saw him looking at the rule about forty times when he was trying to do it. If you hadn’t done it on the board, he would have been caught.”
“Listen, boys,” said John Sandford, “I’ll put you up to a good joke. We shall have the rest of those sums to-morrow. We’ll all pretend we can’t do them, and ask him to explain them to us. Do you agree?”
The boys unanimously agreed.
“As he will be most likely to call on you, Julius, you must be the individual to ask him for an explanation.”
“All right,” said Julius, who enjoyed the prospect of cornering the teacher.
Accordingly at recess Julius went up to the teacher gravely, and said, “Mr. Slocum, will you tell me how to do this sum?”
“Ahem! let me see it,” said the teacher.
He took the book and read the following example:
“If seven is the denominator of the following fraction,{131} nine and one-quarter over twelve and seven-eighths, what is its value when reduced to a simple fraction?”
Now this ought not to present any difficulty to a teacher; but Mr. Slocum had tried it at home, and knew he could not do it. He relied upon some one of the scholars to do it on the board, and as he decided in his own mind, from his experience of the day before, that Julius was most to be relied upon, he was dismayed by receiving such an application from our hero.
“It is rather a difficult example,” he said, slowly. “Have you tried it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Julius had tried it, and obtained the correct answer; but this he did not think it necessary to mention.
“Then you had better go to your desk and try again.”
“Won’t you explain it to me, sir?”
“I have not time,” said Mr. Slocum. “Besides, I think it much better that you should find out for yourself.”
“It isn’t easy to get ahead of him,” thought Julius; “but when the class comes up, we’ll see how he’ll get off.”
To tell the truth, though he had got off for the time being, Mr. Slocum was rather disturbed in mind. He could not do the sum, and it was possible he would be called upon to explain it to the class. How should he conceal his ignorance? That was an important question.{132} He did not suspect that a trap had been laid for him, but supposed the question had been asked in good faith.
At length the time came, and the class were called upon to recite.
“Julius Taylor,” said the teacher, “you may go to the board and do the eleventh example.”
“I’ll try, sir,” said Julius.
He went up to the board and covered it with a confused mass of figures; finally bringing out the answer one hundred and eleven over eight hundred and forty-six.
“I haven’t got the same answer as the book, Mr. Slocum,” he said.
“You have probably made some mistake in the figures,” said the teacher.
“I am not sure that I have done it the right way, sir.”
Mr. Slocum scanned with a look of impressive wisdom the confused figures on the board, and said: “You are right in principle, but there is an error somewhere.”
“Would you be kind enough to point it out, sir?” asked Julius, demurely.
“Is there any one in the class who has obtained the correct answer to this sum?” asked the teacher, hoping to see a hand raised.
Not one of the class responded.
“You may all bring up your slates and do it at the{133} same time, while Julius does it again on the board,” he said.
Five minutes passed, and by agreement every one announced a wrong answer. The boys thought Mr. Slocum would now be forced to explain. But the pedagogue was too wise to attempt what he knew was impossible.
“I see,” said the teacher, “that these sums are too difficult for the class. I shall put you back at the beginning of fractions.”
This announcement was heard by most of the boys with dismay. Many of them could only attend school in the winter, and wanted to make as much progress as they could in the three months to which they were limited. Among the most disappointed was Julius. He saw that his practical joke on the teacher was likely to cost him dear, and he resolved to sacrifice it.
“I think I can do it now, sir,” he said. “I have just thought of the way.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Slocum, much relieved; “you may do it.”
Our hero at once performed the sum correctly, obtaining the same answer as the book.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“You may explain it to the class,” said the teacher.
Julius did so.
“That is the result of perseverance,” said Mr. Slocum, “I was always persevering. When I was connected with{134} a celebrated institution of learning in the State of Maine, the principal one day said to me: ‘Theophilus, I never knew a more persevering boy than you are. You never allow any difficulties to stand in your way. You persevere till you have conquered them.’ Once, at the end of the arithmetic—a more difficult one than this—there was a very hard example, which none of the other boys could do; but I sat up till one o’clock at night and did it. Such are the results of perseverance.”
“May we go on where we are?” asked Julius, “and not go back to the beginning of fractions?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Slocum, “since you have shown that you can persevere. I could easily have explained the sum to you at once; but what good would it have done you? You could not have done the next. Now that you have got it out yourself, I think I am justified in letting you advance.”
So Mr. Slocum triumphed; but not one of the class credited his statement. It was clear to all that he had been “stuck,” and did not dare attempt the sum for fear of failing.
“You had to back down, and do the sum after all, Julius,” said Frank Bent.
“Yes; I didn’t want the class put back to the beginning of fractions.”
“The master was pretty well cornered, I wondered how he would get out.”{135}
“I hope he knows more about other things than arithmetic.”
“I wish we had Mr. Fairbanks back again. He had the whole arithmetic by heart. There wasn’t a sum he couldn’t do; though he didn’t brag about it, like Mr. Slocum. He knew how to explain so a feller couldn’t help understand him.”
In the afternoon Mr. Slocum had another chance to boast. This time it was about his travels, which, by the way, were limited to his journey from Maine, by way of New York. But the city of New York, in which he spent two days, had impressed him very much, and he was proud of having visited it.
“What is the largest city in the United States, Julius?” asked the teacher; though this question was not included in the lesson.
“New York.”
“Quite correct. New York is indeed a vast city. I am quite familiar with it, having spent some time there not long since. I expect you have not any of you had the privilege of visiting this great city.” Here Julius and Teddy Bates exchanged glances of amusement.
“New York contains a great variety of beautiful edifices,” continued Mr. Slocum, complacently. “I used often to walk up Broadway, and survey the beautiful stores. I made some purchases at the store of the celebrated{136} A. T. Stewart, whom you have heard of frequently.”
Mr. Slocum’s extensive purchases to which he alluded consisted of a handkerchief, for which he paid fifty cents.
“It is very beneficial to travel,” continued Mr. Slocum. “It enlarges the mind, and stores it with useful information. We cannot all travel, for travel is expensive; but I think teachers ought to travel, as it enables them to illustrate lessons in geography by their own observations in distant cities and remote lands.”
Here Frank Bent raised his hand.
“Will you tell us some more about New York, sir?”
Mr. Slocum was flattered; and with a preliminary flourish proceeded: “I am glad you desire to acquire information; it is a very laudable ambition. I stopped at one of the finest hotels in New York, located on Chatham Avenue, a broad and fashionable thoroughfare, lined with stately stores.”
Here Julius and Teddy found it difficult to repress their laughter, but by an effort succeeded.
“Did you go to the Grand Duke’s Oprea House?” Julius asked, raising his hand.
“To be sure,” said Mr. Slocum, supposing it to be a fashionable place of amusement. “It is an elegant structure, worthy of the great city in which it is erected. I never visited Europe, but I am told that none of the{137} capital cities of the Old World can surpass it in grandeur.”
This was intensely amusing to Julius, who remembered the humble basement in Baxter Street, described in our early chapters, as the “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.” He concluded that Mr. Slocum’s knowledge of New York was about on a par with his knowledge of complex fractions.{138}