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Title: Glengarry Schooldays
Author: Ralph Connor
Release Date: April, 2002 [Etext #3243]
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GLENGARRY SCHOOLDAYS
A STORY OF THE EARLY DAYS IN GLENGARRY
by RALPH CONNOR
CONTENTS
I. THE SPELLING-MATCH
II. THE DEEPOLE
III. THE EXAMINATION
IV. THE NEW MASTER
V. THE CRISIS
VI. "ONE THAT RULETH WELL HIS OWN HOUSE"
VII. FOXY
VIII. FOXY'S PARTNER
IX. HUGHIE'S EMANCIPATION
X. THE BEAR HUNT
XI. JOHN CRAVEN'S METHOD
XII. THE DOWNFALL
XIII. THE FIRST ROUND
XIV. THE FINAL ROUND
XV. THE RESULT
GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS
CHAPTER I
THE SPELLING-MATCH
The "Twentieth" school was built of logs hewn on two sides. The
cracks were chinked and filled with plaster, which had a curious
habit of falling out during the summer months, no one knew how; but
somehow the holes always appeared on the boys' side, and being
there, were found to be most useful, for as looking out of the
window was forbidden, through these holes the boys could catch
glimpses of the outer world--glimpses worth catching, too, for all
around stood the great forest, the playground of boys and girls
during noon-hour and recesses; an enchanted land, peopled, not by
fairies, elves, and other shadowy beings of fancy, but with living
things, squirrels, and chipmunks, and weasels, chattering ground-
hogs, thumping rabbits, and stealthy foxes, not to speak of a host
of flying things, from the little gray-bird that twittered its
happy nonsense all day, to the big-eyed owl that hooted solemnly
when the moon came out. A wonderful place this forest, for
children to live in, to know, and to love, and in after days to
long for.
It was Friday afternoon, and the long, hot July day was drawing to
a weary close. Mischief was in the air, and the master, Archibald
Munro, or "Archie Murro," as the boys called him, was holding
himself in with a very firm hand, the lines about his mouth showing
that he was fighting back the pain which had never quite left him
from the day he had twisted his knee out of joint five years ago,
in a wrestling match, and which, in his weary moments, gnawed into
his vitals. He hated to lose his grip of himself, for then he knew
he should have to grow stern and terrifying, and rule these young
imps in the forms in front of him by what he called afterwards, in
his moments of self-loathing, "sheer brute force," and that he
always counted a defeat.
Munro was a born commander. His pale, intellectual face, with its
square chin and firm mouth, its noble forehead and deep-set gray
eyes, carried a look of such strength and indomitable courage that
no boy, however big, ever thought of anything but obedience when
the word of command came. He was the only master who had ever been
able to control, without at least one appeal to the trustees, the
stormy tempers of the young giants that used to come to school in
the winter months.
The school never forgot the day when big Bob Fraser "answered back"
in class. For, before the words were well out of his lips, the
master, with a single stride, was in front of him, and laying two
swift, stinging cuts from the rawhide over big Bob's back,
commanded, "Hold out your hand!" in a voice so terrible, and with
eyes of such blazing light, that before Bob was aware, he shot out
his hand and stood waiting the blow. The school never, in all its
history, received such a thrill as the next few moments brought;
for while Bob stood waiting, the master's words fell clear-cut upon
the dead silence, "No, Robert, you are too big to thrash. You are
a man. No man should strike you--and I apologize." And then big
Bob forgot his wonted sheepishness and spoke out with a man's
voice, "I am sorry I spoke back, sir." And then all the girls
began to cry and wipe their eyes with their aprons, while the
master and Bob shook hands silently. From that day and hour Bob
Fraser would have slain any one offering to make trouble for the
master, and Archibald Munro's rule was firmly established.
He was just and impartial in all his decisions, and absolute in his
control; and besides, he had the rare faculty of awakening in his
pupils an enthusiasm for work inside the school and for sports
outside.
But now he was holding himself in, and with set teeth keeping back
the pain. The week had been long and hot and trying, and this day
had been the worst of all. Through the little dirty panes of the
uncurtained windows the hot sun had poured itself in a flood of
quivering light all the long day. Only an hour remained of the
day, but that hour was to the master the hardest of all the week.
The big boys were droning lazily over their books, the little boys,
in the forms just below his desk, were bubbling over with spirits--
spirits of whose origin there was no reasonable ground for doubt.
Suddenly Hughie Murray, the minister's boy, a very special imp,
held up his hand.
"Well, Hughie," said the master, for the tenth time within the hour
replying to the signal.
"Spelling-match!"
The master hesitated. It would be a vast relief, but it was a
little like shirking. On all sides, however, hands went up in
support of Hughie's proposal, and having hesitated, he felt he must
surrender or become terrifying at once.
"Very well," he said; "Margaret Aird and Thomas Finch will act as
captains." At once there was a gleeful hubbub. Slates and books
were slung into desks.
"Order! or no spelling-match." The alternative was awful enough to
quiet even the impish Hughie, who knew the tone carried no idle
threat, and who loved a spelling-match with all the ardor of his
little fighting soul.
The captains took their places on each side of the school, and with
careful deliberation, began the selecting of their men, scanning
anxiously the rows of faces looking at the maps or out of the
windows and bravely trying to seem unconcerned. Chivalry demanded
that Margaret should have first choice. "Hughie Murray!" called
out Margaret; for Hughie, though only eight years old, had
preternatural gifts in spelling; his mother's training had done
that for him. At four he knew every Bible story by heart, and
would tolerate no liberties with the text; at six he could read the
third reader; at eight he was the best reader in the fifth; and to
do him justice, he thought no better of himself for that. It was
no trick to read. If he could only run, and climb, and swim, and
dive, like the big boys, then he would indeed feel uplifted; but
mere spelling and reading, "Huh! that was nothing."
"Ranald Macdonald!" called Thomas Finch, and a big, lanky boy of
fifteen or sixteen rose and marched to his place. He was a boy one
would look at twice. He was far from handsome. His face was long,
and thin, and dark, with a straight nose, and large mouth, and high
cheek-bones; but he had fine black eyes, though they were fierce,
and had a look in them that suggested the woods and the wild things
that live there. But Ranald, though his attendance was spasmodic,
and dependent upon the suitability or otherwise of the weather for
hunting, was the best speller in the school.
For that reason Margaret would have chosen him, and for another
which she would not for worlds have confessed, even to herself.
And do you think she would have called Ranald Macdonald to come and
stand up beside her before all these boys? Not for the glory of
winning the match and carrying the medal for a week. But how
gladly would she have given up glory and medal for the joy of it,
if she had dared.
At length the choosing was over, and the school ranged in two
opposing lines, with Margaret and Thomas at the head of their
respective forces, and little Jessie MacRae and Johnnie Aird, with
a single big curl on the top of his head, at the foot. It was a
point of honor that no blood should be drawn at the first round.
To Thomas, who had second choice, fell the right of giving the
first word. So to little Jessie, at the foot, he gave "Ox."
"O-x, ox," whispered Jessie, shyly dodging behind her neighbor.
"In!" said Margaret to Johnnie Aird.
"I-s, in," said Johnnie, stoutly.
"Right!" said the master, silencing the shout of laughter. "Next
word."
With like gentle courtesies the battle began; but in the second
round the little A, B, C's were ruthlessly swept off the field with
second-book words, and retired to their seats in supreme
exultation, amid the applause of their fellows still left in the
fight. After that there was no mercy. It was a give-and-take
battle, the successful speller having the right to give the word to
the opposite side. The master was umpire, and after his "Next!"
had fallen there was no appeal. But if a mistake were made, it was
the opponent's part and privilege to correct with all speed, lest a
second attempt should succeed.
Steadily, and amid growing excitement, the lines grew less, till
there were left on one side, Thomas, with Ranald supporting him,
and on the other Margaret, with Hughie beside her, his face pale,
and his dark eyes blazing with the light of battle.
Without varying fortune the fight went on. Margaret, still serene,
and with only a touch of color in her face, gave out her words with
even voice, and spelled her opponent's with calm deliberation.
Opposite her Thomas stood, stolid, slow, and wary. He had no
nerves to speak of, and the only chance of catching him lay in
lulling him off to sleep.
They were now among the deadly words.
"Parallelopiped!" challenged Hughie to Ranald, who met it easily,
giving Margaret "hyphen" in return.
"H-y-p-h-e-n," spelled Margaret, and then, with cunning
carelessness, gave Thomas "heifer." ("Hypher," she called it.)
Thomas took it lightly.
"H-e-i-p-h-e-r."
Like lightning Hughie was upon him. "H-e-i-f-e-r."
"F-e-r," shouted Thomas. The two yells came almost together.
There was a deep silence. All eyes were turned upon the master.
"I think Hughie was first," he said, slowly. A great sigh swept
over the school, and then a wave of applause.
The master held up his hand.
"But it was so very nearly a tie, that if Hughie is willing--"
"All right, sir," cried Hughie, eager for more fight.
But Thomas, in sullen rage, strode to his seat muttering, "I was
just as soon anyway." Every one heard and waited, looking at the
master.
"The match is over," said the master, quietly. Great disappointment
showed in every face.
"There is just one thing better than winning, and that is, taking
defeat like a man." His voice was grave, and with just a touch of
sadness. The children, sensitive to moods, as is the characteristic
of children, felt the touch and sat subdued and silent.
There was no improving of the occasion, but with the same sad
gravity the school was dismissed; and the children learned that day
one of life's golden lessons--that the man who remains master of
himself never knows defeat.
The master stood at the door watching the children go down the
slope to the road, and then take their ways north and south, till
the forest hid them from his sight.
"Well," he muttered, stretching up his arms and drawing a great
breath, "it's over for another week. A pretty near thing, though."
CHAPTER II
THE DEEPOLE
Archibald Munro had a steady purpose in life--to play the man, and
to allow no pain of his--and pain never left him long--to spoil his
work, or to bring a shadow to the life of any other. And though he
had his hard times, no one who could not read the lines about his
mouth ever knew how hard they were.
It was this struggle for self-mastery that made him the man he was,
and taught him the secrets of nobleness that he taught his pupils
with their three "R's"; and this was the best of his work for the
Twentieth school.
North and south in front of the school the road ran through the
deep forest of great pines, with underbrush of balsam and spruce
and silver-birch; but from this main road ran little blazed paths
that led to the farm clearings where lay the children's homes.
Here and there, set in their massive frames of dark green forest,
lay the little farms, the tiny fenced fields surrounding the little
log houses and barns. These were the homes of a people simple of
heart and manners, but sturdy, clean living, and clear thinking,
with their brittle Highland courage toughened to endurance by their
long fight with the forest, and with a self-respect born of victory
over nature's grimmest of terrors.
A mile straight south of the school stood the manse, which was
Hughie's home; two miles straight west Ranald lived; and Thomas
Finch two miles north; while the other lads ought to have taken
some of the little paths that branched east from the main road.
But this evening, with one accord, the boys chose a path that led
from the school-house clearing straight southwest through the
forest.
What a path that was! Beaten smooth with the passing of many bare
feet, it wound through the brush and round the big pines, past the
haunts of squirrels, black, gray, and red, past fox holes and
woodchuck holes, under birds' nests and bee-trees, and best of all,
it brought up at last at the Deep Hole, or "Deepole," as the boys
called it.
There were many reasons why the boys should have gone straight
home. They were expected home. There were cows to get up from the
pasture and to milk, potatoes that needed hoeing, gardens to weed,
not to speak of messages and the like. But these were also
excellent reasons why the boys should unanimously choose the cool,
smooth-beaten, sweet-scented, shady path that wound and twisted
through the trees and brush, but led straight to the Deepole.
Besides, this was Friday night, it was hot, and they were tired
out; the mere thought of the long walk home was intolerable. The
Deepole was only two miles away, and "There was lots of time" for
anything else. So, with wild whoops, they turned into the shady
path and sped through the forest, the big boys in front, with
Ranald easily leading, for there was no runner so swift and
tireless in all the country-side, and Hughie, with the small boys,
panting behind.
On they went, a long, straggling, yelling line, down into the cedar
swamp, splashing through the "Little Crick" and up again over the
beech ridge, where, in the open woods, the path grew indistinct and
was easy to lose; then again among the great pines, where the
underbrush was so thick that you could not tell what might be just
before, till they pulled up at the old Lumber Camp. The boys
always paused at the ruins of the old Lumber Camp. A ruin is ever
a place of mystery, but to the old Lumber Camp attached an awful
dread, for behind it, in the thickest part of the underbrush, stood
the cabin of Alan Gorrach.
Alan's was a name of terror among all the small children of the
section. Mothers hushed their crying with, "Alan Gorrach will get
you." Alan was a small man, short in the legs, but with long,
swinging, sinewy arms. He had a gypsy face, and tangled, long,
black hair; and as he walked through the forest he might be heard
talking to himself, with wild gesticulations. He was an itinerant
cooper by trade, and made for the farmers' wives their butter-tubs
and butter-ladles, mincing-bowls and coggies, and for the men,
whip-stalks, axe handles, and the like. But in the boys' eyes he
was guilty of a horrible iniquity. He was a dog-killer. His chief
business was the doing away with dogs of ill-repute in the country;
vicious dogs, sheep-killing dogs, egg-sucking dogs, were committed
to Alan's dread custody, and often he would be seen leading off his
wretched victims to his den in the woods, whence they never
returned. It was a current report that he ate them, too. No
wonder the boys regarded him with horror mingled with fearful awe.
