Allan Roscoe’s remonstrance with the two boys had the effect of keeping the peace between them for the remainder of the week. Guy did not think it prudent to taunt Hector, unless backed up by his father, and he felt that the change in their relative positions was satisfaction enough at present. Besides, his father, in a subsequent conversation, had told Guy that it was his purpose to place Hector in a boarding school, where the discipline would be strict, and where he would be thrashed if he proved rebellious.
“I shall tell Mr. Smith,” he added, “that the boy needs a strong hand, and that I am not only perfectly willing that he should be punished whenever occasion may call for it, but really desire it.”
“Good, good!” commended Guy, gleefully. “I hope old Smith’ll lay it on good.”
“I presume he will,” said Allan Roscoe, smiling in sympathy with his son’s exuberance. “I am told by a man who knows him that he is a tall man, strong enough to keep order, and determined to do it.”
“I should like to be there to see Hector’s first flogging,” remarked the amiable Guy. “I’d rather see it than go to the theater any time.”
“I don’t see how you can, unless you also enter the school.”
“No, thank you,” answered Guy. “No boarding school for me. That isn’t my idea of enjoyment. I’d rather stay at home with you. Hector won’t be here to interfere with my using his horse and buggy.”
“They are his no longer. I give them to you.”
“Thank you, father,” said Guy, very much gratified.
“But I would rather you would not use them till after Hector is gone. It might disturb him.”
“That’s just why I want to do it.”
“But it might make trouble. He might refuse to go to school.”
“You’d make him go, wouldn’t you, father?”
“Yes; but I wish to avoid forcible measures, if possible. Come, Guy, it’s only till Monday; then Hector will be out of the way, and you can do as you please without fear of interference.”
“All right, father. I’ll postpone my fun till he is out of the way. You’ll go with him, won’t you?”
“Yes, Guy.”
“Just tell old Smith how to treat him. Tell him to show him no mercy, if he doesn’t behave himself.”
“You seem to dislike Hector very much. You shouldn’t feel so. It isn’t Christian.”
Guy looked at his father queerly out of the corner of his eye. He understood him better than Allan Roscoe supposed.
“I hope you won’t insist on my loving him, father,” he said. “I leave that to you.”
“I only wish you to avoid coming into collision with him. As for love, that is something not within our power.”
“Will you be ready to go with me to boarding school on Monday morning, Hector?” asked Allan Roscoe, on Saturday afternoon.
“Yes, sir.”
Indeed, Hector felt that it would be a relief to get away from the house which he had been taught to look upon as his—first by right of inheritance, and later as actual owner. As long as he remained he was unpleasantly reminded of the great loss he had experienced. Again, his relations with Guy were unfriendly, and he knew that if they were permanently together it wouldn’t be long before there would be another collision. Though in such a case he was sure to come off victorious, he did not care to contend, especially as no advantage could come of it in the end.
Of the boarding school kept by Mr. Socrates Smith he had never heard, but felt that he would, at any rate, prefer to find himself amid new scenes. If the school were a good one, he meant to derive benefit from it, for he was fond of books and study, and thought school duties no task.
“I have carefully selected a school for you,” continued Allan Roscoe, “because I wish to follow out my poor brother’s wishes to the letter. A good education will fit you to maintain yourself, and attain a creditable station in life, which is very important, since you will have to carve your own future.”
There was no objection to make to all this. Still, it did grate upon Hector’s feelings, to be so often reminded of his penniless position, when till recently he had regarded himself, and had been regarded by others, as a boy of large property.
Smithville was accessible by railroad, being on the same line as the town of Plympton in which Roscoe Castle was situated. There was a train starting at seven o’clock, which reached Smithville at half-past, eight. This was felt to be the proper train to take, as it would enable Hector to reach school before the morning session began. Allan Roscoe, who was not an early riser, made an effort to rise in time, and succeeded. In truth, he was anxious to get Hector out of the house. It might be that the boy’s presence was a tacit reproach, it might be that he had contracted a dislike for him. At any rate, when Hector descended to the breakfast room, he found Mr. Roscoe already there.
