Then, to prove his fearlessness, he retraced his steps to the bones, looking as brave as the hero of an orthodox love story, and pinned his notice to a scrubby tree hard by.

Tracking his way back to his schoolfellows, he said, “Boys, I’m hungry.”

Without more ado the heroes turned their faces homewards, each one except Marmaduke satisfied with his own exploits. Marmaduke jogged on ahead in sullen silence; and while the sage held forth, with schoolboy oratory, on anatomy, astronomy, geology, navigation, jugglery, osteology, whale-fishing, and ventriloquism, the other three amused themselves by carving baskets out of peach-stones, and wounding their index fingers in the hazardous attempt.

Chapter IX.
“Three Wise Men Went to Sea in a Bowl.”

A few days later the boys gathered together and strolled down to the beach, hoping something there would turn up to amuse them.

Two or three schooners and a steamboat were moored at the wharf; but to-day they excited only a languid interest in the boys.

“If we could only go out on the lake,” Will murmured, “it would be fun.”

“Why, where should we go?” inquired one.

“Oh, just out on the lake for a mile or so; or perhaps we might round the point and have a swim in our swimming-place.”

“Well, then,” said Jim, always with an eye to safety and comfort, “why not get out your father’s boat? Wouldn’t it float us all? And it’s so safe!”

“Yes,” said Will, “it’s pretty safe—very safe in the boat-house. And the key of the boat-house is safer still, at home! That’s the way it goes, boys; and when I want a boat ride, I generally struggle around the best I can. It isn’t worth while to trudge home for it; because, most likely, we should find something else to do when we got there. But I think we can light on a craft of some sort if we scratch around a little.”

Although Will’s father owned a boat, the key of his boat-house was always kept at home; and poor Will was about as much benefited as are most boys whose fathers own boats, and ponies, and carriages.

“I hanker for a boat ride,” Charley said. “Let us take the punt.”

“The punt, of course!” Steve chimed in. “The punt is just what we want.”

“Oh,” groaned Jim, “the punt is dirty and worn out; and it leaks; and it tips over; and it won’t go; and an awful storm is going to come up!”

“Look here, boys,” the Sage began, “Jim’s half-way right about that punt; it’s vulgar! And besides, it isn’t so safe as it ought to be. Only the other day, I read about some boys that went out in a cockle-shell of a boat,—I suppose it meant a punt; only, as I told you, punt is very vulgar, too vulgar for this author, at any rate,—and all got drowned! And another thing; I’ve been reading about the weather lately, and I understand just how it goes now.”

And the Sage looked so knowing that it was difficult for the boys to suppress their laughter. He was now casting intelligent glances at the sky, the birds, the grasshoppers, the lake, and even the ground. Soon he spoke.

“Boys,” he said, as impressively as he knew how, “I’m saying nothing rashly, but deliberately and—and—correctly. I’ve observed the weather indicators, and a dreadful storm is coming up fast! A storm that will stun an equinoctial, and tear Germany all to pieces.”

And the meteorologist’s form swelled with science and satisfaction.

“Whereas, on account of these gloomy auguries, resolved: that we go home and hide in the cellar hatchway till the storm is over,” Charles commented.

“No, boys; I’m in earnest, and I don’t care to go out in the punt,” George said firmly.

“I want to inquire into this drowning affair,” Steve said, “Didn’t you read about it in a little gilt-edged story-book?”

“Well, yes, I did,” George reluctantly acknowledged. “But, what of that?”

“Only this, were they all bad boys?”

“Come to think, they were.”

“That accounts for it then. They always put those solemn tales in books for little boys that get sick, and can’t get out doors, to make ’em think that a sound boy is always bad, and that it’s better to be sick. But somehow the superintendent always make a muddle of it, and give all those books to little girls. My little sisters have got a big cigar box chock-full of ’em, endwise up, and I never got one!”

“Yes, I know them; each nine chapters and a preface long,” said Charley.

“They’re the ones,” said Steve.

“What do your sisters do with them?” Will asked.

“Oh, they mostly build houses with ’em on rainy days,” Steve answered. “Now, we are not bad boys—never were. We are a first-rate crew, so let us go. But to please you, George, I’ll go and ask that sailor about the weather. I guess he ought to know, if anybody’s going to.”

Without loss of time, Steve went up to a sailor a little way off, and inquired, “Bill, what sort of weather are we going to have to-day?”

“Weather,” echoed Bill, grinning good-humoredly. “Well, look out for a rough gale; pretty rough and pretty long. Yes, there’ll be an awful blow—a hurricane—a typhoon!” he added, remarking Steve’s dissatisfied looks, and mistaking their cause. “Why, who knows but that there’ll be a zephyr that’ll swoop the hold clean out of a vessel and carry a door-knob clean over a flag staff.”

Stephen appeared more dissatisfied than ever; and the jocose sailor, who wished to please him, was about to give a startling account of what the weather might be; but more than satisfied, Steve thanked him, and returned to the expectant five.

“Well, what does he say?” Will demanded.

Stephen dejectedly repeated what the sailor had told him.

George was not in a humor to say, “I told you so!” On the contrary, he was furious against the sailor. He allowed his indignation to boil for a few moments, and then exclaimed, haughtily, “What does that man know about the weather? Why, he doesn’t know any more about it than a caged dromedary. Why, he’s nothing but a lubber—a fresh-water sailor—a stone-boater—a—a—”

“And, besides,” chimed in Marmaduke, “that isn’t the way a genuine sailor talks. He must be some disguised—”

“Yes, of course it isn’t; of course he is;” George broke in. “He is some disguised vagabond, trying to humbug us fellows. Come along, boys; I’m going with you in that punt, through thick and thin, in the teeth of every lubberly sailor, and wishy-washy weather indicator, and high toned thunder-storm, that ever astonished anybody!”

This strikes the key-note to the Sage’s character.

But Stephen was angered. “See here, George,” he exclaimed, “that man is an honest sailor and a decent fellow, and you just let him alone!”

The boys, thinking time enough had been fooled away, then made a rush for the punt. This punt was an old derelict, heavy, unwieldy, full of chinks, and boasting of only two crazy poles, called “oars,” or “paddles,” or “sculls,” according to the humor of the wretch who gallanted them. No one could step into this craft without getting wet; and why it was kept there, or what use it was to the community, was unknown; for no one, except a few freckled and grimy street urchins, ever shoved off in it. Perhaps it was kept for them!

The six, however, had urged their way round the wharf in it.

“Come along, Jim!” Steve shouted, seeing that Timor lagged behind.

“Such a dirty boat to get into!” Jim objected. “And I’ve got my good clothes on, too!”