In broad day, upon the high road, the small boys would boldly fling
taunts and stones at Alan, till he would pull out his long, sharp
cooper's knife and make at them. But if they met him in the woods
they would walk past in trembling and respectful silence, or slip
off into hiding in the bush, till he was out of sight.
It was always part of the programme in the exploring of the Lumber
Camp for the big boys to steal down the path to Alan's cabin, and
peer fearfully through the brush, and then come rushing back to the
little boys waiting in the clearing, and crying in terror-stricken
stage whispers, "He's coming! He's coming!" set off again through
the bush like hunted deer, followed by the panting train of
youngsters, with their small hearts thumping hard against their
ribs.
In a few minutes the pine woods, with its old Lumber Camp and
Alan's fearsome cabin, were left behind; and then down along the
flats where the big elms were, and the tall ash-trees, and the
alders, the flying, panting line sped on in a final dash, for they
could smell the river. In a moment more they were at the Deepole.
O! that Deepole! Where the big creek took a great sweep around
before it tore over the rapids and down into the gorge. It was
always in cool shade; the great fan-topped elm-trees hung far out
over it, and the alders and the willows edged its banks. How cool
and clear the dark brown waters looked! And how beautiful the
golden mottling on their smooth, flowing surface, where the sun
rained down through the over-spreading elm boughs! And the grassy
sward where the boys tore off their garments, and whence they raced
and plunged, was so green and firm and smooth under foot! And the
music of the rapids down in the gorge, and the gurgle of the water
where it sucked in under the jam of dead wood before it plunged
into the boiling pool farther down! Not that the boys made note of
all these delights accessory to the joys of the Deepole itself, but
all these helped to weave the spell that the swimming-hole cast
over them. Without the spreading elms, without the mottled, golden
light upon the cool, deep waters, and without the distant roar of
the little rapid, and the soft gurgle at the jam, the Deepole would
still have been a place of purest delight, but I doubt if, without
these, it would have stolen in among their day dreams in after
years, on hot, dusty, weary days, with power to waken in them a
vague pain and longing for the sweet, cool woods and the clear,
brown waters. Oh, for one plunge! To feel the hug of the waters,
their soothing caress, their healing touch! These boys are men
now, such as are on the hither side of the darker river, but not a
man of them can think, on a hot summer day, of that cool, shaded,
mottled Deepole, without a longing in his heart and a lump in his
throat.
The last quarter of a mile was always a dead race, for it was a
point of distinction to be the first to plunge, and the last few
seconds of the race were spent in the preliminaries of the
disrobing. A single brace slipped off the shoulder, a flutter of a
shirt over the head, a kick of the trousers, and whoop! plunge!
"Hurrah! first in." The little boys always waited to admire the
first series of plunges, for there were many series before the hour
was over, and then they would off to their own crossing, going
through a similar performance on a small scale.
What an hour it was! What contests of swimming and diving! What
water fights and mud fights! What careering of figures, stark
naked, through the rushes and trees! What larks and pranks!
And then the little boys would dress. A simple process, but more
difficult by far than the other, for the trousers would stick to
the wet feet--no boy would dream of a towel, nor dare to be guilty
of such a piece of "stuck-upness"--and the shirt would get wrong
side out, or would bundle round the neck, or would cling to the wet
shoulders till they had to get on their knees almost to squirm into
it. But that over, all was over. The brace, or if the buttons
were still there, the braces were easily jerked up on the shoulders,
and there you were. Coats, boots, and stockings were superfluous,
collars and ties utterly despised.
Then the little ones would gather on the grassy bank to watch the
big ones get out, which was a process worth watching.
"Well, I'm going out, boys," one would say.
"Oh, pshaw! let's have another plunge."
"All right. But it's the last, though."
Then a long stream of naked figures would scramble up the bank and
rush for the last place. "First out, last in," was the rule, for
the boys would much rather jump on some one else than be jumped on
themselves. After the long line of naked figures had vanished into
the boiling water, one would be seen quietly stealing out and up
the bank kicking his feet clean as he stepped off the projecting
root onto the grass, when, plunk! a mud ball caught him, and back
he must come. It took them full two hours to escape clean from the
water, and woe betide the boy last out. On all sides stood boys,
little and big, with mud balls ready to fling, till, out of sheer
pity, he would be allowed to come forth clean. Then, when all were
dressed, and blue and shivering--for two amphibious hours, even on
a July day, make one blue--more games would begin, leap-frog, or
tag, or jumping, or climbing trees, till they were warm enough to
set out for home.
It was as the little ones were playing tag that Hughie came to
grief. He was easily king of his company and led the game. Quick
as a weasel, swift and wary, he was always the last to be caught.
Around the trees, and out and in among the big boys, he led the
chase, much to Tom Finch's disgust, who had not forgotten the
spelling-match incident. Not that he cared for the defeat, but he
still felt the bite in the master's final words, and he carried a
grudge against the boy who had been the occasion of his humiliation.
"Keep off!" he cried, angrily, as Hughie swung himself round him.
But Hughie paid no heed to Tom's growl, unless, indeed, to repeat
his offense, with the result that, as he flew off, Tom caught him a
kick that hastened his flight and laid him flat on his back amid
the laughter of the boys.
"Tom," said Hughie, gravely and slowly, so that they all stood
listening, "do you know what you kick like?"
The boys stood waiting.
"A h-e-i-p-h-e-r."
In a moment Tom had him by the neck, and after a cuff or two, sent
him flying, with a warning to keep to himself.
But Hughie, with a saucy answer, was off again on his game,
circling as near Tom Finch as he dared, and being as exasperating
as possible, till Tom looked as if he would like a chance to pay
him off. The chance came, for Hughie, leading the "tag," came
flying past Tom and toward the water. Hardly realizing what he was
doing, Tom stuck out his foot and caught him flying past, and
before any one knew how it had happened, poor Hughie shot far out
into the Deepole, lighting fair on his stomach. There was a great
shout of laughter, but in a moment every one was calling, "Swim,
Hughie!" "Keep your hands down!" "Don't splash like that, you
fool!" "Paddle underneath!" But Hughie was far too excited or too
stunned by his fall to do anything but splash and sputter, and
sink, and rise again, only to sink once more. In a few moments the
affair became serious.
The small boys began to cry, and some of the bigger ones to
undress, when there was a cry from the elm-tree overhanging the
water.
"Run out that board, Don. Quick!"
It was Ranald, who had been swinging up in the highest branches,
and had seen what had happened, and was coming down from limb to
limb like a squirrel. As he spoke, he dropped from the lowest limb
into the water close to where Hughie was splashing wildly.
In an instant, as he rose to the surface, Hughie's arms went round
his neck and pulled his head under water. But he was up again, and
tugging at Hughie's hands, he cried:
"Don't, Hughie! let go! I'll pull you out. Let go!" But Hughie,
half-insensible with terror and with the water he had gulped in,
clung with a death-grip.
"Hughie!" gasped Ranald, "you'll drown us both. Oh, Hughie man,
let me pull you out, can't you?"
Something in the tone caught Hughie's ear, and he loosed his hold,
and Ranald, taking him under the chin, looked round for the board.
By this time Don Cameron was in the water and working the board
slowly toward the gasping boys. But now a new danger threatened.
The current had gradually carried them toward the log jam, under
which the water sucked to the falls below. Once under the jam, no
power on earth could save.
"Hurry up, Don!" called out Ranald, anxiously. Then, feeling
Hughie beginning to clutch again, he added, cheerily, "It's all
right. You'll get us." But his face was gray and his eyes were
staring, for over his shoulder he could see the jam and he could
feel the suck of the water on his legs.
"Oh, Ranald, you can't do it," sobbed Hughie. "Will I paddle
underneath?"
"Yes, yes, paddle hard, Hughie," said Ranald, for the jam was just
at his back.
But as he spoke, there was a cry, "Ranald, catch it!" Over the
slippery logs of the jam came Tom Finch pushing out a plank.
"Catch it!" he cried, "I'll hold this end solid." And Ranald
caught and held fast, and the boys on the bank gave a mighty shout.
Soon Don came up with his board, and Tom, catching the end, hauled
it up on the rolling logs.
"Hold steady there now!" cried Tom, lying at full length upon the
logs; "we'll get you in a minute."
By this time the other boys had pulled a number of boards and
planks out of the jam, and laying them across the logs, made a kind
of raft upon which the exhausted swimmers were gradually hauled,
and then brought safe to shore.
"Oh, Ranald," said Tom, almost weeping, "I didn't mean to--I never
thought--I'm awfully sorry."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Ranald, who was taking off Hughie's shirt
preparatory to wringing it, "I know. Besides, it was you who
pulled us out. You were doing your best, Don, of course, but we
would have gone under the jam but for Tom."
For ten minutes the boys stood going over again the various
incidents in the recent dramatic scene, extolling the virtues of
Ranald, Don, and Thomas in turn, and imitating, with screams of
laughter, Hughie's gulps and splashings while he was fighting for
his life. It was their way of expressing their emotions of
gratitude and joy, for Hughie was dearly loved by all, though no
one would have dared to manifest such weakness.
As they were separating, Hughie whispered to Ranald, "Come home
with me, Ranald. I want you." And Ranald, looking down into the
little white face, went. It would be many a day before he would
get rid of the picture of the white face, with the staring black
eyes, floating on the dark brown water beside him, and that was why
he went.
When they reached the path to the manse clearing Ranald and Hughie
were alone. For some minutes Hughie followed Ranald in silence on
a dog-trot, through the brule, dodging round stumps and roots and
climbing over fallen trees, till they came to the pasture-field.
"Hold on, Ranald," panted Hughie, putting on a spurt and coming up
even with his leader.
"Are you warm enough?" asked Ranald, looking down at the little
flushed face.
"You bet!"
"Are you dry?"
"Huh, huh."
"Indeed, you are not too dry," said Ranald, feeling his wet shirt
and trousers, "and your mother will be wondering."
"I'll tell her," said Hughie, in a tone of exulting anticipation.
"What!" Ranald stood dead still.
"I'll tell her," replied Hughie. "She'll be awful glad. And
she'll be awful thankful to you, Ranald."
Ranald looked at him in amazement.
"I think I will jist be going back now," he said, at length. But
Hughie seized him.
"Oh, Ranald, you must come with me."
He had pictured himself telling his mother of Ranald's exploit, and
covering his hero with glory. But this was the very thing that
Ranald dreaded and hated, and was bound to prevent.
"You will not be going to the Deepole again, I warrant you," Ranald
said, with emphasis.
"Not go to the Deepole?"
"No, indeed. Your mother will put an end to that sort of thing."
"Mother! Why not?"
"She will not be wanting to have you drowned."
Hughie laughed scornfully. "You don't know my mother. She's not
afraid of--of anything."
"But she will be telling your father."
This was a matter serious enough to give Hughie pause. His father
might very likely forbid the Deepole.
"There is no need for telling," suggested Ranald. "And I will just
go in for a minute."
"Will you stay for supper?"
Ranald shook his head. The manse kitchen was a bright place, and
to see the minister's wife and to hear her talk was to Ranald pure
delight. But then, Hughie might tell, and that would be too awful
to bear.
"Do, Ranald," pleaded Hughie. "I'll not tell."
"I am not so sure."
"Sure as death!"
Still Ranald hesitated. Hughie grew desperate.
"God may kill me on the spot!" he cried, using the most binding of
all oaths known to the boys. This was satisfactory, and Ranald
went.
But Hughie was not skilled in deceiving, and especially in deceiving
his mother. They were great friends, and Hughie shared all his
secrets with her and knew that they were safe, unless they ought to
be told. And so, when he caught sight of his mother waiting for him
before the door, he left Ranald, and thrilling with the memory of
the awful peril through which he had passed, rushed at her, and
crying, "Oh, mother!" he flung himself into her arms. "I am so glad
to see you again!"
"Why, Hughie, my boy, what's the matter?" said his mother, holding
her arms tight about him. "And you are all wet! What is it?" But
Hughie held her fast, struggling with himself.
"What is it?" she asked again, turning to Ranald.
"We were running pretty fast--and it is a hot day--and--" But the
clear gray-brown eyes were upon him, and Ranald found it difficult
to go on.
"Oh, mother, you mustn't ask," cried Hughie; "I promised not to
tell."
"Not to tell me, Hughie?" The surprise in the voice was quite too
much for Hughie.
"Oh, mother, we did not want to frighten you--and--I promised."
"Then you must keep your promise. Come away in, my boy. Come in,
Ranald."
It was her boy's first secret from her. Ranald saw the look of
pain in the sweet face, and could not endure it.
"It was just nothing, Mrs. Murray," he began.
"Did you promise, too, Ranald?"
"No, that I did not. And there is nothing much to tell, only
Hughie fell into the Deepole and the boys pulled him out!"
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Hughie, "it was Ranald. He jumped right
down from the tree right into the water, and kept me up. You told
yourself, Ranald," he continued, delighted to be relieved of his
promise; and on he went to give his mother, in his most picturesque
style, a description of the whole scene, while Ranald stood looking
miserable and ashamed.
"And Ranald was ashamed for me to tell you, and besides, he said
you wouldn't let me go to the Deepole again. But you will, won't
you mother? And you won't tell father, will you?"
The mother stood listening, with face growing whiter and whiter,
till he was done. Then she stooped down over the eager face for
some moments, whispering, "My darling, my darling," and then coming
to Ranald she held her hand on his shoulder for a moment, while she
said, in a voice bravely struggling to be calm, "God reward you,
Ranald. God grant my boy may always have so good and brave a
friend when he needs."