“You are in time, Hector,” said Mr. Roscoe. “I don’t know how early they will get up at school, but I hope it won’t be earlier than this.”
“I have no objection to early rising,” said Hector.
“I have,” said Allan Roscoe, gaping.
“I am sorry to have inconvenienced you,” said Hector, politely. “I could have gone to school alone.”
“No doubt; but I wished an interview with Mr. Socrates Smith myself. I look upon myself in the light of your guardian, though you are not my nephew, as was originally supposed.”
“I’d give a good deal to know whether this is true,” thought Hector, fixing his eyes attentively upon his uncle’s face.
I have written “uncle” inadvertently, that being the character in which Mr. Roscoe appeared to the world.
“By the way, Hector,” said Allan Roscoe, “there is one matter which we have not yet settled.”
“What is that, sir?”
“About your name.”
“My name is Hector Roscoe.”
“I beg your pardon. Assuming by brother’s communication to be true, and I think you will not question his word, you have no claim to the name.”
“To what name have I a claim, then?” asked Hector, pointedly.
“To the name of your father—the last name, I mean. I have no objection to your retaining the name of Hector.”
“What was the name of my father?” asked the boy.
“Ahem! My brother did not mention that in his letter. Quite an omission, I must observe.”
“Then it is clear that he meant to have me retain his own name,” said Hector, decisively.
“That does not follow.”
“As I know no other name to which I have a claim, I shall certainly keep the name of the kindest friend I ever had, whether he was my father or not,” said Hector, firmly.
Allan Roscoe looked annoyed.
“Really,” he said, “I think this ill-judged, very ill-judged. It will lead to misapprehension. It will deceive people into the belief that you are a real Roscoe.”
“I don’t know but I am,” answered Hector, with a calm look of defiance, which aggravated Allan Roscoe.
“Have I not told you you are not?” he said, frowning.
“You have; but you have not proved it,” said Hector.
“I am surprised that you should cling to a foolish delusion. You are only preparing trouble for yourself. If my word is not sufficient—”
“You are an interested party. This story, if true, gives you my property.”
“At any rate, you may take your father’s—I mean my brother’s—word for it.”
“If he had told me so, I would believe it,” said Hector.
“You have it in black and white, in the paper I showed you. What more do you want?”
“I want to be sure that that document is genuine. However, I won’t argue the question now. I have only been giving you my reasons for keeping the name I have always regarded as mine.”
Allan Roscoe thought it best to drop the subject; but the boy’s persistency disturbed him.
Socrates Smith, A. M., was not always known by the philosophic name by which he challenged the world’s respect as a man of learning and distinguished attainments. When a boy in his teens, and an academy student, he was known simply as Shadrach Smith. His boy companions used to address him familiarly as Shad. It was clear that no pedagogue could retain the respect of his pupils who might readily be metamorphosed into Old Shad. By the advice of a brother preacher, he dropped the plebeian name, and bloomed forth as Socrates Smith, A. M.
I may say, in confidence, that no one knew from what college Mr. Smith obtained the degree of Master of Arts. He always evaded the question himself, saying that it was given him by a Western university causa honoris.
It might be, or it might not. At any rate, he was allowed to wear the title, since no one thought it worth while to make the necessary examination into its genuineness. Nor, again, had anyone been able to discover at what college the distinguished Socrates had studied. In truth, he had never even entered college, but he had offered himself as a candidate for admission to a college in Ohio, and been rejected. This did not, however, prevent his getting up a school, and advertising to instruct others in the branches of learning of which his own knowledge was so incomplete.
He was able to hide his own deficiencies, having generally in his employ some college graduate, whose poverty compelled him to accept the scanty wages which Socrates doled out to him. These young men were generally poor scholars in more than one sense of the word, as Mr. Smith did not care to pay the high salary demanded by a first-class scholar. Mr. Smith was shrewd enough not to attempt to instruct the classes in advanced classics or mathematics, as he did not care to have his deficiencies understood by his pupils.