“Come, now, Jim, you and George are altogether too careful of your clothes. If they are so new and good, or so old and rotten, that you can’t go with us, then stay at home. Hurry up, you’ve got to go with us,” and Steve forced him in—an unwilling passenger.

And so the adventurous boys embarked in this dirty and dilapidated craft, with which Time, so to speak, had worked wonders.

“How are we to make the crazy thing go?” Will asked, when fairly afloat, looking around in vain for any motive power.

It is always thus with boys. Not till their own imprudence plunges them into difficulties, do they pause to consider what it all means, and what they had better do. When a boy is small he clambers upon the roof of his father’s barn, enjoys the perspective for one brief moment, and then ruminates as to how he shall get down. His mother sees him, and with tears in her eyes and dismay at her heart, tears out of the house, and exclaims, “Oh, Johnnie, why did you get up there?” Then the little innocent answers stoutly, “Well, ma, I reckoned if I could get up, I could get down again. Now, you jest watch, and I’ll climb down like a spider. Don’t be afraid, ma, it’s nice up here; I can see Mr. Morley’s shed,” (the object which bounds his view.) When older, he “volunteers;” girds on his uniform with swelling heart; breathes the word patriotism with lover-like tenderness,—and then! Ah! then he fears to confront his father.

“Botheration!” cried Stephen, “we’ve left those oars on shore! There they are; behind Reichter’s boat-house. Back her up, boys, and I’ll jump out and get ’em.”

Poor sea-farers! In their eagerness to be off they had “set sail” without the “oars.” After a great struggle, they succeeded in urging the punt back so that Steve could jump ashore. Then the dauntless young voyagers told off the crew, and struck out gallantly.

“Now, Tim,” said Stephen, “if you’ll take that old oyster-can, and bale out this vessel, you’ll feel so much at home that you’ll be happy; and bye-and-bye I’ll help you.”

“It has no business to leak,” Jim grumbled. “But I told you it did!” he added, triumphantly.

“Of course it does; what’s a boat, if it doesn’t leak?” Steve snorted.

On they went; drifting, paddling, and sculling; laughing and joking. It seemed so joyous and secure that even Timor lost his uneasiness. Before they had determined whither they were going, the abutments of the wharf were passed, and they were fairly out on the lake. The farther they went, the higher their spirits rose, and the more jocose they became. Not one of them troubled himself about a storm.

“Well, boys, we can round the point, and have our swim right along. Let us do it,” said Will.

“Yes, I haven’t had a swim in the lake for three weeks!” Jim solemnly declared, as he rested a few minutes from baling out the punt.

The others were duly astonished at this (we say it boldly) neglect of duty.

Steve, who was tugging lustily at his oar, called out to George, the helmsman: “Fetch her around, there, old fellow; brace about for the shore, will you? Don’t be so lubberly, now, or you’ll keel her over. Hug her up for the shore, I tell you!”

“Look here, Stephen Goodfellow, I can navigate this dingy without so many orders; so, let me alone!” the helmsman retorted, indignantly.

“Now, boys,” said Will, “if we are mariners, let us behave ourselves. A captain and his crew always act in harmony, like a drummer’s drum and a tooter’s horn.”

“Of course,” chimed in Charley. “They don’t wrangle like a couple of bumpkins of boys in their collarless shirt sleeves.”

“What’s a dingey?” asked Jim.

“I—I believe it isn’t in my dictionary; but it’s a good-for-nothing craft, that is always an eyesore to the noodle that harbors it,” said George.

The punt was headed for the beach; but a decided swell, which had hitherto been in their favor, was now against them, and progress was slow. By dint of exertion however, in the course of time, they grounded their craft at the water’s edge, and sprang out to enjoy their bath. The gloomy speculations about the weather were forgotten, and not one noticed the threatening clouds looming up in the west.

The old sailor had not trifled with them; a storm was brewing.

Although their swimming-place was somewhat difficult of approach, it was retired and delightful, the great resort of all the swimmers in the neighborhood. That was the only drawback; it was too much resorted to by swimmers. But to-day the boys had it all to themselves.

“Well,” said Marmaduke, as he plunged into the water, “we boys and the rest of the folks are acquainted with a good place to swim in, as the Frenchman would say.”

“Never mind the Frenchman now, Marmaduke;” replied Will; “English will float you through the world.”

Jim had hardly stepped into the water when he cried out, “Oh, boys, the water is too cold and nasty; I’m shi-i-ivering!”

“Well, then,” sang out Steve, whose head was bobbing up and down some thirty yards from the shore, “bundle on your clothes, and play the anchor to that punt. It’ll drift across the lake, if somebody doesn’t take charge of it.”

But it was cold and disagreeable, and their swimming was of short duration. They waded ashore with chattering teeth, and huddled on their clothes as quickly as their shivering limbs would permit.

“Boys, suppose that we go home by land?” Steve proposed. “It wouldn’t be so very far, and then it would be a change.”

“That’s a capital idea, Steve; but what would become of the dingey? We mus’n’t leave it here,” said Will.

“Then let us make off.”

Without delay the six took their places in the punt, and shoved off.

There was now not only a perceivable swell, but also a perceivable breeze. In a word, the scullers found that it was unnecessary to handle their sculls, for the punt drifted merrily seaward without a stroke from them.

“Look here, boys,” cried the Sage, prefacing his remarks, as usual, with his darling expression, “we could hardly make the shore a while ago; and now just see how fast we are drifting out! I don’t believe we could get back to our swimming place; let us try it.”

“Let us be glad that we are getting a boat-ride without work,” was Steve’s foolish comment.

But his fellow-voyagers considered the matter in a different light, and tried to back the oars. They could still do so, but only by putting forth all their strength. Their situation was now so critical that they turned pale with dread.

“O dear!” gasped Timor, too frightened to say more.

“Why didn’t we go home by land!” Steve ejaculated.

“Pity we didn’t do that,” Will said. “Before we could row ashore, the swell would be too much for us, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course it would,” George answered.

“And we’re almost too far from shore to swim to it,” Charles asked, rather than said.

“Couldn’t swim there without getting the cramps, Charley,” Will replied, in a hoarse whisper.

“Look to the west!” Jim cried in terror. “Oh, boys! I’ve got ’em! got the chills! dreadful chills! awful chills! O boys! we shall all be drowned! We’ll perish! We’ll be drownded! drownded to death! Oh! what a dreadful storm!”

All looked towards the west, and saw that a storm was almost upon them. The black clouds piling up were certainly ominous; the breeze was getting stiffer every minute; the lake was getting rougher.

“Well boys we’re caught!” Stephen said gravely. Poor boy! all his mirth had forsaken him.

But it was now convenient for George to remember that he had prognosticated a storm; and, forgetting the incident of the “disguised” sailor, he exclaimed, “Yes Steve, we’re in a tight place. But I was right about the storm, boys.”