And from that day Ranald's life was different, for he had bound to
him by a tie that nothing could ever break, a friend whose
influence followed him, and steadied and lifted him up to
greatness, long after the grave had hidden her from men's sight.
CHAPTER III
THE EXAMINATION
The two years of Archibald Munro's regime were the golden age of
the school, and for a whole generation "The Section" regarded that
period as the standard for comparison in the following years.
Munro had a genius for making his pupils work. They threw
themselves with enthusiasm into all they undertook--studies,
debate nights, games, and in everything the master was the source
of inspiration.
And now his last examination day had come, and the whole Section
was stirred with enthusiasm for their master, and with grief at his
departure.
The day before examination was spent in "cleaning the school."
This semi-annual event, which always preceded the examination, was
almost as enjoyable as the examination day itself, if indeed it was
not more so. The school met in the morning for a final polish for
the morrow's recitations. Then after a speech by the master the
little ones were dismissed and allowed to go home though they never
by any chance took advantage of this permission. Then the master
and the bigger boys and girls set to work to prepare the school for
the great day. The boys were told off in sections, some to get dry
cedar boughs from the swamp for the big fire outside, over which
the iron sugar-kettle was swung to heat the scrubbing water; others
off into the woods for balsam-trees for the evergreen decorations;
others to draw water and wait upon the scrubbers.
It was a day of delightful excitement, but this year there was
below the excitement a deep, warm feeling of love and sadness, as
both teacher and pupils thought of to-morrow. There was an
additional thrill to the excitement, that the master was to be
presented with a gold watch and chain, and that this had been kept
a dead secret from him.
What a day it was! With wild whoops the boys went off for the dry
cedar and the evergreens, while the girls, looking very housewifely
with skirts tucked back and sleeves rolled up, began to sweep and
otherwise prepare the room for scrubbing.
The gathering of the evergreens was a delightful labor. High up
in the balsam-trees the more daring boys would climb, and then,
holding by the swaying top, would swing themselves far out from the
trunk and come crashing through the limbs into the deep, soft snow,
bringing half the tree with them. What larks they had! What
chasing of rabbits along their beaten runways! What fierce and
happy snow fights! And then, the triumph of their return, laden
with their evergreen trophies, to find the big fire blazing under
the great iron kettle and the water boiling, and the girls well on
with the scrubbing.
Then, while the girls scrubbed first the benches and desks, and
last of all, the floors, the boys washed the windows and put up the
evergreen decorations. Every corner had its pillar of green, every
window had its frame of green, the old blackboard, the occasion
of many a heartache to the unmathematical, was wreathed into
loveliness; the maps, with their bewildering boundaries, rivers and
mountains, capes, bays and islands, became for once worlds of
beauty under the magic touch of the greenery. On the wall just
over his desk, the master wrought out in evergreen an arching
"WELCOME," but later on, the big girls, with some shy blushing,
boldly tacked up underneath an answering "FAREWELL." By the time
the short afternoon had faded into the early evening, the school
stood, to the eyes of all familiar with the common sordidness of
its everyday dress, a picture of artistic loveliness. And after
the master's little speech of thanks for their good work that
afternoon, and for all their goodness to him, the boys and girls
went their ways with that strangely unnameable heart-emptiness that
brings an ache to the throat, but somehow makes happier for the
ache.
The examination day was the great school event of the year. It was
the social function of the Section as well. Toward this event all
the school life moved, and its approach was attended by a deepening
excitement, shared by children and parents alike, which made a kind
of holiday feeling in the air.
The school opened an hour later than ordinarily, and the children
came all in their Sunday clothes, the boys feeling stiff and
uncomfortable, and regarding each other with looks half shy and
half contemptuous, realizing that they were unnatural in each
other's sight; the girls with hair in marvelous frizzes and shiny
ringlets, with new ribbons, and white aprons over their home-made
winsey dresses, carried their unwonted grandeur with an ease and
delight that made the boys secretly envy but apparently despise
them. The one unpardonable crime with all the boys in that country
was that of being "proud." The boy convicted of "shoween off," was
utterly contemned by his fellows. Hence, any delight in new
clothes or in a finer appearance than usual was carefully avoided.
Ranald always hated new clothes. He felt them an intolerable
burden. He did not mind his new homespun, home-made flannel check
shirt of mixed red and white, but the heavy fulled-cloth suit made
by his Aunt Kirsty felt like a suit of mail. He moved heavily in
it and felt queer, and knew that he looked as he felt. The result
was that he was in no genial mood, and was on the alert for any
indication of levity at his expense.
Hughie, on the contrary, like the girls, delighted in new clothes.
His new black suit, made down from one of his father's, with
infinite planning and pains by his mother, and finished only at
twelve o'clock the night before, gave him unmixed pleasure. And
handsome he looked in it. All the little girls proclaimed that in
their shy, admiring glances, while the big girls teased and petted
and threatened to kiss him. Of course the boys all scorned him and
his finery, and tried to "take him down," but Hughie was so
unfeignedly pleased with himself, and moved so easily and naturally
in his grand attire, and was so cheery and frank and happy, that no
one thought of calling him "proud."
Soon after ten the sleighloads began to arrive. It was a mild
winter day, when the snow packed well, and there fluttered down
through the still air a few lazy flakes, large, soft, and feathery,
like bits of the clouds floating white against the blue sky. The
sleighs were driven up to the door with a great flourish and jingle
of bells, and while the master welcomed the ladies, the fathers and
big brothers drove the horses to the shelter of the thick-standing
pines, and unhitching them, tied them to the sleigh-boxes, where,
blanketed and fed, they remained for the day.
Within an hour the little school-house was packed, the children
crowded tight into the long desks, and the visitors on the benches
along the walls and in the seats of the big boys and girls. On the
platform were such of the trustees as could muster up the necessary
courage--old Peter MacRae, who had been a dominie in the Old
Country, the young minister and his wife, and the schoolteacher
from the "Sixteenth."
First came the wee tots, who, in wide-eyed, serious innocence, went
through their letters and their "ox" and "cat" combinations and
permutations with great gusto and distinction. Then they were
dismissed to their seats by a series of mental arithmetic
questions, sums of varying difficulty being propounded, until
little white-haired, blue-eyed Johnnie Aird, with the single big
curl on the top of his head, was left alone.
"One and one, Johnnie?" said the master, smiling down at the rosy
face.
"Three," promptly replied Johnnie, and retired to his seat amid the
delighted applause of visitors and pupils, and followed by the
proud, fond, albeit almost tearful, gaze of his mother. He was her
baby, born long after her other babies had grown up into sturdy
youth, and all the dearer for that.
Then up through the Readers, till the Fifth was reached, the
examination progressed, each class being handed over to the charge
of a visitor, who forthwith went upon examination as truly as did
the class.
"Fifth class!" In due order the class marched up to the chalk line
on the floor in front of the master's desk, and stood waiting.
The reading lesson was Fitz-Greene Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris," a
selection of considerable dramatic power, and calling for a
somewhat spirited rendering. The master would not have chosen this
lesson, but he had laid down the rule that there was to be no
special drilling of the pupils for an exhibition, but that the
school should be seen doing its every-day work; and in the reading,
the lessons for the previous day were to be those of the
examination day. By an evil fortune, the reading for the day was
the dramatic "Marco Bozzaris." The master shivered inwardly as he
thought of the possibility of Thomas Finch, with his stolidly
monotonous voice, being called upon to read the thrilling lines
recording the panic-stricken death-cry of the Turk: "To arms! They
come! The Greek! The Greek!" But Thomas, by careful plodding,
had climbed to fourth place, and the danger lay in the third verse.
"Will you take this class, Mr. MacRae?" said the master, handing
him the book. He knew that the dominie was not interested in the
art of reading beyond the point of correct pronunciation, and hence
he hoped the class might get off easily. The dominie took the book
reluctantly. What he desired was the "arith-MET-ic" class, and did
not care to be "put off" with mere reading.
"Well, Ranald, let us hear you," he rather growled. Ranald went at
his work with quiet confidence; he knew all the words.
"Page 187, Marco Bozzaris.
"At midnight in his guarded tent,
The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power."
And so on steadily to the end of his verse.
"Next!"
The next was "Betsy Dan," the daughter of Dan Campbell, of "The
Island." Now, Betsy Dan was very red in hair and face, very shy
and very nervous, and always on the point of giggles. It was a
trial to her to read on ordinary days, but to-day it was almost
more than she could bear. To make matters worse, sitting
immediately behind her, and sheltered from the eye of the master,
sat Jimmie Cameron, Don's youngest brother. Jimmie was always on
the alert for mischief, and ever ready to go off into fits of
laughter, which he managed to check only by grabbing tight hold of
his nose. Just now he was busy pulling at the strings of Betsy
Dan's apron with one hand, while with the other he was hanging onto
his nose, and swaying in paroxysms of laughter.
Very red in the face, Betsy Dan began her verse.
"At midnight in the forest shades,
Bozzaris--"
Pause, while Betsy Dan clutched behind her.
"--Bozzaris ranged--"
("Tchik! tchik!") a snicker from Jimmie in the rear.
"--his Suliote band,
True as the steel of--"
("im-im,") Betsy Dan struggles with her giggles.
"Elizabeth!" The master's voice is stern and sharp.
Betsy Dan bridles up, while Jimmie is momentarily sobered by the
master's tone.
"True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persians thousands stood--"
("Tchik! tchik! tchik,") a long snicker from Jimmie, whose nose
cannot be kept quite in control. It is becoming too much for poor
Betsy Dan, whose lips begin to twitch.
"There--"
("im-im, thit-tit-tit,") Betsy Dan is making mighty efforts to hold
in her giggles.
"--had the glad earth (tchik!) drunk their blood,
On old Pl-a-a-t-t-e-a-'s day."
Whack! whack!
"Elizabeth Campbell!" The master's tone was quite terrible.
"I don't care! He won't leave me alone. He's just--just (sob)
pu--pulling at me (sob) all the time."
By this time Betsy's apron was up to her eyes, and her sobs were
quite tempestuous.
"James, stand up!" Jimmie slowly rose, red with laughter, and
covered with confusion.
"I-I-I di-dn't touch her!" he protested.
"O--h!" said little Aleck Sinclair, who had been enjoying Jimmie's
prank hugely; "he was--"
"That'll do, Aleck, I didn't ask you. James is quite able to tell
me himself. Now, James!"
"I-I-I was only just doing that," said Jimmie, sober enough now,
and terrified at the results of his mischief.
"Doing what?" said the master, repressing a smile at Jimmie's
woebegone face.
"Just-just that!" and Jimmie touched gingerly with the point of his
finger the bows of Betsy Dan's apron-strings.
"Oh, I see. You were annoying Elizabeth while she was reading. No
wonder she found it difficult. Now, do you think that was very
nice?"
Jimmie twisted himself into a semicircle.
"N-o-o."
"Come here, James!" Jimmie looked frightened, came round the
class, and up to the master.
"Now, then," continued the master, facing Jimmie round in front of
Betsy Dan, who was still using her apron upon her eyes, "tell
Elizabeth you are sorry."
Jimmie stood in an agony of silent awkwardness, curving himself in
varying directions.
"Are you sorry?"
"Y-e-e-s."
"Well, tell her so."
Jimmie drew a long breath and braced himself for the ordeal. He
stood a moment or two, working his eyes up shyly from Betsy Dan's
shoes to her face, caught her glancing at him from behind her
apron, and began, "I-I-I'm (tchik! tchik) sor-ry," (tchik). Betsy
Dan's look was too much for the little chap's gravity.
A roar swept over the school-house. Even the grim dominie's face
relaxed.
"Go to your seat and behave yourself," said the master, giving
Jimmie a slight cuff. "Now, Margaret, let us go on."
Margaret's was the difficult verse. But to Margaret's quiet voice
and gentle heart, anything like shriek or battle-cry was foreign
enough, so with even tone, and unmodulated by any shade of passion,
she read the cry, "To arms! They come! The Greek! The Greek!"
Nor was her voice to be moved from its gentle, monotonous flow even
by the battle-cry of Bozzaris, "Strike! till the last armed foe
expires!"
"Next," said the dominie, glad to get on with his task.
The master breathed freely, when, alas for his hopes, the minister
spoke up.
"But, Margaret, do you think Bozzaris cheered his men in so gentle
a voice as that?"
Margaret smiled sweetly, but remained silent, glad to get over the
verse.
"Wouldn't you like to try it again?" suggested the minister.
Margaret flushed up at once.
"Oh, no," said his wife, who had noticed Margaret's flushing face.
"Girls are not supposed to be soldiers, are they, Margaret?"
Margaret flashed a grateful look at her.
"That's a boy's verse."
"Ay! that it is," said the old dominie; "and I would wish very much
that Mrs. Murray would conduct this class."
But the minister's wife would not hear of it, protesting that the
dominie could do it much better. The old man, however, insisted,
saying that he had no great liking for this part of the
examination, and would wish to reserve himself, with the master's
permission, for the "arith-MET-ic" class.
Mrs. Murray, seeing that it would please the dominie, took the
book, with a spot of color coming in her delicate, high-bred face.
"You must all do your best now, to help me," she said, with a smile
that brought an answering smile flashing along the line. Even
Thomas Finch allowed his stolid face a gleam of intelligent
sympathy, which, however, he immediately suppressed, for he
remembered that the next turn was his, and that he must be getting
himself into the appearance of dogged desperation which he
considered suitable to a reading exercise.
"Now, Thomas," said the minister's wife, sweetly, and Thomas
plunged heavily.