It pleased him best to sit in state and rule the school, administering reproofs and castigations where he thought fit, and, best of all, to manage the finances. Though his price was less than that of many other schools, his profits were liberal, as he kept down expenses. His table was exceedingly frugal, as his boarding pupils could have testified, and the salaries he paid to under teachers were pitifully small.
So it was that, year by year, Socrates Smith, A. M., found himself growing richer, while his teachers grew more shabby, and his pupils rarely became fat.
Allan Roscoe took a carriage from the depot to the school.
Arrived at the gate, he descended, and Hector followed him.
The school building was a long, rambling, irregular structure, of no known order of architecture, bearing some resemblance to a factory. The ornament of architecture Mr. Smith did not regard. He was strictly of a utilitarian cast of mind. So long as the institute, as he often called it, afforded room for the school and scholars he did not understand what more was wanted.
“Is Mr. Smith at leisure?” Mr. Roscoe asked of a bare-arm servant girl who answered the bell.
“I guess he’s in his office,” was the reply.
“Take him this card,” said Mr. Roscoe. The girl inspected the card with some curiosity, and carried it to the eminent principal. When Socrates Smith read upon the card the name
ALLAN ROSCOE,
and, penciled in the corner, “with a pupil,” he said, briskly:
“Bring the gentleman in at once, Bridget.”
As Mr. Roscoe entered, Mr. Smith beamed upon him genially. It was thus he always received those who brought to him new scholars. As he always asked half a term’s tuition and board in advance, every such visitor represented to him so much ready cash, and for ready cash Socrates had a weakness.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Roscoe,” said the learned principal, advancing to meet his visitor. “And this is the young lad. Dear me! he is very well grown, and looks like he was fond of his books.”
This was not exactly the way in which a learned scholar might be expected to talk; but Mr. Smith’s speech was not always elegant, or even grammatically correct.
“I believe he is reasonably fond of study,” said Mr. Roscoe. “Hector, this is your future instructor, Prof. Socrates Smith.”
At the name of professor, which he much affected, Socrates Smith looked positively benignant.
“My young friend,” he said, “we will try to make you happy. Smith Institute is a regular beehive, full of busy workers, who are preparing themselves for the duties and responsibilities of life. I aim to be a father to my pupils, and Mrs. Smith is a mother to them. I am truly glad to receive you into my happy family.”
Hector scanned attentively the face of his new teacher. He was not altogether prepossessed in his favor. That the reader may judge whether he had reason to be, let me describe Mr. Smith.
He was a trifle over six feet in height, with yellowish, sandy hair, high cheek bones, a rough and mottled skin, a high but narrow forehead, a pair of eyes somewhat like those of a ferret, long, ungainly limbs, and a shambling walk. A coat of rusty black, with very long tails, magnified his apparent height, and nothing that he wore seemed made for him.
Perhaps, as the first Socrates was said to have been the homeliest of all the Athenians, it was fitting that the man who assumed his name should also have the slightest possible claim to beauty.
“He may be a learned man,” thought Hector, “but he is certainly plain enough. It is well that he has something to compensate for his looks.”
“I hope you are glad to come here, my boy,” said Socrates, affably. “I sincerely trust that you will be contented at the institute.”
“I hope so, too,” said Hector, but he evidently spoke doubtfully.
“I should like a little conversation with you, Professor Smith,” said Allan Roscoe. “I don’t know that it is necessary to keep Hector here during our interview.”
Socrates took the hint.
He rang a hand bell, and a lank boy, of fifteen, appeared.
“Wilkius,” said Mr. Smith, “this is a new scholar, Hector Roscoe. Take him to the playground, and introduce him to Mr. Crabb.”
“All right, sir. Come along.”
This last was addressed to Hector, who went out with the new boy.
“I thought it best to speak with you briefly about Hector, Professor Smith,” commenced Allan Roscoe.
“Very appropriate and gratifying, Mr. Roscoe. I can assure you he will be happy here.”
“I dare say,” returned Mr. Roscoe, carelessly. “I wish to guard you against misinterpreting my wishes. I don’t want the boy pampered, or too much indulged.”
“We never pamper our boarding pupils,” said Socrates, and it is quite certain that he spoke the truth.