Steve was too much flurried to remind the boy that he had arrived at a different conclusion, scouted the idea of a storm, and determined to accompany them.

“Well, boys,” said Marmaduke, “this is a storm at sea: let us enjoy it while it lasts.”

“No, Marmaduke, let us be thankful that it is not a storm at sea,” Will replied. “As for enjoying it, that would be pretty hard work. Don’t you know that we are in danger?”

“O dear! what will become of us!” Jim groaned.

The shock was wearing off now; and Charley found courage to ask, jocularly, “Is that all you have to say, Marmaduke? I expected something better from you.”

Steve put in promptly, though he was still very much discomposed: “Oh, Marmaduke’s mouth is full of words; he’s only puzzling which to say first.”

“Look here, boys,” said the Sage, “how far astray was I about the weather?”

“Very far, George; nearly as far as that miserable stone-boater,” Steve answered maliciously.

This nettled George, and he asked testily in a grum voice, “What about the little books now, Steve? Don’t you think they were right enough?”

“Well, George, it seems like it, surely enough,” Steve acknowledged.

“Don’t say spiteful things when we are in such danger,” Charles here interposed. “And besides,” he added, “we are all in the same scrape, and no one is to blame for it. So, let us lay our wise heads together, and try to save ourselves.”

Chapter X.
The “Bowl” Comes to Grief.

The first shock had now passed away, and the foolhardy scullers were beginning to recover their spirits. Although each one was still almost quaking with dread, yet each one believed that they would be rescued; and each one—except, perhaps, Jim—had a theory of his own as to how it would be effected. They viewed the matter logically. To them, it did not seem possible that six clever boys, determined, true, and good, (the writer and the reader may not agree to this) could perish so near home. They searched their minds diligently, conscience helping them, and many little things that made them uneasy were remembered; still: they would be rescued, they knew it.

The punt was now a long way out on the lake; the point was passed; looking longingly towards home they could discern the vessels at anchor, the wharf, and several buildings in the village.

In the confusion of the moment, they had left off bailing out the ramshackle punt, in which there were, consequently, three or four inches of water. A dead fish and half a dozen emaciated fish-worms—abandoned, a few days before, by an amateur angler of ten years—were carried hither and thither over the bottom of the punt, adding to the ghastliness of the scene.

Jim was the first to discover the water washing over his boots. Here was a new source of distress. Forgetting the storm, which was still more or less in the distance, his attention was centred upon that water. To him, in his “good clothes,” it was more to be dreaded than the bellowing waves, or the approaching storm. Thus, gentle reader, we get an insight into the boy’s character.

“O dear!” he said piteously, “my feet are soaking wet in the bottom of this nasty boat; and I’m cold; and I’m catching cold; and I’ve got the chills.”

“Well, then, set on to your feet and bale her out,” Steve growled. “I guess we don’t want to drown in this old coal-slide of a punt.”

Heaving an agonizing sigh, Jim snatched up the floating oyster-can, and fell to work. Poor boy! his toil was monotonous and painful.

“Is it worth while to row?” Charley asked, not hopelessly, but speculatively.

“Perhaps not, but it will keep up our spirits, anyway,” Will said. “Steer it, George,” he added. “It would seem like giving up all hope, if we don’t do something to help ourselves.”

Foolish fellow! he could not realize that it was out of their power to help themselves.

“This is a sorry ending for our little trip, and things look pretty black for us,” George observed, “Charley, how do you suppose we can be rescued?”

Thus appealed to, Charles assumed an air of importance, and said knowingly, “If this wind should get much worse, we shall be driven away out into the lake, and perhaps lost; unless—” here he hesitated.

“Unless what?” Jim demanded, with much emotion.

“Well, a passing schooner might pick us up, but there is none in sight.”

This was his theory. Nothing would have pleased the young Argonaut more than to be picked up by a passing sailing-vessel; and for this reason, he was morally certain that, sooner or later, such would be the case. Why he chose to speak so doubtfully about it, is best known to himself. Probably the sharp young reader can guess.

“Or, they might send for us from home; but I can’t see anybody coming along in a life-boat,” Will said, giving his particular theory.

“Haven’t any life-boat to send; and I guess they won’t telegraph for one!” Steve exclaimed rudely.

“Oh, you mean fellow!” Jim broke in, apostrophizing unpoetic Stephen. “You made me come, and you’ve got to get me home!”

“The truth is, we may as well prepare for the worst!” George said, deliberately and with seeming sincerity. But the grin on his face belied his words. He was only waiting for a fit time to pronounce his opinion—the most extravagant of all.

“George, how long could a fellow live on the water without any food?” Steve inquired, not at all awed by George’s lugubrious asseveration.

“Oh, how long?” said George, so pleased to have an opportunity of drawing on his extensive and miscellaneous reading that he lost track of his own pet theory. “Well, boys, a shipwrecked sailor once lived twenty-two days without food; but he was a fat old fellow—a captain, I think he was. Now, in our case—”

“Don’t talk nonsense, George;” Will interrupted at this point. “We are not going to experiment in that way; for on the lake,” with significant emphasis, “we shall not have a chance to see how long we can live without food, as it’s either saving or drowning with us. Look at those clouds again. It will rain in a few minutes. But cheer up! I think we shall be safe at home within three hours; and then this storm will be an episode in our lives as long as we live. If we could only let the folks on shore know, they’d soon come along.”

“Yes, if we could open up communication with the people at home!” Charley sighed.

“Boys,” said Marmaduke, with great animation, “I can tell you how to do that; tie a handkerchief, or something else, to one of the sculls!”

“Good for you, Marmaduke!” Charles cried, with delight. “You are a genius!”

“Yes, Marmaduke, you’ve hit on the very thing!” said Steve. “Now, whose is the largest?—Mine is;” and two minutes later Steve’s handkerchief was fluttering as a flag.

“I—I was just thinking about that, too;” Jim stammered.

A hearty laugh—the first since they had left their swimming-place—burst from the boys at this.

The little white flag on the oar was romantic; it inspired hope in them; they became fearless, even merry. Each one was sufficiently susceptible of romance to place the greatest confidence in the saving powers of that little handkerchief. It was medicine to Jim’s troublesome disorder, while to Marmaduke it was everything. He sat bolt upright, devouring it with his eyes, his heart going at high pressure. Environed with romance, with danger on every side, he made an idol of the little square of linen, which, but for his sapience, would not have left its owner’s pocket. What did he care for danger? Though they should float for hours, this would eventually save them. Thus he sat, gazing eloquently and lovingly on the white flag.

Did we say white? Alas! it was not white! Two days previous to this, Steve had made it serve him for a towel.