"They fought like brave men, long--"
"Oh, Thomas, I think we will try that man's verse again, with the
cries of battle in it, you know. I am sure you can do that well."
It was all the same to Thomas. There were no words he could not
spell, and he saw no reason why he should not do that verse as well
as any other. So, with an extra knitting of his eyebrows, he set
forth doggedly.
"An-hour-passed-on-the-Turk-awoke-that-bright-dream-was-his-last."
Thomas's voice fell with the unvarying regularity of the beat of a
trip-hammer.
"He-woke-to-hear-his-sentries-shriek-to-arms-they-come-the-Greek-
the-Greek-he-woke--"
"But, Thomas, wait a minute. You see you must speak these words,
'To arms! They come!' differently from the others. These words
were shrieked by the sentries, and you must show that in your
reading."
"Speak them out, man," said the minister, sharply, and a little
nervously, fearing that his wife had undertaken too great a task,
and hating to see her defeated.
"Now, Thomas," said Mrs. Murray, "try again. And remember the
sentries shrieked these words, 'To arms!' and so on."
Thomas squared his shoulders, spread his feet apart, added a
wrinkle to his frown, and a deeper note of desperation to his tone,
and began again.
"An-hour-passed-on-the-Turk-awoke-that-bright-dream-was--"
The master shuddered.
"Now, Thomas, excuse me. That's better, but we can improve that
yet." Mrs. Murray was not to be beaten. The attention of the
whole school, even to Jimmie Cameron, as well as that of the
visitors, was now concentrated upon the event.
"See," she went on, "each phrase by itself. 'An hour passed on:
the Turk awoke.' Now, try that far."
Again Thomas tried, this time with complete success. The visitors
applauded.
"Ah, that's it, Thomas. I was sure you could do it."
Thomas relaxed a little, but not unduly. He was not sure what was
yet before him.
"Now we will get that 'sentries shriek.' See, Thomas, like this a
little," and she read the words with fine expression.
"You must put more pith, more force, into those words, Thomas.
Speak out, man!" interjected the minister, who was wishing it was
all over.
"Now, Thomas, I think this will be the last time. You have done
very well, but I feel sure you can do better."
The minister's wife looked at Thomas as she said this, with so
fascinating a smile that the frown on Thomas' face deepened into a
hideous scowl, and he planted himself with a do-or-die expression
in every angle of his solid frame. Realizing the extreme necessity
of the moment, he pitched his voice several tones higher than ever
before in his life inside a house and before people, and made his
final attempt.
"An-hour-passed-on: the-Turk-awoke:
That-bright-dream-WAS-his-last."
And now, feeling that the crisis was upon him, and confusing speed
with intensity, and sound with passion, he rushed his words, with
ever-increasing speed, into a wild yell.
"He-woke-to-hear-his-sentries-shriek-to-arms-they come-the-Greek-
THE-GREEK!"
There was a moment of startled stillness, then, "tchik! tchik!" It
was Jimmie again, holding his nose and swaying in a vain effort to
control a paroxysm of snickers at Thomas' unusual outburst.
It was like a match to powder. Again the whole school burst into a
roar of uncontrollable laughter. Even the minister, the master,
and the dominie, could not resist. The only faces unmoved were
those of Thomas Finch and the minister's wife. He had tried his
best, and it was to please her, and she knew it.
A swift, shamed glance round, and his eyes rested on her face.
That face was sweet and grave as she leaned toward him, and said,
"Thank you, Thomas. That was well done." And Thomas, still
looking at her, flushed to his hair roots and down the back of his
neck, while the scowl on his forehead faded into a frown, and then
into smoothness.
"And if you always try your best like that, Thomas, you will be a
great and good man some day."
Her voice was low and soft, as if intended for him alone, but in
the sudden silence that followed the laughter it thrilled to every
heart in the room, and Thomas was surprised to find himself trying
to swallow a lump in his throat, and to keep his eyes from
blinking; and in his face, stolid and heavy, a new expression was
struggling for utterance. "Here, take me," it said; "all that I
have is thine," and later days brought the opportunity to prove it.
The rest of the reading lesson passed without incident. Indeed,
there pervaded the whole school that feeling of reaction which
always succeeds an emotional climax. The master decided to omit
the geography and grammar classes, which should have immediately
followed, and have dinner at once, and so allow both children and
visitors time to recover tone for the spelling and arithmetic of
the afternoon.
The dinner was an elaborate and appalling variety of pies and
cakes, served by the big girls and their sisters, who had recently
left school, and who consequently bore themselves with all proper
dignity and importance. Two of the boys passed round a pail of
water and a tin cup, that all the thirsty might drink. From hand
to hand, and from lip to lip the cup passed, with a fine contempt
of microbes. The only point of etiquette insisted upon was that no
"leavings" should be allowed to remain in the cup or thrown back
into the pail, but should be carefully flung upon the floor.
There had been examination feasts in pre-historic days in the
Twentieth school, when the boys indulged in free fights at long
range, using as missiles remnants of pie crust and cake, whose
consistency rendered them deadly enough to "bloody" a nose or black
an eye. But these barbaric encounters ceased with Archie Munro's
advent, and now the boys vied with each other in "minding their
manners." Not only was there no snatching of food or exhibition of
greediness, but there was a severe repression of any apparent
eagerness for the tempting dainties, lest it should be suspected
that such were unusual at home. Even the little boys felt that it
would be bad manners to take a second piece of cake or pie unless
specially pressed; but their eager, bulging eyes revealed only too
plainly their heart's desire, and the kindly waiters knew their
duty sufficiently to urge a second, third, and fourth supply of the
toothsome currant or berry pie, the solid fruit cake, or the oily
doughnut, till the point was reached where desire failed.
"Have some more, Jimmie. Have a doughnut," said the master, who
had been admiring Jimmie's gastronomic achievements.
"He's had ten a'ready," shouted little Aleck Sinclair, Jimmie's
special confidant.
Jimmie smiled in conscious pride, but remained silent.
"What! eaten ten doughnuts?" asked the master, feigning alarm.
"He's got four in his pocket, too," said Aleck, in triumph.
"He's got a pie in his own pocket," retorted Jimmie, driven to
retaliate.
"A pie!" exclaimed the master. "Better take it out. A pocket's
not the best place for a pie. Why don't you eat it, Aleck?"
"I can't," lamented Aleck. "I'm full up."
"He said he's nearly busted," said Jimmie, anxiously. "He's got a
pain here," pointing to his left eye. The bigger boys and some of
the visitors who had gathered round shouted with laughter.
"Oh, pshaw, Aleck!" said the master, encouragingly, "that's all
right. As long as the pain is as high up as your eye you'll
recover. I tell you what, put your pie down on the desk here,
Jimmie will take care of it, and run down to the gate and tell Don
I want him."
Aleck, with great care and considerable difficulty, extracted from
his pocket a segment of black currant pie, hopelessly battered, but
still intact. He regarded it fondly for a moment or two, and then,
with a very dubious look at Jimmie, ran away on his errand for the
master.
It took him some little time to find Don, and meanwhile the
master's attention was drawn away by his duty to the visitors. The
pie left to Jimmie's care had an unfortunately tempting fringe of
loose pieces about it that marred its symmetry. Jimmie proceeded
to trim it into shape. So absorbed did he become in this trimming
process, that before he realized what he was about, he woke
suddenly to the startling fact that the pie had shrunk into a
comparatively insignificant size. It would be worse than useless
to save the mutilated remains for Aleck; there was nothing for it
now but to get the reproachful remnant out of the way. He was so
busily occupied with this praiseworthy proceeding that he failed to
notice Aleck enter the room, flushed with his race, eager and once
more empty.
Arriving at his seat, he came upon Jimmie engaged in devouring the
pie left in his charge. With a cry of dismay and rage he flung
himself upon the little gourmand, and after a short struggle,
secured the precious pie; but alas, bereft of its most delicious
part--it was picked clean of its currants. For a moment he gazed,
grief-stricken, at the leathery, viscous remnant in his hand.
Then, with a wrathful exclamation, "Here, then, you can just take
it then, you big pig, you!" He seized Jimmie by the neck, and
jammed the sticky pie crust on his face, where it stuck like an
adhesive plaster. Jimmie, taken by surprise, and rendered
nerveless by the pangs of an accusing conscience, made no
resistance, but set up a howl that attracted the attention of the
master and the whole company.
"Why, Jimmie!" exclaimed the master, removing the doughy mixture
from the little lad's face, "what on earth are you trying to do?
What is wrong, Aleck?"
"He ate my pie," said Aleck, defiantly.
"Ate it? Well, apparently not. But never mind, Aleck, we shall
get you another pie."
"There isn't any more," said Aleck, mournfully; "that was the last
piece."
"Oh, well, we shall find something else just as good," said the
master, going off after one of the big girls; and returning with a
doughnut and a peculiarly deadly looking piece of fruit cake, he
succeeded in comforting the disappointed and still indignant Aleck.
The afternoon was given to the more serious part of the school
work--writing, arithmetic, and spelling, while, for those whose
ambitions extended beyond the limits of the public school, the
master had begun a Euclid class, which was at once his despair and
his pride. In the Twentieth school of that date there was no waste
of the children's time in foolish and fantastic branches of study,
in showy exercises and accomplishments, whose display was at once
ruinous to the nerves of the visitors, and to the self-respect and
modesty of the children. The ideal of the school was to fit the
children for the struggle into which their lives would thrust them,
so that the boy who could spell and read and cipher was supposed to
be ready for his life work. Those whose ambition led them into the
subtleties of Euclid's problems and theorems were supposed to be in
preparation for somewhat higher spheres of life.
Through the various classes of arithmetic the examination
proceeded, the little ones struggling with great seriousness
through their addition and subtraction sums, and being wrought up
to the highest pitch of excitement by their contest for the first
place. By the time the fifth class was reached, the air was heavy
with the feeling of battle. Indeed, it was amazing to note how the
master had succeeded in arousing in the whole school an intense
spirit of emulation. From little Johnnie Aird up to Thomas Finch,
the pupils carried the hearts of soldiers.
Through fractions, the "Rule of Three," percentages, and stocks,
the senior class swept with a trail of glory. In vain old Peter
MacRae strewed their path with his favorite posers. The brilliant
achievements of the class seemed to sink him deeper and deeper into
the gloom of discontent, while the master, the minister and his
wife, as well as the visitors, could not conceal their delight. As
a last resort the old dominie sought to stem their victorious
career with his famous problem in Practice, and to his huge
enjoyment, one after another of the class had to acknowledge
defeat. The truth was, the master had passed lightly over this
rule in the arithmetic, considering the solution of problems by the
method of Practice as a little antiquated, and hardly worthy of
much study. The failure of the class, however, brought the dominie
his hour of triumph, and so complete had been the success of the
examination that the master was abundantly willing that he should
enjoy it.
Then followed the judging of the copy-books. The best and cleanest
book in each class was given the proud distinction of a testimonial
written upon the first blank page, with the date of the examination
and the signatures of the examiners attached. It was afterwards
borne home in triumph by the happy owner, to be stored among the
family archives, and perhaps among the sacred things that mothers
keep in their holy of holies.
After the copy-books had been duly appraised, there followed an
hour in which the excitement of the day reached its highest mark.
The whole school, with such of the visitors as could be persuaded
to join, were ranged in opposing ranks in the deadly conflict of a
spelling-match. The master, the teacher from the Sixteenth, and
even the minister's wife, yielded to the tremendous pressure of
public demand that they should enter the fray. The contest had a
most dramatic finish, and it was felt that the extreme possibility
of enthusiasm and excitement was reached when the minister's wife
spelled down the teacher from the Sixteenth, who every one knew,
was the champion speller of all the country that lay toward the
Front, and had a special private armory of deadly missiles laid up
against just such a conflict as this. The tumultuous triumph of
the children was not to be controlled. Again and again they
followed Hughie in wild yells, not only because his mother was a
great favorite with them all, but because she had wrested a victory
from the champion of the Front, for the Front, in all matters
pertaining to culture and fashion, thought itself quite superior to
the more backwoods country of the Twentieth.
It was with no small difficulty that the master brought the school
to such a degree of order that the closing speeches could be
received with becoming respect and attention. The trustees,
according to custom, were invited to express their opinion upon the
examination, and upon school matters generally. The chairman, John
Cameron, "Long John," as he was called, broke the ice after much
persuasion, and slowly rising from the desk into which he had
compressed his long, lank form, he made his speech. Long John was
a great admirer of the master, but for all that, and perhaps
because of that, he allowed himself no warmer words of commendation
than that he was well pleased with the way in which the children
had conducted themselves. "They have done credit to themselves,"
he said, "and to their teacher. And indeed I am sorry he is
leaving us, for, so far, I have heard no complaints in the
Section."
The other trustees followed in the path thus blazed out for them by
Long John. They were all well pleased with the examination, and
they were all sorry to lose the master, and they had heard no
complaints. It was perfectly understood that no words of praise
could add to the high testimony that they "had heard no complaints."
The dominie's speech was a little more elaborate. Somewhat
reluctantly he acknowledged that the school had acquitted itself
with "very considerable credit," especially the "arith-MET-ic"
class, and indeed, considering all the circumstances, Mr. Munro was
to be congratulated upon the results of his work in the Section.
But the minister's warm expression of delight at the day's
proceedings, and of regret at the departure of the master, more
than atoned for the trustees' cautious testimony, and the dominie's
somewhat grudging praise.