“It spoils boys to be too well treated.”
“So it does,” said Socrates, eagerly. “Plain, wholesome diet, without luxury, and a kind, but strict discipline—such are the features of Smith Institute.”
“Quite right and judicious, professor. I may remark that the boy, though reared in luxury by my brother, is really penniless.”
“You don’t say so?”
“Yes, he is solely dependent upon my generosity. I propose, however, to give him a good education at my own expense, and prepare him to earn his living in some useful way.”
“Kind philanthropist!” exclaimed Socrates. “He ought, indeed, to be grateful.”
“I doubt if he will,” said Mr. Roscoe, shrugging his shoulders. “He has a proud spirit, and a high idea of his own position, though he is of unknown parentage, and has nothing of his own.”
“Indeed!”
“I merely wish to say that you do not need to treat him as if he were my nephew. It is best to be strict with him, and make him conform to the rules.”
“I will, indeed, Mr. Roscoe. Would that all guardians of youth were as judicious! Your wishes shall be regarded.”
After a little more conversation, Allan Roscoe took his leave.
So, under auspices not the most pleasant, Hector’s school life began.
Under the guidance of the lank boy, named Wilkins, Hector left Mr. Smith’s office, and walked to a barren-looking plot of ground behind the house, which served as a playground for the pupils of Smith Institute.
Wilkins scanned the new arrival closely.
“I say, Roscoe,” he commenced, “what made you come here?”
“Why do boys generally come to school?” returned Hector.
“Because they have to, I suppose,” answered Wilkins.
“I thought they came to study.”
“Oh, you’re one of that sort, are you?” asked Wilkins, curiously.
“I hope to learn something here.”
“You’ll get over that soon,” answered Wilkins, in the tone of one who could boast of a large experience.
“I hope not. I shall want to leave school if I find I can’t learn here.”
“Who is it that brought you here—your father?”
“No, indeed!” answered Hector, quickly, for he had no desire to be considered the son of Allan Roscoe.
“Uncle, then?”
“He is my guardian,” answered Hector, briefly.
They were by this time in the playground. Some dozen boys were playing baseball. They were of different ages and sizes, ranging from ten to nineteen. The oldest and largest bore such a strong personal resemblance to Socrates Smith, that Hector asked if he were his son.
“No,” answered Wilkins; “he is old Sock’s nephew.”
“Who is old Sock?”
“Smith, of course. His name is Socrates, you know. Don’t let him catch you calling him that, though.”
“What sort of a fellow is this nephew?” asked Hector.
“He’s a bully. He bosses the boys. It’s best to keep on the right side of Jim.”
“Oh, is it?” inquired Hector, smiling slightly.
“Well, I should say so.”
“Suppose you don’t?”
“He’ll give you a thrashing.”
“Does his uncle allow that?”
“Yes; I think he rather likes it.”
“Don’t the boys resist?”
“It won’t do any good. You see, Jim’s bigger than any of us.”
Hector took a good look at this redoubtable Jim Smith.
He was rather loosely made, painfully homely, and about five feet nine inches in height. Nothing more need be said, as, in appearance, he closely resembled his uncle.
Jim Smith soon gave Hector an opportunity of verifying the description given of him by Wilkins.
The boy at the bat had struck a ball to the extreme boundary of the field. The fielder at that point didn’t go so fast as Jim, who was pitcher, thought satisfactory, and he called out in a rough, brutal tone:
“If you don’t go quicker, Archer, I’ll kick you all round the field.”
Hector looked at Wilkins inquiringly.
“Does he mean that?” he asked.
“Yes, he does.”
“Does he ever make such a brute of himself?”
“Often.”
“And the boys allow it?”
“They can’t help it.”
“So, it seems, you have a tyrant of the school?”
“That’s just it.”
“Isn’t there any boy among you to teach the fellow better manners? You must be cowards to submit.”
“Oh, you’ll find out soon that you must submit, too,” said Wilkins.
Hector smiled.
“You don’t know me yet,” he said.
“What could you do against Jim? He’s three or four inches taller than you. How old are you?”
“I shall be sixteen next month.”