Meanwhile, the breeze increased to a gale, and the punt was tossed about in a manner to make even Steve fidgety, while it made pigeon-hearted Jim draw groans expressive of unutterable agony. The sinking sun was hidden by black clouds; the storm was upon them. In fact, their situation was really becoming desperate.

“Why is it so dark, boys?” Jim articulated faintly.

“Why, surely enough, it’s so dusk, so hazy, that we can hardly see the harbor!” George said.

“My stars, boys, it’s an eclipse!” cried Steve, forgetting his peril in the excitement of his astounding discovery. “An eclipse! The down-rightest eclipse that ever was! George,” banteringly, “don’t you wish you’d brought in something about this eclipse when you were foretelling the weather!”

The Sage experienced some of the emotions of a huffish philosopher when floored by a hulking lout from the copper regions.

George’s words had directed Charley’s attention towards the harbor. “Oh! Look! look!” he cried. “They’re coming! coming at last!”

“Where? where?” cried the others eagerly, stretching over the gunwale of their crazy craft and peering into the darkness.

The water-loving boatmen soon descried a long-boat drawing towards them.

“Help at last!” Will ejaculated thankfully. “And it will reach us barely in time to save us.”

“The signal has done it, boys,” Marmaduke observed with complacency.

“Let us yell!” said Will.

How they shouted! Their pent-up woes found vent, and they shouted till hoarseness necessitated them to forbear.

But the manager of the signal had not shouted, and when the voices of the others finally died away in a discordant murmur, he said snappishly, “You needn’t yell like an hobomokko; this flag will guide them to us.”

“Yes; but it’s better to yell,” Steve panted. “In fact, I couldn’t help it!”

“I wish we could stop this punt till they come up with us,” Will said, “for we are drifting farther from them all the time,” sighing to hear the water plunk against the punt with remorseless and dreary monotony.

“Well, we can’t anchor; but they’re rowing hard and coming fast,” Charles replied.

“Will, it’s your fault that we came; you proposed it;” Jim said.

“That may be, Jim,” the standard-bearer replied; “but I think we all had a hand in it—except, of course, you. But I am the one who has saved you, and saved us all. This signal of distress has been sighted, and then immediately they made ready to rescue us,” and he looked triumphantly at the boys, defying a denial.

“Oh, yes; I know it’s all right; I ain’t afraid;” Jim said quickly.

Stephen spoke next. “How everybody will laugh at us!” he said, elaborating a dolorous sigh and putting on a hideous grimace.

Now that succor was at hand, this thought began to depress his mind.

The approaching long-boat was a fascinating sight to all, to Marmaduke especially. As it drew nearer, the latter suddenly and most unwarrantably struck the improvised flag and stuffed it into Stephen’s coat-pocket. Had he become ashamed of it? Could he be so base? No! no! but it was not needed now!

In good time the long-boat came within hailing distance.

“Hollo there, you lubbers!” a voice bellowed. “You’re a pretty lot of fellers, ain’t you?”

“Why didn’t he say, ‘Ship, ahoy!’ or ‘Boat, ahoy!’” Marmaduke murmured.

“You mean, why didn’t he say, ‘Punters, ahoy!’” Steve corrected.

George felt it incumbent on him to make some reply, so he called back feebly, “All right!”

Each boy now began to “feel like an idiot,” as Steve put it. Each one experienced the feeling that any boy, caught in a similar predicament, would experience. The writer has suffered in that way, and consequently knows how to pity those miserable boys.

The long-boat was soon alongside. It contained several men,—among them, Will’s and Jim’s father, overjoyed at this happy meeting,—and the sailor whom Steve had questioned concerning the weather appeared to be leader.

The rescue came about in this way: When the storm was seen approaching, the boys were found to be missing, and inquiries for them were at once instituted. For some time these were fruitless; but at length Mr. Lawrence, guessing shrewdly that they would be on the water at such a time as this, went down to the wharf, and came upon and interrogated the old sailor. “Well,” said the latter, “one of ’em asked me about the weather, and I expect they all went off on the lake, but I don’t know; I saw ’em poking around for a boat, I guess it was, and then I went into the hold of the schooner, and didn’t see ’em any more. We can overhaul them, Sir, but it will be a long and hard pull.”

This clue was sufficient; a good glass was procured, and the boys were descried far out on the lake. Then a boat was manned in hot haste, and put off to the rescue.

“Well, younkers,” said the old sailor, “you must hurry up, for there’s no time to be idled away.” Then, with a sportive wink, (which the gloom made invisible) he added, “I guess you fellers will believe me next time I warn you to look out for blows.”

“Yes, boys, you’ve done a foolish thing, but your mothers will be so glad to see you that they’ll forgive you,” a good-natured sailor observed.

The transfer from the punt to the long-boat was soon made, and then one of the rescuers demanded, “What about this craft? Shall we cast it off, or tow it into harbor for another set of boys to drown in?”

But a practical man, who made it an established principle of his life never to lose anything that came in his way, passed his dictum that the punt must be preserved at all risks.

“Of course this will be a warning to all the boys,” he said, “and it would be a sin to lose a ship-shape craft like this. Just see how well it floated them! No boy is so wrong-headed that he won’t profit by experience.”

So, much to the chagrin of the boys, who now regarded the punt with deadly hatred, it was hitched to the long-boat, and the flotilla set sail for home.

“Speaking of experience,” spoke up a furrow-faced rower, who plied his oars lustily, “I never knew but one boy that profited by experience, and he never did it but once, when he couldn’t help himself, so to speak.”

“What are the details of the particulars, Tom?” asked one.

“Well, the boy went fishing with a tinker, against orders.”

“And he profited—?”

“’Cause he caught cold, and died of too much cough-syrup and remorse.”

“Boys,” said Mr. Lawrence, seriously, “you have risked your lives for a moment’s pleasure, and even yet we are in some peril. I do hope, I sincerely hope, that you will profit by this lesson.”

The boys turned pale. A second time they realized their danger, and they breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness for their deliverance.

“What were you doing to help yourselves?” Mr. Horner inquired.

“We were trying to steer the punt as well as we could,” Will answered.

“What?” cried the furrow-faced sailor in astonishment. “Steering? how? where? why? whew! where on earth were you steering to?”

“Well, we thought we’d keep it as straight as we could,” Will said, apologetically.

“Well,” gasped the sailor, not at all awed by the presence of Messrs. Lawrence and Horner, “that beats me! To think of a pack of noodles trying to save themselves by steering, when their craft is going the wrong way!”