Then came the moment of the day. A great stillness fell upon the
school as the master rose to make his farewell speech. But before
he could say a word, up from their seats walked Betsy Dan and
Thomas Finch, and ranged themselves before him. The whole
assemblage tingled with suppressed excitement. The great secret
with which they had been burdening themselves for the past few
weeks was now to be out. Slowly Thomas extracted the manuscript
from his trousers pocket, and smoothed out its many folds, while
Betsy Dan waited nervously in the rear.
"Oh, why did they set Thomas to this?" whispered the minister's
wife, who had a profound sense of humor. The truth was, the choice
of the school had fallen upon Ranald and Margaret Aird. Margaret
was quite willing to act, but Ranald refused point-blank, and
privately persuaded Thomas to accept the honor in his stead. To
this Thomas agreed, all the more readily that Margaret, whom he
adored from a respectful distance, was to be his partner. But
Margaret, who would gladly have been associated with Ranald, on the
suggestion that Thomas should take his place, put up her lower lip
in that symbol of scorn so effective with girls, but which no boy
has ever yet accomplished, and declared that indeed, and she would
see that Tom Finch far enough, which plainly meant "no."
Consequently they had to fall back upon Betsy Dan, who, in addition
to being excessively nervous, was extremely good-natured. And
Thomas, though he would greatly have preferred Margaret as his
assistant, was quite ready to accept Betsy Dan.
The interval of waiting while Thomas deliberately smoothed out the
creases of the paper was exceedingly hard upon Betsy Dan, whose
face grew redder each moment. Jimmie Cameron, too, who realized
that the occasion was one of unusual solemnity, was gazing at
Thomas with intense interest growing into amusement, and was
holding his fingers in readiness to seize his nose, and so check
any explosion of snickers. Just as Thomas had got the last fold of
his paper straightened out, and was turning it right end up, it
somehow slipped through his fingers to the floor. This was too
much for Jimmie, who only saved himself from utter disgrace by
promptly seizing his nose and holding on for dear life. Thomas
gave Jimmie a passing glare and straightened himself up for his
work. With a furious frown he cleared his throat and began in a
solemn, deep-toned roar, "Dear teacher, learning with regret that
you are about to sever your connection," etc., etc. All went well
until he came to the words, "We beg you to accept this gift, not
for its intrinsic value," etc., which was the cue for Betsy Dan.
But Betsy Dan was engaged in terrorizing Jimmie, and failed to come
in, till, after an awful pause, Thomas gave her a sharp nudge, and
whispered audibly, "Give it to him, you gowk." Poor Betsy Dan, in
sudden confusion, whipped her hand out from under her apron, and
thrusting a box at the master, said hurriedly, "Here it is, sir."
As Thomas solemnly concluded his address, a smile ran round the
room, while Jimmie doubled himself up in his efforts to suppress a
tempest of snickers.
The master, however, seemed to see nothing humorous in the
situation, but bowing gravely to Thomas and Betsy Dan, he said,
kindly, "Thank you, Thomas! Thank you, Elizabeth!" Something in
his tone brought the school to attention, and even Jimmie forgot to
have regard to his nose. For a few moments the master stood
looking upon the faces of his pupils, dwelling upon them one by
one, till his eyes rested upon the wee tots in the front seat,
looking at him with eyes of innocent and serious wonder. Then he
thanked the children for their gift in a few simple words, assuring
them that he should always wear the watch with pride and grateful
remembrance of the Twentieth school, and of his happy days among
them.
But when he came to say his words of farewell, and to thank them
for their goodness to him, and their loyal backing of him while he
was their teacher, his voice grew husky, and for a moment wavered.
Then, after a pause, he spoke of what had been his ideal among
them. "It is a good thing to have your minds trained and stored
with useful knowledge, but there are better things than that. To
learn honor, truth, and right; to be manly and womanly; to be self-
controlled and brave and gentle--these are better than all possible
stores of learning; and if I have taught you these at all, then I
have done what I most wished to do. I have often failed, and I
have often been discouraged, and might have given up were it not
for the help I received at my worst times from our minister and
from Mrs. Murray, who often saved me from despair."
A sudden flush tinged the grave, beautiful face of the minister's
young wife. A light filled her eyes as the master said these
words, for she remembered days when the young man's pain was almost
greater than he could bear, and when he was near to giving up.
When the master ceased, the minister spoke a few words in
appreciation of the work he had done in the school, and in the
whole Section, during his three years' stay among them, and
expressed his conviction that many a young lad would grow into a
better man because he had known Archibald Munro, and some of them
would never forget what he had done for them.
By this time all the big girls and many of the visitors were openly
weeping. The boys were looking straight in front of them, their
faces set in an appearance of savage gloom, for they knew well how
near they were to "acting like the girls."
After a short prayer by the minister, the children filed out past
the master, who stood at the door and shook hands with them one by
one. When the big boys, and the young men who had gone to school
in the winter months, came to say good by, they shook hands
silently, and then stood close about him as if hating to let him
go. He had caught for them in many a close base-ball match; he had
saved their goal in many a fierce shinny fight with the Front; and
while he had ruled them with an iron rule, he had always treated
them fairly. He had never failed them; he had never weakened; he
had always been a man among them. No wonder they stood close about
him and hated to lose him. Suddenly big Bob Fraser called out in a
husky voice, "Three cheers for the captain!" and every one was glad
of the chance to let himself out in a roar. And that was the last
of the farewells.
CHAPTER IV
THE NEW MASTER
Right in front of the school door, and some little distance from
it, in the midst of a clump of maples, stood an old beech-tree with
a dead top, and half-way down where a limb had once been and had
rotted off, a hole. Inside this hole two very respectable but
thoroughly impudent red squirrels had made their nest. The hole
led into the dead heart of the tree, which had been hollowed out
with pains so as to make a roomy, cosy home, which the squirrels
had lined with fur and moss, and which was well stored with
beechnuts from the tree, their winter's provisions.
Between the boys and the squirrels there existed an armed
neutrality. It was understood among the boys that nothing worse
than snowballs was to be used in their war with the squirrels,
while with the squirrels it was a matter of honor that they should
put reasonable limits to their profanity. But there were times
when the relations became strained, and hence the holidays were no
less welcome to the squirrels than to the boys.
To the squirrels this had been a day of unusual anxiety, for the
school had taken up again after its two weeks' holidays, and the
boys were a little more inquisitive than usual, and unfortunately,
the snow happened to be good for packing. It had been a bad day
for nerves, and Mr. Bushy, as the boys called him, found it
impossible to keep his tail in one position for more than one
second at a time. It was in vain that his more sedate and self-
controlled partner in life remonstrated with him and urged a more
philosophic mind.
"It's all very well for you, my dear," Mr. Bushy was saying, rather
crossly I am afraid, "to urge a philosophic mind, but if you had
the responsibility of the family upon you--Goodness gracious! Owls
and weasels! What in all the woods is that?"
"Can't be the wolves," said Mrs. Bushy, placidly, "it's too early
for them."
"Might have known," replied her husband, quite crossly; "of course
it's those boys. I wonder why they let them out of school at all.
Why can't they keep them in where it is warm? It always seems to
me a very silly thing anyway, for them to keep rushing out of their
hole in that stupid fashion. What they do in there I am sure I
don't know. It isn't the least like a nest. I've seen inside of
it. There isn't a thing to eat, nor a bit of hair or moss. They
just go in and out again."
"Well, my dear," said his wife, soothingly, "you can hardly expect
them to know as much as people with a wider outlook. We must
remember they are only ground people."
"That's just it!" grumbled Mr. Bushy. "I only wish they would just
keep to themselves and on the ground where they belong, but they
have the impudence to come lumbering up here into our tree."
"Oh, well," replied his partner, calmly, "you must acknowledge they
do not disturb our nest."
"And a good thing for them, too," chattered Mr. Bushy, fiercely,
smoothing out his whiskers and showing his sharp front teeth, at
which Mrs. Bushy smiled gently behind her tail.
"But what are they doing now?" she inquired.
"Oh, they are going off into the woods," said Mr. Bushy, who had
issued from his hole and was sitting up on a convenient crotch.
"And I declare!" he said, in amazed tones, "they haven't thrown one
snowball at me. Something must be badly wrong with them. Wonder
what it is? This is quite unprecedented."
At this Mrs. Bushy ventured carefully out to observe the
extraordinary phenomenon, for the boys were actually making their
way to the gate, the smaller ones with much noisy shouting, but the
big boys soberly enough engaged in earnest conversation. It was
their first day of the new master, and such a day as quite
"flabbergastrated," as Don Cameron said, even the oldest of them.
But of course Mr. and Mrs. Bushy knew nothing of this, and could
only marvel.
"Murdie," cried Hughie to Don's big brother, who with Bob Fraser,
Ranald Macdonald, and Thomas Finch was walking slowly toward the
gate, "you won't forget to ask your pa for an excuse if you happen
to be late to-morrow, will you?"
Murdie paid no attention.
"You won't forget your excuse, Murdie," continued Hughie, poking
him in the back.
Murdie suddenly turned, caught him by the neck and the seat of his
trousers, and threw him head first into a drift, from which he
emerged wrathful and sputtering.
"Well, I hope you do," continued Hughie, "and then you'll catch it.
And mind you," he went on, circling round to get in front of him,
"if you want to ask big Bob there for his knife, mind you hold up
your hand first." Murdie only grinned at him.
The new master had begun the day by enunciating the regulations
under which the school was to be administered. They made rather a
formidable list, but two of them seemed to the boys to have gone
beyond the limits of all that was outrageous and absurd. There was
to be no speaking during school hours, and if a boy should desire
to ask a question of his neighbor, he was to hold up his hand and
get permission from the master. But worse than all, and more
absurd than all, was the regulation that all late comers and
absentees were to bring written excuses from parents or guardians.
"Guardian," Thomas Finch had grunted, "what's that?"
"Your grandmother," whispered Don back.
It was not Don's reply that brought Thomas into disgrace this first
day of the new master's rule, it was the vision of big Murdie
Cameron walking up to the desk with an excuse for lateness, which
he had obtained from Long John, his father. This vision breaking
suddenly in upon the solemnity of Thomas Finch's mind, had sent him
into a snort of laughter, not more to the surprise of the school
than of himself. The gravity of the school had not been greatly
helped by Thomas sheepish answer to the master's indignant question,
"What did you do that for, sir?"
"I didn't; it did itself."
On the whole, the opening day had not been a success. As a matter
of fact, it was almost too much to expect that it should be
anything but a failure. There was a kind of settled if unspoken
opinion among the children that no master could ever fill Archibald
Munro's place in the school. Indeed, it was felt to be a kind of
impertinence for any man to attempt such a thing. And further,
there was a secret sentiment among the boys that loyalty to the old
master's memory demanded an attitude of unsympathetic opposition to
the one who came to take his place. It did not help the situation
that the new master was unaware of this state of mind. He was
buoyed up by the sentiments of enthusiastic admiration and approval
that he carried with him in the testimonials from his last board of
trustees in town, with which sentiments he fully agreed, and hence
he greeted the pupils of the little backwoods school with an airy
condescension that reduced the school to a condition of speechless
and indignant astonishment. The school was prepared to tolerate
the man who should presume to succeed their former master, if
sufficiently humble, but certainly not to accept airy condescension
from him.
"Does he think we're babies?" asked Don, indignantly.
"And did you see him trying to chop at recess?" (REE'cis, Hughie
called it.) "He couldn't hit twice in the same place."
"And he asked me if that beech there was a maple," said Bob Fraser,
in deep disgust.
"Oh, shut up your gab!" said Ranald, suddenly. "Give the man a
chance, anyway."
"Will YOU bring an excuse when you're absent, Ranald?" asked
Hughie.
"And where would I be getting it?" asked Ranald, grimly, and all
the boys realized the absurdity of expecting a written excuse for
Ranald's absence from his father. Macdonald Dubh was not a man to
be bothered with such trifles.
"You might get it from your Aunt Kirsty, Ranald," said Don, slyly.
The boys shouted at the suggestion.
"And she could do it well enough if it would be necessary," said
Ranald, facing square round on Don, and throwing up his head after
his manner when battle was in the air, while the red blood showed
in his dark cheek and his eyes lit up with a fierce gleam. Don
read the danger signal.
"I'm not saying she couldn't," he hurried to say, apologetically,
"but it would be funny, wouldn't it?"
"Well," said Ranald, relenting and smiling a little, "it would be
keeping her busy at times."
"When the deer are running, eh, Ranald," said Murdie, good-
naturedly. "But Ranald's right, boys," he continued, "give the man
a chance, say I."
"There's our bells," cried Thomas Finch, as the deep, musical boom
of the Finch's sleigh-bells came through the bush. "Come on,
Hughie, we'll get them at the cross." And followed by Hughie and
the boys from the north, he set off for the north cross-roads,
where they would meet the Finch's bob-sleighs coming empty from the
saw-mill, to the great surprise and unalloyed delight of Mr. and
Mrs. Bushy, who from their crotch in the old beech had watched with
some anxiety the boys' unusual conduct.
"There they are, Hughie," called Thomas, as the sleighs came out
into the open at the crossroads. "They'll wait for us. They know
you're coming," he yelled, encouragingly, for the big boys had left
the smaller ones, a panting train, far in the rear, and were piling
themselves upon the Finch's sleighs, with never a "by your leave"
to William John--familiarly known as Billy Jack--Thomas' eldest
brother, who drove the Finch's team.
Thomas' home lay a mile north and another east from the Twentieth
cross-roads, but the winter road by which they hauled saw-logs to
the mill, cut right through the forest, where the deep snow packed
hard into a smooth track, covering roots and logs and mud holes,
and making a perfect surface for the sleighs, however heavily
loaded, except where here and there the pitch-holes or cahots came.