“And he is nineteen.”
“That may be; but he’d better not try to order me round.”
“You’ll sing a different tune in a day or two,” said Wilkins.
By this time Jim Smith had observed the new arrival.
“What’s that you’ve got with you, Wilkins?” he demanded, pausing in his play.
“The new boy.”
“Who’s he?”
“His name is Roscoe.”
“Ho! Hasn’t he got any other name?” asked Jim, meaningly.
Wilkins had forgotten the new arrival’s first name, and said so.
“What’s your name, Roscoe?” asked Jim, in the tone of a superior.
Hector resented this tone, and, though he had no objection, under ordinary circumstances, to answering the question, he did not choose to gratify his present questioner.
“I don’t happen to have a card with me,” he answered, coldly.
“Oh, that’s your answer, is it?” retorted Jim, scenting insubordination with undisguised pleasure, for he always liked the task of subduing a new boy.
“Yes.”
“I guess you don’t know who I am,” said Jim, blustering.
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“Well, who am I, then?”
“The bully of the school, I should suppose, from your style of behavior.”
“Do you hear that, boys?” demanded Jim, in a theatrical tone, turning to the other boys.
There was a little murmur in response, but whether of approval or reprobation, it was not easy to judge.
“That boy calls me a bully! He actually has the audacity to insult me! What do you say to that?”
The boys looked uneasy. Possibly, in their secret hearts, they admired the audacity that Jim complained of; but, seeing the difference between the two boys in size and apparent strength, it did not seem to them prudent to espouse the side of Hector.
“Don’t you think I ought to teach him a lesson?”
“Yes!” cried several of the smaller boys, who stood in awe of the bully.
Hector smiled slightly, but did not seem in the least intimidated.
“Jim,” said Wilkins, “the boy’s guardian is inside with your uncle.”
This was meant as a warning, and received as such. A boy’s guardian is presumed to be his friend, and it would not be exactly prudent, while the guardian was closeted with the principal, to make an assault upon the pupil.
“Very well,” said Jim; “we’ll postpone Roscoe’s case. This afternoon will do as well. Come, boys, let us go on with the game.”
“What made you speak to Jim in that way?” expostulated Wilkins. “I’m afraid you’ve got into hot water.”
“Didn’t I tell the truth about him?”
“Yes,” answered Wilkins, cautiously; “but you’ve made an enemy of him.”
“I was sure to do that, sooner or later,” said Hector, unconcernedly. “It might as well be now as any time.”
“Do you know what he’ll do this afternoon?”
“What will he do?”
“He’ll give you a thrashing.”
“Without asking my permission?” asked Hector, smiling.
“You’re a queer boy! Of course, he won’t trouble himself about that. You don’t seem to mind it,” he continued, eying Hector curiously.
“Oh, no.”
“Perhaps you think Jim can’t hurt. I know better than that.”
“Did he ever thrash you, then?”
“Half a dozen times.”
“Why didn’t you tell his uncle?”
“It would be no use. Jim would tell his story, and old Sock would believe him. But here’s Mr. Crabb, the usher, the man I was to introduce you to.”
Hector looked up, and saw advancing a young man, dressed in rusty black, with a meek and long-suffering expression, as one who was used to being browbeaten. He was very shortsighted, and wore eyeglasses.
“Mr. Crabb,” said Wilkins, “this is the new scholar, Roscoe. Mr. Smith asked me to bring him to you.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Crabb, adjusting his glasses, which seemed to sit uneasily on his nose. “I hope you are well, Roscoe?”
“Thank you, sir; my health is good.”
“The schoolbell will ring directly. Perhaps you had better come into the schoolroom and select a desk.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Are you a classical scholar, Roscoe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how far may you have gone now?” queried Crabb.
“I was reading the fifth book of Virgil when I left off study.”
“Really, you are quite a scholar. I suppose you don’t know any Greek?”
“I was in the second book of the Anabasis.”
“You will go into the first class, then. I hope you will become one of the ornaments of the institute.”
“Thank you. Is the first class under Mr. Smith?”
“No; I teach the first class,” said Crabb, with a modest cough.