To return to the punt. When Jim saw help approaching, he did not bale the punt so carefully; consequently, at the time of starting for home, there was considerable water in it. Fuller and fuller it became; not only did the water leak in through the cracks, but volumes of it poured in over the stern. When almost filled, the lumbering and water-soaked craft quivered a moment on the surface of the waters, then suddenly sank, snapped the rope by which it was tacked to the long-boat, and disappeared forever.

The practical man sighed meekly: the sailors grinned; the rescued heroes chuckled audibly.

So trifling an incident may seem a blot on these well-written pages, but it is related because it discovers the characteristics of boys.

Will and Jim, awed by the parental presence, said but little during the voyage homewards. Stephen, however,—whose spirits neither strange gentlemen, nor blustering seamen, nor chilling rains, nor raging seas, could damp,—soon recovered his sprightliness, and demanded:—

“Why didn’t you come for us in the steamboat there at the wharf? It would have taken so much less time to reach us.”

“The steamboat!” echoed a sailor, wondering more than ever at these boys. “Well, that beats all! A steamboat! You must be a goose! You live beside the lake, and I’ve seen you poking about the vessels and steamers, as smart and pert as a homeless peanut boy; and yet you ask me such a question! Don’t you know, from watching the engineers, how long it takes to get on a good head of steam? And, s’pose we had come for you in the steamboat—why, it would have knocked you and your ragamuffin’s punt endwise!”

Steve fetched a hollow and piteous sigh, and mumbled something about knowing something.

“Yes, of course; but if you had brought along a few gallons of oil,” suggested the sage, rejoicing in the opportunity afforded for holding up his knowledge, even in so hopeless a cause, “you could have calmed the water, stopped the steamer, and picked us up without any trouble.

“Exactly—if you had been worth a few gallons of oil!” was the crusty blue-jacket’s cutting reply.

“The life-boat is the right thing to go and save people in,” Marmaduke commented.

“Yes, of course it is;” the sage hastened to observe. “I only made the remark.”

“I think you are very remark-able boys,” put in Mr. Lawrence.

“What made you think we were on the lake?” Will inquired.

“I suppose you caught sight of my—our, I mean,—signal of distress?” Marmaduke said placidly.

“Your what? ‘Signal of distress?’ Well, that knocks everything else on head: that is most extraordinary!” the scandalized tar ejaculated.

Poor fellow! The boys’ observations and inquiries had kept him in a state of continual bewilderedness. It was he who had expressed his astonishment so huffishly every time.

“Yes,” rejoined Marmaduke, “the handkerchief on the oar. That brought you, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know anything about any handkerchief on any oar; and you must be crazy to think we could see one in this darkness,” was the depressing answer. “But, to be sure,” the sailor added, “I did notice that a pole with a rag on it seemed to be lowered just before we came up to you; was that the signal?”

“Boys, I knew how fond you are of endangering your lives, and when you were nowhere to be found, I shrewdly suspected that you had found your way out into the storm—and surely enough, you had!” Mr. Lawrence explained.

“Marmaduke, don’t meddle with romance again!” Charles whispered.

“I never did like sailors, except in stories,” Marmaduke muttered; “they are always a mean and sneering set of fellows, except on the ocean.”

“I never knew such fellows,” muttered the sage; “I—I shouldn’t be surprised if they turn out to be ex-pirates!”

“I’ll bet they are!” said Steve, who took kindly to this brilliant idea. “Jim, I say, Jim,” he whispered slyly, “it’s too bad you’re in your good clothes; for you’ll have to change ’em for the old ones! Now, we can change for our best.”

“Let me row!” he said suddenly to the furrow-faced rower, so coaxingly that the row-locks creaked in sympathy.

“No, I came to save you, and I’ll be hanged if I don’t,” the man said roughly. “You did the punting; just leave me alone for the rowing.”

Poor Stephen! He longed to take a turn with the sailors in rowing, but this crushed him, and he was mute.

“They’re not a bit like sailors,” he mumbled to himself, drawing his water-soaked hat down over his gleaming eye-balls.

The men’s surliness, on this occasion, was because they were disgusted with the worthies whom they had come so far to save.

Soon afterwards they reached the wharf, where a knot of people had assembled to welcome them. A hearty hand-shaking followed, and then the six, mighty heroes, in their eyes, were marched off home in triumph.

At least six families were made happy and thankful that night, for the boys had had a narrow escape.

Chapter XI.
A Talented Lecturer.

A few weeks later, the holidays, like all other good things, came to an end, and the six returned to school.

On the opening day a certain great man—great in his own estimation, at least—was to deliver a speech to the school children. This notable gentleman bristled with facts and figures; but, alas! he had acquired so much erudition that he had lost all sense of the fitness of things. Having learned all that is possible for one mortal to know, and yet live, he now made it his pursuit to journey through the country, delivering lectures at the different colleges, and sometimes, as in this instance, at the public schools. There was nothing wicked about this most peculiar man; but, with all his learning, he lacked one thing—practical wisdom.

He was of “slender bulk,”—that is, short and gaunt—saffron-faced, and had a pugilistic and threatening manner of poising himself while speaking, his hands, meantime, describing geometrical curves that were picturesque in the extreme. His eyes were sharp and prominent; his nose followed suit: and his cane, which was stout and elaborately ornamented, was worth, to descend to a hackneyed comparison, an emperor’s ransom.

He employed the same technical terms that he did when addressing the most polished audiences; and, for that reason, the younger children looked upon him as a sort of hero, while to George and Marmaduke he was a full-fledged demi-god. The former (George) listened attentively to the lecture, and took mental note of the big words, with a view to explain their import to his less learned schoolfellows, should an opportunity offer for doing so without too much ostentation. But, alas! poor youth, many words which were strange to him rolled glibly from the professors tongue.

Here we pause—not to make a “digression,” but a vulgar harangue.

The writer has the temerity to hazard the assertion that there might be, in some lone corner of the world, an English-speaking romancer, as familiar with a foreign language as with his own, who could write a tale about people speaking that language, and yet have his tale so purely and thoroughly English that the most neuralgic critic could not cavil or repine. But this is only a rash surmise, and is probably fanciful.

Or is it only those who have acquired a smattering of another language that are so eager to lug in words and phrases peculiar to that language?

When will the mediocre writer of English come to understand that his meanest, as well as his sublimest ideas, may be manifested with as much force in English as in any other language? Alas, never! Instead of saying “such a man is a sharper,” he says, “such a man is a chevalier d’industrie.” What could be more expressive than “he is a devil of a fellow?” And yet our learned penmen prefer to say, “he is uomo stupendo!” It is a notorious fact, that whatever language a writer is most conversant in, he draws upon oftenest. Happily, the reading public are not much bored with scraps from the Esquimau.

But, protests the reader, there are certain terms, and entire phrases, that are not yet Anglicized, but that are in everybody’s mouth.