These cahots, by the way, though they became, especially toward the
spring, a serious annoyance to teamsters, only added another to the
delights that a sleigh-ride held for the boys.
To Hughie, the ride this evening was blissful to an unspeakable
degree. He was overflowing with new sensations. He was going to
spend the night with Thomas, for one thing, and Thomas as his host
was quite a new and different person from the Thomas of the school.
The minister's wife, ever since the examination day, had taken a
deeper interest in Thomas, and determined that something should be
made out of the solemn, stolid, slow-moving boy. Partly for this
reason she had yielded to Hughie's eager pleading, backing up the
invitation brought by Thomas himself and delivered in an agony of
red-faced confusion, that Hughie should be allowed to go home with
him for the night. Partly, too, because she was glad that Hughie
should see something of the Finch's home, and especially of
the dark-faced, dark-eyed little woman who so silently and
unobtrusively, but so efficiently, administered her home, her
family, and their affairs, and especially her husband, without
suspicion on his part that anything of the kind was being done.
In addition to the joy that Hughie had in Thomas in his new role as
host, this winter road was full of wonder and delight, as were all
roads and paths that wound right through the heart of the bush.
The regular made-up roads, with the forest cut back beyond the
ditches at the sides, were a great weariness to Hughie, except
indeed, in the springtime, when these ditches were running full
with sun-lit water, over the mottled clay bottom and gravelly
ripples. But the bush roads and paths, summer and winter, were
filled with things of wonder and of beauty, and this particular
winter road of the Finch's was best of all to Hughie, for it was
quite new to him, and besides, it led right through the mysterious,
big pine swamp and over the butternut ridge, beyond which lay the
Finch's farm. Balsam-trees, tamarack, spruce, and cedar made up
the thick underbrush of the pine swamp, white birch, white ash, and
black were thickly sprinkled through it, but high above these
lesser trees towered the white pines, lifting their great, tufted
crests in lonely grandeur, seeming like kings among meaner men.
Here and there the rabbit runways, packed into hard little paths,
crossed the road and disappeared under the thick spruces and
balsams; here and there, the sly, single track of the fox, or the
deep hoof-mark of the deer, led off into unknown depths on either
side. Hughie, sitting up on the bolster of the front bob beside
Billy Jack, for even the big boys recognized his right, as Thomas'
guest, to that coveted place, listened with eager face and wide-
open eyes to Billy Jack's remarks upon the forest and its strange
people.
One thing else added to Hughie's keen enjoyment of the ride. Billy
Jack's bays were always in the finest of fettle, and pulled hard on
the lines, and were rarely allowed the rapture of a gallop. But
when the swamp was passed and the road came to the more open
butternut ridge, Billy Jack shook the lines over their backs and
let them out. Their response was superb to witness, and brought
Hughie some moments of ecstatic rapture. Along the hard-packed
road that wound about among the big butternuts, the rangey bays
sped at a flat gallop, bounding clear over the cahots, the booming
of the bells and the rattling of the chains furnishing an
exhilarating accompaniment to the swift, swaying motion, while the
children clung for dear life to the bob-sleighs and to each other.
It was all Billy Jack could do to get his team down to a trot by
the time they reached the clearing, for there the going was
perilous, and besides, it was just as well that his father should
not witness any signs on Billy Jack's part of the folly that he was
inclined to attribute to the rising generation. So steadily enough
the bays trotted up the lane and between long lines of green
cordwood on one side and a hay-stack on the other, into the yard,
and swinging round the big straw-stack that faced the open shed,
and was flanked on the right by the cow-stable and hog-pen, and on
the left by the horse-stable, came to a full stop at their own
stable door.
"Thomas, you take Hughie into the house to get warm, till I
unhitch," said Billy Jack, with the feeling that courtesy to the
minister's son demanded this attention. But Hughie, rejecting this
proposition with scorn, pushed Thomas aside and set himself to
unhitch the S-hook on the outside trace of the nigh bay. It was
one of Hughie's grievances, and a very sore point with him, that
his father's people would insist on treating him in the privileged
manner they thought proper to his father's son, and his chief
ambition was to stand upon his own legs and to fare like other
boys. So he scorned Billy Jack's suggestion, and while some of the
children scurried about the stacks for a little romp before setting
off for their homes, which some of them, for the sake of the ride,
had left far behind, Hughie devoted himself to the unhitching of
the team with Billy Jack. And so quick was he in his movements,
and so fearless of the horses, that he had his side unhitched and
was struggling with the breast-strap before Billy Jack had finished
with his horse.
"Man! you're a regular farmer," said Billy Jack, admiringly, "only
you're too quick for the rest of us."
Hughie, still struggling with the breast-strap, found his heart
swell with pride. To be a farmer was his present dream.
"But that's too heavy for you," continued Billy Jack. "Here, let
down the tongue first."
"Pshaw!" said Hughie, disgusted at his exhibition of ignorance, "I
knew that tongue ought to come out first, but I forgot."
"Oh, well, it's just as good that way, but not quite so easy," said
Billy Jack, with doubtful consistency.
It took Hughie but a few minutes after the tongue was let down to
unfasten his end of the neck-yoke and the cross-lines, and he was
beginning at his hame-strap, always a difficult buckle, when Billy
Jack called out, "Hold on there! You're too quick for me. We'll
make them carry their own harness into the stable. Don't believe
in making a horse of myself." Billy Jack was something of a
humorist.
The Finch homestead was a model of finished neatness. Order was
its law. Outside, the stables, barns, stacks, the very wood-piles,
evidenced that law. Within, the house and its belongings and
affairs were perfect in their harmonious arrangement. The whole
establishment, without and within, gave token of the unremitting
care of one organizing mind, for, from dark to dark, while others
might have their moments of rest and careless ease, "the little
mother," as Billy Jack called her, was ever on guard, and all the
machinery of house and farm moved smoothly and to purpose because
of that unsleeping care. She was last to bed and first to stir,
and Billy Jack declared that she used to put the cats to sleep at
night, and waken up the roosters in the morning. And through it
all her face remained serene, and her voice flowed in quiet tones.
Billy Jack adored her with all the might of his big heart and body.
Thomas, slow of motion as of expression, found in her the center of
his somewhat sluggish being. Jessac, the little dark-faced maiden
of nine years, whose face was the very replica of her mother's,
knew nothing in the world dearer, albeit in her daily little
housewifely tasks she felt the gentle pressure of that steadfast
mind and unyielding purpose. Her husband regarded her with a
curious mingling of reverence and defiance, for Donald Finch was an
obstinate man, with a man's love of authority, and a Scotchman's
sense of his right to rule in his own house. But while he talked
much about his authority, and made a great show of absolutism with
his family, he was secretly conscious that another will than his
had really kept things moving about the farm; for he had long ago
learned that his wife was always right, while he might often be
wrong, and that, withal her soft words and gentle ways, hers was a
will like steel.
Besides the law of order, another law ruled in the Finch household--
the law of work. The days were filled with work, for they each
had their share to do, and bore the sole responsibility for its
being well done. If the cows failed in their milk, or the fat
cattle were not up to the mark, the father felt the reproach as
his; to Billy Jack fell the care and handling of the horses; Thomas
took charge of the pigs, and the getting of wood and water for the
house; little Jessac had her daily task of "sorting the rooms," and
when the days were too stormy or the snow too deep for school, she
had in addition her stent of knitting or of winding the yarn for
the weaver. To the mother fell all the rest. At the cooking and
the cleaning, and the making and the mending, all fine arts with
her, she diligently toiled from long before dawn till after all the
rest were abed. But besides these and other daily household duties
there were, in their various seasons, the jam and jelly, the
pumpkin and squash preserves, the butter-making and cheese-making,
and more than all, the long, long work with the wool. Billy Jack
used to say that the little mother followed that wool from the
backs of her sheep to the backs of her family, and hated to let the
weaver have his turn at it. What with the washing and the oiling
of it, the carding and the spinning, the twisting and the winding,
she never seemed to be done. And then, when it came back from the
weaver in great webs of fulled-cloth and flannel and winsey, there
was all the cutting, shaping, and sewing before the family could
get it on their backs. True, the tailor was called in to help, but
though he declared he worked no place else as he worked at the
Finch's, it was Billy Jack's openly expressed opinion that "he
worked his jaw more than his needle, for at meal-times he gave his
needle a rest."
But though Hughie, of course, knew nothing of this toiling and
moiling, he was distinctly conscious of an air of tidiness and
comfort and quiet, and was keenly alive to the fact that there was
a splendid supper waiting him when he got in from the stables with
the others, "hungry as a wild-cat," as Billy jack expressed it.
And that WAS a supper! Fried ribs of fresh pork, and hashed
potatoes, hot and brown, followed by buckwheat pancakes, hot and
brown, with maple syrup. There was tea for the father and mother
with their oat cakes, but for the children no such luxury, only the
choice of buttermilk or sweet milk. Hughie, it is true, was
offered tea, but he promptly declined, for though he loved it well
enough, it was sufficient reason for him that Thomas had none. It
took, however, all the grace out of his declining, that Mr. Finch
remarked in gruff pleasantry, "What would a boy want with tea!"
The supper was a very solemn meal. They were all too busy to talk,
at least so Hughie felt, and as for himself, he was only afraid
lest the others should "push back" before he had satisfied the
terrible craving within him.
After supper the books were taken, and in Gaelic, for though Donald
Finch was perfectly able in English for business and ordinary
affairs of life, when it came to the worship of God, he found that
only in the ancient mother tongue could he "get liberty." As
Hughie listened to the solemn reading, and then to the prayer that
followed, though he could understand only a word now and again, he
was greatly impressed with the rhythmic, solemn cadence of the
voice, and as he glanced through his fingers at the old man's face,
he was surprised to find how completely it had changed. It was no
longer the face of the stern and stubborn autocrat, but of an
earnest, humble, reverent man of God; and Hughie, looking at him,
wondered if he would not be altogether nicer with his wife and boys
after that prayer was done. He had yet to learn how obstinate and
even hard a man can be and still have a great "gift in prayer."
From the old man's face, Hughie's glance wandered to his wife's,
and there was held fascinated. For the first time Hughie thought
it was beautiful, and more than that, he was startled to find that
it reminded him of his mother's. At once he closed his eyes, for
he felt as if he had been prying where he had no right.
After the prayer was over they all drew about the glowing polished
kitchen stove with the open front, and set themselves to enjoy that
hour which, more than any other, helps to weave into the memory the
thoughts and feelings that in after days are associated with home.
Old Donald drew forth his pipe, a pleased expectation upon his
face, and after cutting enough tobacco from the black plug which
he pulled from his trousers pocket, he rolled it fine, with
deliberation, and packed it carefully into his briar-root pipe,
from which dangled a tin cap; then drawing out some live coals from
the fire, he with a quick motion picked one up, set it upon the top
of the tobacco, and holding it there with his bare finger until
Hughie was sure he would burn himself, puffed with hard, smacking
puffs, but with a more comfortable expression than Hughie had yet
seen him wear. Then, when it was fairly lit, he knocked off the
coal, packed down the tobacco, put on the little tin cap, and sat
back in his covered arm-chair, and came as near beaming upon the
world as ever he allowed himself to come.
"Here, Jessac," he said to the little dark-faced maiden slipping
about the table under the mother's silent direction. Jessac
glanced at her mother and hesitated. Then, apparently reading her
mother's face, she said, "In a minute, da," and seizing the broom,
which was much taller than herself, she began to brush up the
crumbs about the table with amazing deftness. This task completed,
and the crumbs being thrown into the pig's barrel which stood in
the woodshed just outside the door, Jessac set her broom in the
corner, hung up the dust-pan on its proper nail behind the stove,
and then, running to her father, climbed up on his knee and
snuggled down into his arms for an hour's luxurious laziness before
the fire. Hughie gazed in amazement at her temerity, for Donald
Finch was not a man to take liberties with; but as he gazed, he
wondered the more, for again the face of the stern old man was
transformed.
"Be quaet now, lassie. Hear me now, I am telling you," he
admonished the little girl in his arms, while there flowed over his
face a look of half-shamed delight that seemed to fill up and
smooth out all its severe lines.
Hughie was still gazing and wondering when the old man, catching
his earnest, wide-open gaze, broke forth suddenly, in a voice
nearly jovial, "Well, lad, so you have taken up the school again.
You will be having a fine time of it altogether."
The lad, startled more by the joviality of his manner than by the
suddenness of his speech, hastily replied, "Indeed, we are not,
then."
"What! what!" replied the old man, returning to his normal aspect
of severity. "Do you not know that you have great privileges now?"
"Huh!" grunted Hughie. "If we had Archie Munro again."
"And what is wrong with the new man?"
"Oh, I don't know. He's not a bit nice. He's--"
"Too many rules," said Thomas, slowly.
"Aha!" said his father, with a note of triumph in his tone; "so
that's it, is it? He will be bringing you to the mark, I warrant
you. And indeed it's high time, for I doubt Archie Munro was just
a little soft with you."
The old man's tone was aggravating enough, but his reference to the
old master was too much for Hughie, and even Thomas was moved to
words more than was his wont in his father's presence.
"He has too many rules," repeated Thomas, stolidly, "and they will
not be kept."
"And he is as proud as he can be," continued Hughie. "Comes along
with his cane and his stand-up collar, and lifts his hat off to the
big girls, and--and--och! he's just as stuck-up as anything!"
Hughie's vocabulary was not equal to his contempt.