“I thought the principal usually took the first class himself?”
“Mr. Smith comes into the room occasionally and supervises, but he has too much business on hand to teach regularly himself.”
“Is Mr. Smith a good scholar?” asked Hector.
“Ahem!” answered Mr. Crabb, evidently embarrassed; “I presume so. You should not ask Ahem! irrelevant questions.”
In fact, Mr. Crabb had serious doubts as to the fact assumed. He knew that whenever a pupil went to the principal to ask a question in Latin or Greek, he was always referred to Crabb himself, or some other teacher. This, to be sure, proved nothing, but in an unguarded moment, Mr. Smith had ventured to answer a question himself, and his answer was ludicrously incorrect.
The schoolroom was a moderate-sized, dreary-looking room, with another smaller room opening out of it, which was used as a separate recitation room.
“Here is a vacant desk,” said Mr. Crabb, pointing out one centrally situated.
“I think that will do. Who sits at the next desk?”
“Mr. Smith’s nephew.”
“Oh, that big bully I saw on the playground?”
“Hush!” said Crabb, apprehensively. “Mr. Smith would not like to have you speak so of his nephew.”
“So, Mr. Crabb is afraid of the cad,” soliloquized Hector. “I suppose I may think what I please about him,” he added, smiling pleasantly.
“Ye-es, of course; but, Master Roscoe, let me advise you to be prudent.”
“Is he in your class?”
“Yes.”
“Is he much of a scholar?”
“I don’t think he cares much for Latin and Greek,” answered Mr. Crabb. “But I must ring the bell. I see that it wants but five minutes of nine.”
“About my desk?”
“Here is another vacant desk, but it is not as well located.”
“Never mind. I will take it. I shall probably have a better neighbor.”
The bell was rung. Another teacher appeared, an elderly man, who looked as if all his vitality had been expended on his thirty years of teaching. He, too, was shabbily dressed—his coat being shiny and napless, and his vest lacking two out of the five original buttons.
“I guess Smith doesn’t pay very high salaries,” thought Hector. “Poor fellows. His teachers look decidedly seedy.”
The boys began to pour in, not only those on the playground, but as many more who lived in the village, and were merely day scholars. Jim Smith stalked in with an independent manner and dropped into his seat carelessly. He looked around him patronizingly. He felt that he was master of the situation. Both ushers and all the pupils stood in fear of him, as he well knew. Only to his uncle did he look up as his superior, and he took care to be on good terms with him, as it was essential to the maintenance of his personal authority.
Last of all, Mr. Smith, the learned principal, walked into the schoolroom with the air of a commanding general, followed by Allan Roscoe, who he had invited to see the school in operation.
Socrates Smith stood upright behind his desk, and waved his hand majestically.
“My young friends,” he said; “this is a marked day. We have with us a new boy, who is henceforth to be one of us, to be a member of our happy family, to share in the estimable advantages which you all enjoy. Need I say that I refer to Master Roscoe, the ward of our distinguished friend, Mr. Allan Roscoe, who sits beside me, and with interest, I am sure, surveys our institute?”
As he spoke he turned towards Mr. Roscoe, who nodded an acknowledgment.
“I may say to Mr. Roscoe that I am proud of my pupils, and the progress they have made under my charge. (The principal quietly ignored the two ushers who did all the teaching.) When these boys have reached a high position in the world, it will be my proudest boast that they were prepared for the duties of life at Smith Institute. Compared with this proud satisfaction, the few paltry dollars I exact as my honorarium are nothing—absolutely nothing.”
Socrates looked virtuous and disinterested as he gave utterance to this sentiment.
“And now, boys, you will commence your daily exercises, under the direction of my learned associates, Mr. Crabb and Mr. Jones.”
Mr. Crabb looked feebly complacent at this compliment, though he knew it was only because a visitor was present. In private, Socrates was rather apt to speak slightingly of his attainments.
“While I am absent with my distinguished friend, Mr. Roscoe, I expect you to pursue your studies diligently, and preserve the most perfect order.”
With these words, the stately figure of Socrates passed through the door, followed by Mr. Roscoe.