Very true; against the proper use of such terms and phrases, in moderation, no objections can be raised.

Having thus prated nonsense enough to incur the deadly hatred of every sentimental scribbler to the weeklies of rural towns, this interesting argument may be dropped, particularly as it only heads up to the following observation:—

Our circumforaneous holderforth was one of those who cannot make a speech without “borrowing from the classics;” but (for the best of reasons, gentle reader) we kindly suppress his redundancies in that respect.

After a few introductory remarks, he cleared his throat, and in sonorous tones began to speak of—hydrophobia! Why he should pitch on that as a subject of discussion is as great a marvel as the man himself. Possibly, he had been bitten by an exasperated mad dog at some period in his life, and could not overcome the temptation of speaking of it now. But the probability is that he considered himself the fountain-head of all sciences and theories, of physics and etiology. At all events, whatever the wiseacre’s motive may have been, it is certain that he spoke of hydrophobia.

“My dear little children,” he began, affectionately, “it is of the utmost importance that you should be made acquainted with the latest discoveries that science has made with regard to that most subtle distemper, learnedly called lycanthropy. To those among you who intend to become physicians on attaining majority, this subject will be absorbingly interesting. It is not my purpose to trace this dread distemper from the first mention we have of it down to the present time, but merely to give you a concise description of its operations in the human system, from its incipient stages to the final paroxysms, and also to touch upon the various methods of treatment in repute among those who have conquered immortality by their researches in that field.

“Probably none of you ever beheld a rabid canine. When fleshed in the blood of his victims, he presents one of the most appalling sights that the imagination can conjure up, and rivals in ferocity the fabulous monsters of the ancients. But in good time I shall discourse more at large on his appearance; for the present it is sufficient that I make apparent the—But,” breaking off abruptly, “it is well that there should be a thorough understanding between a speaker and his auditors.”

Then, with that benevolent smile, peculiar to instructors of juveniles when propounding their knotty questions, he demanded, “Little ones, can you define hydrophobia for me?”

The “little ones” stared stolidly and helplessly, but said nothing. The teacher, Mr. Meadows, looking encouraging—then, beseeching—then, mortified—then, irritated—then, wicked. Still the “little ones” maintained silence, both the scholastic and his lecture being unintelligible to them.

He repeated his question; and George—who, although he did not wish to be ranked with the “little ones,” yet feared that the learned man might consider him equally ignorant if he did not speak—rose prepared to give a precise and lengthy definition.

This strikes the key-note to the Sages character.

But a mischievous little gum-chewer, who doubtless could have answered with tolerable correctness, if he had chosen to do so, forestalled him by shouting, at the top of his voice: “Burnt matches and water, Sir!”

Now, it is probable that the juveniles had a chaotic idea of the signification of the word, though unable to define it; and as the youngster just cited was generally correct in his answers, they jumped to the conclusion that he was correct this time; therefore, with a deafening shout, some fifty “little ones” yelled: “BURNT MATCHES and WATER, SIR!!!”

Poor Teacher Meadows! The emotions with which his bosom glowed, were written on his face; and he hitched uneasily in his seat, with that look of grave displeasure supposed to be peculiar to aggrieved persons.

The professor, probably seasoned to such rebuffs, soon recovered his equanimity, and turning to the older scholars, asked, “Cannot you give me a satisfactory answer? Come! Anyone! What is hydrophobia?”

Again an answer quivered on Georges lips; but now Charles forestalled him. Taking his cue from the gum-chewer, Charley said, “Excuse me, sir, but you addressed the little folk, and we, quite politely, left it for them to answer. We know what it means, sir. Hysterphostia is a sort of influenza that yellow dogs catch when they’re fed on too much picnic victuals and spoilt molasses. Then they’re turned loose, with tin cans on their tails, for policemen to shoot at; and everybody that sees them rushing along the street is sure to inhale quinine hyster—”

At this point the speaker’s voice was drowned by roars of laughter from the astonished and delighted boys and girls, and he sat down “amid thunders of applause.”

They, at least, appreciated his absurd reply, his pretended ignorance, and his unblushing effrontery in thus wantonly insulting the august professor. They had evidently taken a dislike to the scientific gentleman, who was altogether too knowing for them, and, idiot-like, rejoiced to see him thus grossly insulted.

The teacher looked stern and furious, and endeavored in vain to stop the hubbub. Was his noble patron to be thus shamefully treated by a mob of ignorant and good-for-nothing school-children, supposed to be under his training and control? Must not the offenders be made to smart for it?

The professor himself was electrified. However, he had too much self-respect to regard anything that a school-boy might say, and after shooting Charles a look of calm contempt, he resumed his discourse, and proceeded to enlighten Teacher Meadows’ brazen-faced blockheads. He spoke long and earnestly on all things relevant to canine madness, and mad dogs, and at length ventured to propose another question.

“What should you do,” he asked, “if a mad dog should burst into this apartment—his bloody eyes starting from their sockets—his mouth wide open, reeking with its lethal venom, and disclosing his cruel, hideous fangs—he himself dashing headlong hither and thither, in his ungovernable fury remorselessly laying low victim upon victim—we ourselves imprisoned here, utterly unable to extricate ourselves?—Ah! you may well shudder at the frightful picture! I forbear. But I repeat, what should you do? Boys and girls, listen:—

“All that is necessary is sufficient presence of mind, together with firm reliance on your nerves, and you will always be able to face and avert the most appalling dangers. And this is the precept that I wish to impress upon you: Strive to acquire the habit of self-reliance, for no habit is more important.”

“Yes, yes, boys and girls; mark that; always remember that precept;” good Teacher Meadows cried, rising from his seat, and smiling approval.

But the darkened intellect of the juveniles could not take in the weight of such a precept, and a faint murmur of resentment passed from mouth to mouth. In the momentary interruption that ensued, Steve, who sat near an outside door, rose and slipped out quietly. “I guess I’ll show the professor and the rest of the folks what a rabid canine is like!” he chuckled sardonically.

But the scene still lies within the school-house.

The professor was in earnest, and he certainly seemed capable of making personal application of his precepts, though, alas! he had never been put to the test!

“What should you do in such an emergency?” he again demanded.

But he did not wish for an answer, and now he had the goodness to tell the gaping children what he should do. “Without a moment’s deliberation,” he said, “I should, almost mechanically, muster my strength, and prepare to ward off the danger. Knife in hand, I should calmly await his murderous onslaught, and when almost upon me I should disarm his fury by ruthlessly stabbing him to the heart.”

To add force and illustration to his words, and to gain credit with his hearers, the orator whipped out of his pocket a treasure of a knife,—a knife, the possession of which would have shot a thrill of happiness through any understanding boy’s heart,—and brandished it wildly, yet gracefully, slaying myriads of imaginary mad dogs.