"There will not be much wrong with his cane in the Twentieth
School, I dare say," went on the old man, grimly. "As for lifting
his hat, it is time some of them were learning manners. When I was
a boy we were made to mind our manners, I can tell you."
"So are we!" replied Hughie, hotly; "but we don't go shoween off
like that! And then himself and his rules!" Hughie's disgust was
quite unutterable.
"Rules!" exclaimed the old man. "Ay, that is what is the trouble."
"Well," said Hughie, with a spice of mischief, "if Thomas is late
for school he will have to bring a note of excuse."
"Very good indeed. And why should he be late at all?"
"And if any one wants a pencil he can't ask for it unless he gets
permission from the master."
"Capital!" said the old man, rubbing his hands delightedly. "He's
the right sort, whatever."
"And if you keep Thomas home a day or a week, you will have to
write to the master about it," continued Hughie.
"And what for, pray?" said the old man, hastily. "May I not keep--
but-- Yes, that's a very fine rule, too. It will keep the boys
from the woods, I am thinking."
"But think of big Murdie Cameron holding up his hand to ask leave
to speak to Bob Fraser!"
"And why not indeed? If he's not too big to be in school he's not
too big for that. Man alive! you should have seen the master in my
school days lay the lads over the forms and warm their backs to
them."
"As big as Murdie?"
"Ay, and bigger. And what's more, he would send for them to their
homes, and bring them strapped to a wheel-barrow. Yon was a master
for you!"
Hughie snorted. "Huh! I tell you what, we wouldn't stand that.
And we won't stand this man either."
"And what will you be doing now, Hughie?" quizzed the old man.
"Well," said Hughie, reddening at the sarcasm, "I will not do much,
but the big boys will just carry him out."
"And who will be daring to do that, Hughie?"
"Well, Murdie, and Bob Fraser, and Curly Ross, and Don, and--and
Thomas, there," added Hughie, fearing to hurt Thomas' feelings by
leaving him out.
"Ay," said the old man, shutting his lips tight on his pipestem and
puffing with a smacking noise, "let me catch Thomas at that!"
"And I would help, too," said Hughie, valiantly, fearing he had
exposed his friend, and wishing to share his danger.
"Well, your father would be seeing to that," said the old man, with
great satisfaction, feeling that Hughie's discipline might be
safely left in the minister's hands.
There was a pause of a few moments, and then a quiet voice inquired
gently, "He will be a very big man, Hughie, I suppose."
"Oh, just ordinary," said Hughie, innocently, turning to Mrs.
Finch.
"Oh, then, they will not be requiring you and Thomas, I am
thinking, to carry him out." At which Hughie and Billy Jack and
Jessac laughed aloud, but Thomas and his father only looked
stolidly into the fire.
"Come, Thomas," said his mother, "take your fiddle a bit. Hughie
will like a tune." There was no need of any further discussing the
new master.
But Thomas was very shy about his fiddle, and besides he was not in
a mood for it; his father's words had rasped him. It took the
united persuasions of Billy Jack and Jessac and Hughie to get the
fiddle into Thomas' hands, but after a few tuning scrapes all
shyness and moodiness vanished, and soon the reels and strathspeys
were dropping from Thomas' flying fingers in a way that set
Hughie's blood tingling. But when the fiddler struck into Money
Musk, Billy Jack signed Jessac to him, and whispering to her, set
her out on the middle of the floor.
"Aw, I don't like to," said Jessac, twisting her apron into her
mouth.
"Come away, Jessac," said her mother, quietly, "do your best." And
Jessac, laying aside shyness, went at her Highland reel with the
same serious earnestness she gave to her tidying or her knitting.
Daintily she tripped the twenty-four steps of that intricate,
ancient dance of the Celt people, whirling, balancing, poising,
snapping her fingers, and twinkling her feet in the true Highland
style, till once more her father's face smoothed out its wrinkles,
and beamed like a harvest moon. Hughie gazed, uncertain whether to
allow himself to admire Jessac's performance, or to regard it with
a boy's scorn, as she was only a girl. And yet he could not escape
the fascination of the swift, rhythmic movement of the neat,
twinkling feet.
"Well done, Jessac, lass," said her father, proudly. "But what
would the minister be saying at such frivolity?" he added, glancing
at Hughie.
"Huh! he can do it himself well enough," said Hughie, "and I tell
you what, I only wish I could do it."
"I'll show you," said Jessac, shyly, but for the first time in his
life Hughie's courage failed, and though he would have given much
to be able to make his feet twinkle through the mazes of the
Highland reel, he could not bring himself to accept teaching from
Jessac. If it had only been Thomas or Billy Jack who had offered,
he would soon enough have been on the floor. For a moment he
hesitated, then with a sudden inspiration, he cried, "All right.
Do it again. I'll watch." But the mother said quietly, "I think
that will do, Jessac. And I am afraid your father will be going
with cold hands if you don't hurry with those mitts." And Jessac
put up her lip with the true girl's grimace and went away for her
knitting, to Hughie's disappointment and relief.
Soon Billy Jack took down the tin lantern, pierced with holes into
curious patterns, through which the candle-light rayed forth, and
went out to bed the horses. In spite of protests from all the
family, Hughie set forth with him, carrying the lantern and feeling
very much the farmer, while Billy Jack took two pails of boiled
oats and barley, with a mixture of flax-seed, which was supposed to
give to the Finch's team their famous and superior gloss. When
they returned from the stable they found in the kitchen Thomas, who
was rubbing a composition of tallow and bees-wax into his boots to
make them water-proof, and the mother, who was going about setting
the table for the breakfast.
"Too bad you have to go to bed, mother," said Billy Jack,
struggling with his boot-jack. "You might just go on getting the
breakfast, and what a fine start that would give you for the day."
"You hurry, William John, to bed with that poor lad. What would
his mother say? He must be fairly exhausted."
"I'm not a bit tired," said Hughie, brightly, his face radiant with
the delight of his new experiences.
"You will need all your sleep, my boy," said the mother, kindly,
"for we rise early here. But," she added, "you will lie till the
boys are through with their work, and Thomas will waken you for
your breakfast."
"Indeed, no! I'm going to get up," announced Hughie.
"But, Hughie," said Billy Jack, seriously, "if you and Thomas are
going to carry out that man to-morrow, you will need a mighty lot
of sleep to-night."
"Hush, William John," said the mother to her eldest son, "you
mustn't tease Hughie. And it's not good to be saying such things,
even in fun, to boys like Thomas and Hughie."
"That's true, mother, for they're rather fierce already."
"Indeed, they are not that. And I am sure they will do nothing
that will shame their parents."
To this Hughie made no reply. It was no easy matter to harmonize
the thought of his parents with the exploit of ejecting the master
from the school, so he only said good night, and went off with the
silent Thomas to bed. But in the visions of his head which haunted
him the night long, racing horses and little girls with tossing
curls and twinkling feet were strangely mingled with wild conflicts
with the new master; and it seemed to him that he had hardly
dropped off to sleep, when he was awake again to see Thomas
standing beside him with a candle in his hand, announcing that
breakfast was ready.
"Have you been out to the stable?" he eagerly inquired, and Thomas
nodded. In great disappointment and a little shamefacedly he made
his appearance at the breakfast-table.
It seemed to Hughie as if it must be still the night before, for it
was quite dark outside. He had never had breakfast by candle-light
before in his life, and he felt as if it all were still a part of
his dreams, until he found himself sitting beside Billy Jack on a
load of saw-logs, waving good by to the group at the door, the old
man, whose face in the gray morning light had resumed its wonted
severe look, the quiet, little dark-faced woman, smiling kindly at
him and bidding him come again, and the little maid at her side
with the dark ringlets, who glanced at him from behind the shelter
of her mother's skirts, with shy boldness.
As Hughie was saying his good bys, he was thinking most of the
twinkling feet and the tossing curls, and so he added to his
farewells, "Good by, Jessac. I'm going to learn that reel from you
some day," and then, turning about, he straight-way forgot all
about her and her reel, for Billy Jack's horses were pawing to be
off, and rolling their solemn bells, while their breath rose in
white clouds above their heads, wreathing their manes in hoary
rime.
"Git-ep, lads," said Billy Jack, hauling his lines taut and
flourishing his whip. The bays straightened their backs, hung for
a few moments on their tugs, for the load had frozen fast during
the night, and then moved off at a smart trot, the bells solemnly
booming out, and the sleighs creaking over the frosty snow.
"Man!" said Hughie, enthusiastically, "I wish I could draw logs all
winter."
"It's not too bad a job on a day like this," assented Billy Jack.
And indeed, any one might envy him the work on such a morning.
Over the treetops the rays of the sun were beginning to shoot their
rosy darts up into the sky, and to flood the clearing with light
that sparkled and shimmered upon the frost particles, glittering
upon and glorifying snow and trees, and even the stumps and fences.
Around the clearing stood the forest, dark and still, except for
the frost reports that now and then rang out like pistol shots. To
Hughie, the early morning invested the forest with a new beauty and
a new wonder. The dim light of the dawning day deepened the
silence, so that involuntarily he hushed his voice in speaking, and
the deep-toned roll of the sleigh-bells seemed to smite upon that
dim, solemn quiet with startling blows. On either side the balsams
and spruces, with their mantles of snow, stood like white-swathed
sentinels on guard--silent, motionless, alert. Hughie looked to
see them move as the team drove past.
As they left the more open butternut ridge and descended into the
depths of the big pine swamp, the dim light faded into deeper
gloom, and Hughie felt as if he were in church, and an awe gathered
upon him.
"It's awful still," he said to Billy Jack in a low tone, and Billy
Jack, catching the look in the boy's face, checked the light word
upon his lips, and gazed around into the deep forest glooms with
new eyes. The mystery and wonder of the forest had never struck
him before. It had hitherto been to him a place for hunting or for
getting big saw-logs. But to-day he saw it with Hughie's eyes, and
felt the majesty of its beauty and silence. For a long time they
drove without a word.
"Say, it's mighty fine, isn't it?" he said, adopting Hughie's low
tone.
"Splendid!" exclaimed Hughie. "My! I could just hug those big
trees. They look at me like--like your mother, don't they, or
mine?" But this was beyond Billy Jack.
"Like my mother?"
"Yes, you know, quiet and--and--kind, and nice."
"Yes," said Thomas, breaking in for the first time, "that's just
it. They do look, sure enough, like my mother and yours. They
have both got that look."
"Git-ep!" said Billy Jack to his team. "These fellows'll be
ketchin' something bad if we don't get into the open soon.
Shouldn't wonder if they've got 'em already, making out their
mothers like an old white pine. Git-ep, I say!"
"Oh, pshaw!" said Hughie, "you know what I mean."
"Not much I don't. But it don't matter so long as you're feelin'
all right. This swamp's rather bad for the groojums."
"What?" Hughie's eyes began to open wide as he glanced into the
forest.
"The groojums. Never heard of them things? They ketch a fellow in
places like this when it's gettin' on towards midnight, and about
daylight it's almost as bad."
"What are they like?" asked Hughie, upon whom the spell of the
forest lay.
"Oh, mighty queer. Always crawl up on your back, and ye can't help
twistin' round."
Hughie glanced at Thomas and was at once relieved.
"Oh, pshaw! Billy Jack, you can't fool me. I know you."
"I guess you're safe enough now. They don't bother you much in the
clearing," said Billy Jack, encouragingly.
"Oh, fiddle! I'm not afraid."
"Nobody is in the open, and especially in the daytime."
"Oh, I don't care for your old groojums."
"Guess you care more for your new boss yonder, eh?" said Billy
Jack, nodding toward the school-house, which now came into view.
"Oh," said Hughie, with a groan, "I just hate going to-day."
"You'll be all right when you get there," said Billy Jack,
cheerfully. "It's like goin' in swimmin'."
Soon they were at the cross-roads.
"Good by, Billy Jack," said Hughie, feeling as if he had been on a
long, long visit. "I've had an awfully good time, and I'd like to
go back with you."
"Wish you would," said Billy Jack, heartily. "Come again soon.
And don't carry out the master to-day. It looks like a storm; he
might get cold."
"He had better mind out, then," cried Hughie after Billy Jack, and
set off with Thomas for the school. But neither Hughie nor Thomas
had any idea of the thrilling experiences awaiting them in the
Twentieth School before the week was done.
CHAPTER V
THE CRISIS
The first days of that week were days of strife. Murdie Cameron
and Bob Fraser and the other big boys succeeded in keeping in line
with the master's rules and regulations. They were careful never
to be late, and so saved themselves the degradation of bringing an
excuse. But the smaller boys set themselves to make the master's
life a burden, and succeeded beyond their highest expectations, for
the master was quick of temper, and was determined at all costs to
exact full and prompt obedience. There was more flogging done
those first six days than during any six months of Archie Munro's
rule. Sometimes the floggings amounted to little, but sometimes
they were serious, and when those fell upon the smaller boys, the
girls would weep and the bigger boys would grind their teeth and
swear.
The situation became so acute that Murdie Cameron and the big boys
decided that they would quit the school. They were afraid the
temptation to throw the master out would some day be more than they
could bear, and for men who had played their part, not without
credit, in the Scotch River fights, to carry out the master would
have been an exploit hardly worthy of them. So, in dignified
contempt of the master and his rules, they left the school after
the third day.
Their absence did not help matters much; indeed, the master
appeared to be relieved, and proceeded to tame the school into
submission. It was little Jimmie Cameron who precipitated the
crisis. Jimmie's nose, upon which he relied when struggling with
his snickers, had an unpleasant trick of failing him at critical
moments, and of letting out explosive snorts of the most disturbing
kind. He had finally been warned that upon his next outburst
punishment would fall.