“A pleasant sight, Mr. Roscoe,” said the principal; “this company of ambitious, aspiring students, all pressing forward eagerly in pursuit of learning?”
“Quite true, sir,” answered Allan Roscoe.
“I wish you could stay with us for a whole day, to inspect at your leisure the workings of our educational system.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” answered Mr. Roscoe, with an inward shudder; “but I have important engagements that call me away immediately.”
“Then we must reluctantly take leave of you. I hope you will feel easy about your nephew—”
“My ward,” corrected Allan Roscoe.
“I beg your pardon—I should have remembered—your ward.”
“I leave him, with confidence, in your hands, my dear sir.”
So Allan Roscoe took his leave.
Let us look in upon the aspiring and ambitious scholars, after Mr. Smith left them in charge of the ushers.
Jim Smith signalized his devotion to study by producing an apple core, and throwing it with such skillful aim that it struck Mr. Crabb in the back of the head.
The usher turned quickly, his face flushed with wild indignation.
“Who threw that missile?” he asked, in a vexed tone.
Of course no one answered.
“I hope no personal disrespect was intended,” continued the usher.
Again no answer.
“Does anyone know who threw it?” asked Mr. Crabb.
“I think it was the new scholar,” said Jim Smith, with a malicious look at Hector.
“Master Roscoe,” said Mr. Crabb, with a pained look, “I hope you have not started so discreditably in your school life.”
“No, sir,” answered Hector; “I hope I am not so ungentlemanly. I don’t like to be an informer, but I saw Smith himself throw it at you. As he has chosen to lay it to me, I have no hesitation in exposing him.”
Jim Smith’s face flushed with anger.
“I’ll get even with you, you young muff!” he said.
“Whenever you please!” said Hector, disdainfully.
“Really, young gentlemen, these proceedings are very irregular!” said Mr. Crabb, feebly.
With Jim Smith he did not remonstrate at all, though he had no doubt that Hector’s charge was rightly made.
Presently the class in Virgil was called up. To this class Hector had been assigned, though it had only advanced about half through the third book of the AEneid, while Hector was in the fifth.
“As there is no other class in Virgil, Roscoe, you had better join the one we have. It will do you no harm to review.”
“Very well, sir,” said Hector.
The class consisted of five boys, including Hector. Besides Jim Smith, Wilkins, Bates and Johnson belonged to it. As twenty-five lines had been assigned for a lesson, Hector had no difficulty in preparing himself, and that in a brief time. The other boys were understood to have studied the lesson out of school.
Bates read first, and did very fairly. Next came Jim Smith, who did not seem quite so much at home in Latin poetry as on the playground. He pronounced the Latin words in flagrant violation of all the rules of quantity, and when he came to give the English meaning, his translation was a ludicrous farrago of nonsense. Yet, poor Mr. Crabb did not dare, apparently, to characterize it as it deserved.
“I don’t think you have quite caught the author’s meaning, Mr. Smith,” he said. By the way, Jim was the only pupil to whose name he prefixed the title “Mr.”
“I couldn’t make anything else out of it,” muttered Jim.
“Perhaps some other member of the class may have been more successful! Johnson, how do you read it?”
“I don’t understand it very well, sir.”
“Wilkins, were you more successful?”
“No, sir.”
“Roscoe, can you translate the passage?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Proceed, then.”
Hector at once gave a clear and luminous rendering of the passage, and his version was not only correct, but was expressed in decent English. This is a point in which young classical scholars are apt to fail.
Mr. Crabb was not in the habit of hearing such good translations, and he was surprised and gratified.
“Very well! Very well, indeed, Roscoe,” he said, approvingly. “Mr. Smith, you may go on.”
“He’d better go ahead and finish it,” said Smith, sulkily. “He probably got it out of a pony.”
My young readers who are in college or classical schools, will understand that a “pony” is an English translation of a classical author.
“He is mistaken!” said Hector, quietly. “I have never seen a translation of Virgil.”
Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders, and drew down the corners of his mouth, intending thereby to express his incredulity.