Certainly, he seemed master of the situation; but in an actual attack of a mad dog he might have experienced some difficulty in getting his knife out of his pocket, and opened, in time.

But where was the professor’s dignity? Why should he make himself ridiculous for the pastime of idiotic school-children?

Although his spirit revolted at the thought of thus sacrificing himself, yet his benevolence prompted him to do many strange things for the instruction of the ignorant; and on this occasion, he labored not to amuse, but to discipline them.

“Most magnanimous soul! most disinterested savant!” breaks in the reader, struck with admiration for our noble-minded professor.

But when an audible titter ran round the company, the philanthropist hastily pocketed his weapon. Not to be turned from his purpose, however, he resumed his discourse, and artfully harrowed up the feelings of his victims, pausing occasionally to pronounce, and amplify on, some wise and weighty precept.

Teacher Meadows nodded his approbation; the tired school-children became restless and thirsty; their feet went to sleep; they rolled their watery eyes pleadingly. Still the strong-lunged enthusiast continued to hold forth, seemingly taking a malicious pleasure in preying upon their emotions.

Suddenly a distracted boy beheld an object that utterly demoralized him. A piercing shriek of agony burst from his lips, and his eye-balls gleamed like those of an ambushed highwayman.

Chapter XII.
An Extraordinary Mad Dog.

It is now in order to follow up giddy-headed Stephen, and see what mad plot had been hatched in his fertile brain.

By turning back a little way, the reader will find that that hero left the audience-chamber immediately after the professor had so vividly drawn the onslaught of an imaginary mad dog.

“It would serve the crazy old shouter right to test his courage,” he muttered. “What business have people to let such a man speak to chicken-hearted little young-muns, all full of weak nerves, and awful to bellow? He might scare some of ’em into fits! I know I’m fond of ‘boorish tricks,’ as George calls them; but if Charley can talk that way about hydrophobia and yellow dogs, I guess I can safely play this one nice little trick. Why, this would only be in the interests of common sense! And,” cheerfully, “how Jim would yell!!!”

Stephen’s mode of reasoning was exceedingly subtile—in fact, like the speech of the philosopher on whom he contemplated playing a trick, it is too subtile for our comprehension. But so long as it removed his scruples, he cared not a goose-quill what others might think.

“Now,” he said to himself, “let me strike out my plans. First is, to find my dog Tip; then, to white-wash him and paint him. But,” doubtfully, “I’m afraid I can’t get any white-wash or any paint. Anyway, it would be better and more natural if I could get him on the trail of some animal. Poor Tip! It’s too bad to treat him so; but then it won’t hurt him any, and if the professor keeps on working up their feelings, I guess there’ll be a stunning howl when Tip bounces into the room, the very picture of a ‘rabid canine’!”

If Steve had tarried a little longer in the school, and seen the professor as he flourished his murderous weapon, he would have thought better of having Tip play the mad dog.

Hurrying along through the school-grounds, he finally halted under a venerable and wide-spreading shade-tree, beloved by all the girls and boys of the school. There before him, rolled up in a ball, lay a vivacious-looking dog, sleeping soundly.

“Eh, Tip!” Steve said. “Good old boy! here you are, just as I hoped.”

At the first words the dog hopped up briskly, and began to caress his master, frisking and barking to express his delight, and disporting himself as only a pet dog can.

It is conjectured that our young readers may be curious to know what species of dog this was. Alas! it is impossible to inform them. Neither his master Stephen nor any other person in the village could affirm positively to what particular species Tip belonged, but all agreed that he was a dog of some sort. This much, however, is known concerning him: He was of medium size and of divers colors, black and white predominating, a universal favorite with all the heroes and heroines of this history.

“Eh, Tip, are you glad to see me? Shall we have some sport? What do you say to a run in the road?”

By way of answer, the dog seized his master’s pants with his sharp teeth, and tugged playfully at them, his way of angling for sport.

“I guess you’ll do, Tip. You’ve got lots of fun in you, if I can keep you going;” and Steve swung open the gate of the school-grounds and passed out with a chuckle, Tip hard at his heels.

Then this giddy-headed boy and his unsuspecting dog turned a corner of the fence, found themselves in a dusty and unfrequented lane, and prepared for action.

“Now, Tip,” said the young rascal, “if we can make you run up and down this lane till you get all covered with dust, and dirt, and slobber, our fortune’ll be made! Come on, Tip; we shan’t need any white-wash nor any paint. Eh, Tip?”

Going on a little farther, till they reached the river, this wicked boy incited his dog to plunge headlong into the water after sticks and stones. Then, returning to the lane, he urged the wet dog to course up and down in the midst of the dust—sometimes after sticks, sometimes after himself. The playful dog enjoyed the sport, and entered into it fully. Soon he presented a woful appearance, but Steve unpityingly spurred him on till he began to pant hard.

“Good!” cried he. “Pant away, Tip, and get yourself well covered with slobber. That’s it! Run, now,—fetch him, Tip; go for him. There, roll in the dust!”

Thus he continued, till the poor dog was fagged out. Then Stephen, even Stephen, relented, and thought seriously of giving up his proposed experiment.

But, ah! the reason was—

“I’m afraid, Tip, that if you run back to school, you’ll be too tired to scare them much, and if you walk back, you’ll lose most of your foam and slobber. And perhaps we might be too late, anyhow. Upon my word,” he cried suddenly, “I never planned how I am to get you into the building! I can’t go with you, and you can’t get in alone!”

In his indecision, Stephen retraced his steps to the gate of the school-grounds, opened it, and with his eyes tried to measure the distance from that place to the castellated school-house—Tip, meanwhile, recovering his strength and sportiveness.

On a sudden, Fate interposed in the form of a muscular and war-worn cat, which appeared leisurely crossing the school-grounds. Tip saw it, and forgetting his weariness, furiously gave chase.

“Sic it, Tip! Sic it!” cried Steve, who, in the excitement of the moment, apparently forgot his trick, and eagerly joined in pursuit.

Tip soon came up with his hereditary enemy, and a frightful combat ensued. Instinct or the force of habit impelled warlike puss to fight stoutly for escape, and he rained blows and execrations, (in the cat language,) that would have done credit to a battle-scarred pirate, upon his assailant.

Tip fought because of his “liking for the thing,” and because his master was pricking him on to victory by such spirit-stirring exclamations as: “Oh, sic it, Tip! Go for him! Beat ’em! Maul ’em! Sh! sh! sh!”

Rabid canine and outraged feline! Would that the professor could have beheld the combat between them!

Presently the dog, with a piteous howl, ceased to fight, and rubbed his head vigorously on the ground; whilst the cat, seizing its opportunity, scampered away towards the school-house.

“Poor little Tip!” said Steve remorsefully, as he observed that his dog was reeking with dust, froth, wounds, and blood.

In a moment, however, Tip was up again and in hot pursuit of the persecuted feline, but, not wishing to risk another engagement, that redoubtable warrior found refuge somewhere about the school. Not so Tip. He dashed straight ahead, and made his way into the very room in which were all the school-children, together with Professor Rhadamanthus and Teacher Meadows.

Steve was close on the dogs heels; but on seeing this, he turned back and shot off in despair.

“Oh!” he groaned, “this is worse than I meant it to be! Every one’ll think that Tip is stark staring mad! O dear me! What shall I do! what shall I do!”

Tips arrival was most opportune. Thanks to the professor’s vivid imagery, all the scholars were perspiring with racking excitement, and so blood-stained an apparition as Tip could not fail to create a commotion. Tip still retained sufficient strength and agility to burst impetuously into the room, and the sudden appearance of an animated mass of slaver, wounds, and blood, was enough to unhinge the mind of any school boy in the Union.

There were more than one hundred boys in the school; more than forty had a stout jack-knife in their left-hand trowsers pocket; more than thirty had one in their right hand trowsers pocket; some five had both a penknife and a jack-knife about their person; about twenty phlegmatic and chuckle-headed cubs—who took only a languid interest in anything but peppermint candy, circus serpent-charmers, and noisy fireworks—had their jack-knives out, and were trying to while away the time by rounding off the sharp angles of their brand-new lesson-books. As for the others, they had lost their jack-knives on their way to school, and consequently had none. Alas, professor! your golden precept was lost on those youths! Not one, not one, drew his knife to “stab the beast to its heart.”

An awful yell of consternation smote upon the air, as the demoralized and panic-stricken boys and girls struggled to escape. The young ladies were too prudent to faint, but they screamed with a voice as shrill and discordant as their brothers’. It fared worst with the little girls, who were jostled about and shoved aside without ceremony. Not a spark of gallantry animated the bosom of those youths; each one strove to save himself, himself only, and took no thought for the weaker and less active girls. Rough and lubberly boys, in their struggle to escape, brutally trod hats and bonnets, books and slates, foot-stools and benches, and school-mates’ toes, under foot. Such commotion had never been known in that school. Suddenly a boy stepped heavily on the dog, and poor Tip howled so lustily that he was heard above all the tumult. This, of course, added to the panic, and a perfect Babel ensued.

Then, with a roar of horror and agony, a bouncing boy cried out that he was bitten!

What wonder that poor Tip should bite, when he was bedewed with grimy tears of honor, yanked this way and that way, stumbled over, jammed against desks, pelted now and then with a stone ink-bottle, and trampled nearly to death?

At length the apartment was cleared of all save a few. As it has been emphatically stated that most of the six were brimming with noble heroism, perhaps it would be better to say nothing about how they behaved. Let the reader imagine how he would behave under similar circumstances.

By the way, it was very rash and foolish in the writer to speak of their bravery at all; and it has cost him (or her) no little annoyance—instance chapter the eighth. In fact, on mature deliberation, the writer recants all that has been said of their bravery.

As Will was tearing out of the room,—it may be remarked incidentally that it happened he was almost the last to do so,—Tip hobbled past him to get out. Quick as thought, Will caught up a heavy chair, and brained him on the spot.

“There,” Will said joyously, “the danger is over now; the dog is dead.” On giving the dog closer examination, he exclaimed, in surprise: “Why, it’s Steve’s dog Tip! Poor Tip! Surely he wasn’t mad!”

Meanwhile, where was the great authority on all things in general, rabid canines in particular? Where was he with his knife?

At the first note of danger, he, being nearest the front-door, had leaped to his feet and ingloriously shown his heels; but not being so familiar with the internal arrangement of the building as he thought, he fell heavily down the four steps of the entry. The fall stunned him, and for a few minutes he lay insensible. Where was the wonderful knife that was to disarm the fury of all mad dogs? Alas! it was safe in his pocket!

Before the learned man could grapple with the situation and gather himself up, the horrified school children were swarming out of the door, and—over him! Awful magnate that he was, not one among them hesitated to make him a stepping-stone in this time of fancied danger. In fact, the next day an immoral boy was heard to say that the professor made a better door-step than speaker; “for,” as he phrased it, “we slid down over him at top speed, and got outside all the sooner.”

As for Teacher Meadows, he had perceived that the peroration was at hand; and when the dog appeared, he was carefully digesting an “extempore” little speech, in which he intended to express his gratitude to the learned man for the very lucid and forcible manner in which the absorbing topic of hydrophobia had been presented to the “students.” But the advent of the dog diverted the train of his thoughts, and his nice little speech was never made. After a vain attempt to stem the hubbub and find where the mad dog was, he followed the example set by the noble speaker, and hurried out of the school; for, though naturally brave, he saw that it was useless to remain.

Although the dog was slain, it was some time before the quaking children could be brought to understand that the danger past, and when at last their fears were quieted, it was found that a great many were missing—among them, the boy who had been bitten. What a startling report they spread in the village about that mad dog! As may be imagined, the strange orator’s name was so much mixed up in their incoherent and “artless” story, that most of the villagers laid all the blame of the affair on him.

Let us return to him, the precept-giving sage, the gifted declaimer. As soon as he recovered himself, and found an opportunity to do so, he made good his escape—without even making his adieux to Teacher Meadows! He reached the depot without molestation; but instead of taking the train for the next seminary, to rant on his darling themes, he took the first train for his home, in Boston.

There he lamented the degeneracy of American youth, and trembled for the integrity of the Union if those boys should ever usurp the right of running the machinery of government.

Now, our wondrous-wise philosopher firmly believed the heart to be the seat of courage. Being aware that he had played the poltroon on the occasion of the struggle with the “mad dog,” he became alarmed about the state of that organ, and consulted one of the most eminent physicians of Boston, who gravely informed him that the left ventricle was affected.

Hence you perceive, gentle reader, that the professor must not be censured for deserting his post as he did; for had his heart been in its normal condition, he would have proved a far more formidable antagonist to Tip than the pugnacious grimalkin.

But Teacher Meadows probably suffered most acutely, and he should be pitied most. Let us return to him. After mustering the remaining school children, he demanded threateningly. “Can any of you throw any light on this mysterious affair?”

There was silence—unbroken, except occasionally, by an hysterical “Ah!” or “Oh!” from some tender and cream-faced child, who still quaked with fear.

Soon Will spoke. “The dog is dead, Mr. Meadows,” he said. “I killed him,” with boyish pride, “and I don’t believe he was mad at all; for he was Stephen Goodfellow’s dog.”