“I hope no boy will use a translation,” said the usher; “it will make his work easier for the time being, but in the end it will embarrass him. Roscoe, as you have commenced, you may continue. Translate the remainder of the passage.”
Hector did so, exhibiting equal readiness.
The other boys took their turns, and then words were given out to parse. Here Jim Smith showed himself quite at sea; though the usher, as it was evident, selected the easiest words for him, he made a mistake in every one. Apparently he was by no means certain which of the words were nouns, and which verbs, and as to the relations which they sustained to other words in the sentence he appeared to have very little conception.
At length the recitation was over. It had demonstrated one thing, that in Latin scholarship Hector was far more accurate and proficient than any of his classmates, while Jim Smith stood far below all the rest.
“What in the world can the teacher be thinking of, to keep such an ignoramus in the class?” thought Hector. “He doesn’t know enough to join a class in the Latin Reader.”
The fact was, that Jim Smith was unwilling to give up his place as a member of the highest class in Latin, because he knew it would detract from his rank in the school. Mr. Crabb, to whom every recitation was a torture, had one day ventured to suggest that it would be better to drop into the Caesar class; but he never ventured to make the suggestion again, so unfavorably was it received by his backward pupil. He might, in the case of a different pupil, have referred the matter to the principal, but Socrates Smith was sure to decide according to the wishes of his nephew, and did not himself possess knowledge enough of the Latin tongue to detect his gross mistakes.
After a time came recess. Hector wished to arrange the books in his desk, and did not go out.
Mr. Crabb came up to his desk and said: “Roscoe, I must compliment you on your scholarship. You enter at the head. You are in advance of all the other members of the class.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hector, gratified.
“There is one member of the class who is not competent to remain in it.”
“Yes, sir; I observed that.”
“But he is unwilling to join a lower class. It is a trial to me to hear his daily failures, but, perhaps, he would do no better anywhere else. He would be as incompetent to interpret Caesar as Virgil, I am afraid.”
“So I should suppose, sir.”
“By the way, Roscoe,” said the usher, hurriedly; “let me caution you against irritating Smith. He is the principal’s nephew, and so we give him more scope.”
“He seems to me a bully,” said Hector.
“So he is.”
“I can’t understand why the boys should give in to him as they do.”
“He is taller and stronger than the other boys. Besides, he is backed up by the principal. I hope you won’t get into difficulty with him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crabb. Your caution is kindly meant, but I am not afraid of this Jim—Smith. I am quite able to defend myself if attacked.”
“I hope so,” said the usher; but he scanned Hector’s physical proportions doubtfully, and it was very clear that he did not think him a match for the young tyrant of the school.
Meanwhile, Jim Smith and his schoolfellows were amusing themselves in the playground.
“Where’s that new fellow?” asked Jim, looking back to see whether he had come out.
“He didn’t come out,” said Bates.
Jim nodded his head vigorously:
“Just as I expected,” he said. “He knows where he is well off.”
“Do you think he was afraid to come?” asked Bates.
“To be sure he was. He knew what to expect.”
“Are you going to thrash him?” asked Johnson.
“I should say I might.”
“He’s a very good Latin scholar,” remarked Wilkins.
“He thinks he is!” sneered Jim.
“So Mr. Crabb appears to think.”
“That for old Crabb!” said Jim, contemptuously, snapping his fingers. “He don’t know much himself. I’ve caught him in plenty of mistakes.”
This was certainly very amusing, considering Smith’s absolute ignorance of even the Latin rudiments, but the boys around him did not venture to contradict him.
“But it don’t make any difference whether he knows Latin or not,” proceeded Jim. “He has been impudent to me, and he shall suffer for it. I was hoping to get a chance at him this recess, but it’ll keep.”
“You might spoil his appetite for dinner,” said Bates, who was rather a toady to Jim.
“That’s just exactly what I expect to do; at any rate, for supper. I’ve got to have a reckoning with that young muff.”
The recess lasted fifteen minutes. At the end of that time the schoolbell rang, and the boys trooped back into the schoolroom.
Hector sat at his desk looking tranquil and at ease. He alone seemed unaware of the fate that was destined for him.