It was Friday afternoon, the drowsy hour just before recess, while
the master was explaining to the listless Euclid class the
mysteries of the forty-seventh proposition, that suddenly a snort
of unusual violence burst upon the school. Immediately every eye
was upon the master, for all had heard and had noted his threat to
Jimmie.
"James, was that you, sir?"
There was no answer, except such as could be gathered from Jimmie's
very red and very shamed face.
"James, stand up!"
Jimmie wriggled to his feet, and stood a heap of various angles.
"Now, James, you remember what I promised you? Come here, sir!"
Jimmie came slowly to the front, growing paler at each step, and
stood with a dazed look on his face, before the master. He had
never been thrashed in all his life. At home the big brothers
might cuff him good-naturedly, or his mother thump him on the head
with her thimble, but a serious whipping was to him an unknown
horror.
The master drew forth his heavy black strap with impressive
deliberation and ominous silence. The preparations for punishment
were so elaborate and imposing that the big boys guessed that the
punishment itself would not amount to much. Not so Jimmie. He
stood numb with fear and horrible expectation. The master lifted
up the strap.
"James, hold out your hand!"
Jimmie promptly clutched his hand behind his back.
"Hold out your hand, sir, at once!" No answer.
"James, you must do as you are told. Your punishment for
disobedience will be much severer than for laughing." But Jimmie
stood pale, silent, with his hands tight clasped behind his back.
The master stepped forward, and grasping the little boy's arm,
tried to pull his hand to the front; but Jimmie, with a roar like
that of a young bull, threw himself flat on his face on the floor
and put his hands under him. The school burst into a laugh of
triumph, which increased the master's embarrassment and rage.
"Silence!" he said, "or it will be a worse matter for some of you
than for James."
Then turning his attention to Jimmie, be lifted him from the floor
and tried to pull out his hand. But Jimmie kept his arms folded
tight across his breast, roaring vigorously the while, and saying
over and over, "Go away from me! Go away from me, I tell you! I'm
not taking anything to do with you."
The big boys were enjoying the thing immensely. The master's rage
was deepening in proportion. He felt it would never do to be
beaten. His whole authority was at stake.
"Now, James," he reasoned, "you see you are only making it worse
for yourself. I cannot allow any disobedience in the school. You
must hold out your hand."
But Jimmie, realizing that he had come off best in the first round,
stood doggedly sniffing, his arms still folded tight.
"Now, James, I shall give you one more chance. Hold out your
hand."
Jimmie remained like a statue.
Whack! came the heavy strap over his shoulders. At once Jimmie set
up his refrain, "Go away from me, I tell you! I'm not taking
anything to do with you!"
Whack! whack! whack! fell the strap with successive blows, each
heavier than the last. There was no longer any laughing in the
school. The affair was growing serious. The girls were beginning
to sob, and the bigger boys to grow pale.
"Now, James, will you hold out your hand? You see how much worse
you are making it for yourself," said the master, who was heartily
sick of the struggle, which he felt to be undignified, and the
result of which he feared was dubious.
But Jimmie only kept up his cry, now punctuated with sobs, "I'm--
not--taking--anything--to do--with--you."
"Jimmie, listen to me," said the master. "You must hold out your
hand. I cannot have boys refusing to obey me in this school." But
Jimmie caught the entreaty in the tone, and knowing that the battle
was nearly over, kept obstinately silent.
"Well, then," said the master, suddenly, "you must take it," and
lifting the strap, he laid it with such sharp emphasis over
Jimmie's shoulders that Jimmie's voice rose in a wilder roar than
usual, and the girls burst into audible weeping.
Suddenly, above all the hubbub, rose a voice, clear and sharp.
"Stop!" It was Thomas Finch, of all people, standing with face
white and tense, and regarding the master with steady eyes.
The school gazed thunderstruck at the usually slow and stolid
Thomas.
"What do you mean, sir?" said the master, gladly turning from
Jimmie. But Thomas stood silent, as much surprised as the master
at his sudden exclamation.
He stood hesitating for a moment, and then said, "You can thrash me
in his place. He's a little chap, and has never been thrashed."
The master misunderstood his hesitation for fear, pushed Jimmie
aside, threw down his strap, and seized a birch rod.
"Come forward, sir! I'll put an end to your insubordination, at
any rate. Hold out your hand!"
Thomas held out his hand till the master finished one birch rod.
"The other hand, sir!"
Another birch rod was used up, but Thomas neither uttered a sound
nor made a move till the master had done, then he asked, in a
strained voice, "Were you going to give Jimmie all that, sir?"
The master caught the biting sneer in the tone, and lost himself
completely.
"Do you dare to answer me back?" he cried. He opened his desk,
took out a rawhide, and without waiting to ask for his hand, began
to lay the rawhide about Thomas's shoulders and legs, till he was
out of breath.
"Now, perhaps you will learn your place, sir," he said.
"Thank you," said Thomas, looking him steadily in the eye.
"You are welcome. And I'll give you as much more whenever you show
that you need it." The slight laugh with which he closed this
brutal speech made Thomas wince as he had not during his whole
terrible thrashing, but still he had not a word to say.
"Now, James, come here!" said the master, turning to Jimmie. "You
see what happens when a boy is insubordinate." Jimmie came
trembling. "Hold out your hand!" Out came Jimmie's hand at once.
Whack! fell the strap.
"The other!"
"Stop it!" roared Thomas. "I took his thrashing."
"The other!" said the master, ignoring Thomas.
With a curious savage snarl Thomas sprung at him. The master,
however, was on the alert, and swinging round, met him with a
straight facer between the eyes, and Thomas went to the floor.
"Aha! my boy! I'll teach you something you have yet to learn."
For answer came another cry, "Come on, boys!" It was Ranald
Macdonald, coming over the seats, followed by Don Cameron, Billy
Ross, and some smaller boys. The master turned to meet them.
"Come along!" he said, backing up to his desk. "But I warn you
it's not a strap or a rawhide I shall use."
Ranald paid no attention to his words, but came straight toward
him, and when at arm's length, sprung at him with the cry, "Horo,
boys!"
But before he could lay his hands upon the master, he received a
blow straight on the bridge of the nose that staggered him back,
stunned and bleeding. By this time Thomas was up again, and
rushing in was received in like manner, and fell back over a bench.
"How do you like it, boys?" smiled the master. "Come right along."
The boys obeyed his invitation, approaching him, but more warily,
and awaiting their chance to rush. Suddenly Thomas, with a savage
snarl, put his head down and rushed in beneath the master's guard,
paid no attention to the heavy blow he received on the head, and
locking his arms round the master's middle, buried his head close
into his chest.
At once Ranald and Billy Ross threw themselves upon the struggling
pair and carried them to the floor, the master underneath. There
was a few moments of fierce struggling, and then the master lay
still, with the four boys holding him down for dear life.
It was Thomas who assumed command.
"Don't choke him so, Ranald," he said. "And clear out of the way,
all you girls and little chaps."
"What are you going to do, Thomas?" asked Don, acknowledging
Thomas's new-born leadership.
"Tie him up," said Thomas. "Get me a sash."
At once two or three little boys rushed to the hooks and brought
one or two of the knitted sashes that hung there, and Thomas
proceeded to tie the master's legs.
While he was thus busily engaged, a shadow darkened the door, and a
voice exclaimed, "What is all this about?" It was the minister,
who had been driving past and had come upon the terrified, weeping
children rushing home.
"Is that you, Thomas? And you, Don?"
The boys let go their hold and stood up, shamed but defiant.
Immediately the master was on his feet, and with a swift, fierce
blow, caught Thomas on the chin. Thomas, taken off his guard, fell
with a thud on the floor.
"Stop that, young man!" said the minister, catching his arm.
"That's a coward's blow."
"Hands off!" said the master, shaking himself free and squaring up
to him.
"Ye would, would ye?" said the minister, gripping him by the neck
and shaking him as he might a child. "Lift ye're hand to me, would
ye? I'll break you're back to ye, and that I will." So saying,
the minister seized him by the arms and held him absolutely
helpless. The master ceased to struggle, and put down his hands.
"Ay, ye'd better, my man," said the minister, giving him a fling
backward.
Meantime Don had been holding snow to Thomas's head, and had
brought him round.
"Now, then," said the minister to the boys, "what does all this
mean?"
The boys were all silent, but the master spoke.
"It is a case of rank and impudent insubordination, sir, and I
demand the expulsion of those impudent rascals."
"Well, sir," said the minister, "be sure there will be a thorough
investigation, and I greatly misjudge the case if there are not
faults on both sides. And for one thing, the man who can strike
such a cowardly blow as you did a moment ago would not be unlikely
to be guilty of injustice and cruelty."
"It is none of your business," said the master, insolently.
"You will find that I shall make it my business," said the
minister. "And now, boys, be off to your homes, and be here Monday
morning at nine o'clock, when this matter shall be gone into."
CHAPTER VI
"ONE THAT RULETH WELL HIS OWN HOUSE"
The news of the school trouble ran through the section like fire
through a brule. The younger generations when they heard how
Thomas Finch had dared the master, raised him at once to the rank
of hero, but the heads of families received the news doubtfully,
and wondered what the rising generation was coming to.
The next day Billy Jack heard the story in the Twentieth store, and
with some anxiety waited for the news to reach his father's ears,
for to tell the truth, Billy Jack, man though he was, held his
father in dread.
"How did you come to do it?" he asked Thomas. "Why didn't you let
Don begin? It was surely Don's business."
"I don't know. It slipped out," replied Thomas. "I couldn't stand
Jimmie's yelling any longer. I didn't know I said anything till I
found myself standing up, and after that I didn't seem to care for
anything."
"Man! it was fine, though," said Billy Jack. "I didn't think it
was in you." And Thomas felt more than repaid for all his cruel
beating. It was something to win the approval of Billy Jack in an
affair of this kind.
It was at church on the Sabbath day that Donald Finch heard about
his son's doings in the school the week before. The minister, in
his sermon, thought fit to dwell upon the tendency of the rising
generation to revolt against authority in all things, and solemnly
laid upon parents the duty and responsibility of seeing to it that
they ruled their households well.
It was not just the advice that Donald Finch stood specially in
need of, but he was highly pleased with the sermon, and was
enlarging upon it in the churchyard where the people gathered
between the services, when Peter McRae, thinking that old Donald
was hardly taking the minister's advice to himself as he ought, and
not knowing that the old man was ignorant of all that had happened
in the school, answered him somewhat severely.
"It is good to be approving the sermon, but I would rather be
seeing you make a practical application of it."
"Indeed, that is true," replied Donald, "and it would not be amiss
for more than me to make application of it."
"Indeed, then, if all reports be true," replied Peter, "it would be
well for you to begin at home."
"Mr. McRae," said Donald, earnestly, "it is myself that knows well
enough my shortcomings, but if there is any special reason for your
remark, I am not aware of it."
This light treatment of what to Peter had seemed a grievous offense
against all authority incensed the old dominie beyond all endurance.
"And do you not think that the conduct of your son last week calls
for any reproof? And is it you that will stand up and defend it in
the face of the minister and his sermon upon it this day?"
Donald gazed at him a few moments as if he had gone mad. At length
he replied, slowly, "I do not wish to forget that you are an elder
of the church, Mr. McRae, and I will not be charging you with
telling lies on me and my family--"
"Tut, tut, man," broke in Long John Cameron, seeing how the matter
stood; "he's just referring to yon little difference Thomas had
with the master last week. But it's just nothing. Come away in."
"Thomas?" gasped Donald. "My Thomas?"
"You have not heard, then," said Peter, in surprise, and old Donald
only shook his head.
"Then it's time you did," replied Peter, severely, "for such things
are a disgrace to the community."
"Nonsense!" said Long John. "Not a bit of it! I think none the
less of Thomas for it." But in matters of this kind Long John
could hardly be counted an authority, for it was not so very long
ago since he had been beguiled into an affair at the Scotch River
which, while it brought him laurels at the hands of the younger
generation, did not add to his reputation with the elders of the
church.
It did not help matters much that Murdie Cameron and others of his
set proceeded to congratulate old Donald, in their own way, upon
his son's achievement, and with all the more fervor that they
perceived that it moved the solemn Peter to righteous wrath. From
one and another the tale came forth with embellishments, till
Donald Finch was reduced to such a state of voiceless rage and
humiliation that when, at the sound of the opening psalm the
congregation moved into the church for the Gaelic service, the old
man departed for his home, trembling, silent, amazed.
How Thomas could have brought this disgrace upon him, he could not
imagine. If it had been William John, who, with all his good
nature, had a temper brittle enough, he would not have been
surprised. And then the minister's sermon, of which he had spoken
in such open and enthusiastic approval, how it condemned him for
his neglect of duty toward his family, and held up his authority
over his household to scorn. It was a terrible blow to his pride.
"It is the Lord's judgment upon me," he said to himself, as he
tramped his way through the woods. "It is the curse of Eli that is
hanging over me and mine." And with many vows he resolved that, at
all costs, he would do his duty in this crisis and bring Thomas to
a sense of his sins.
It was in this spirit that he met his family at the supper-table,
after their return from the Gaelic service.
"What is this I hear about you, Thomas?" he began, as Thomas came
in and took his place at the table. "What is this I hear about
you, sir?" he repeated, making a great effort to maintain a calm
and judicial tone.
Thomas remained silent, partly because he usually found speech
difficult, but chiefly because he dreaded his father's wrath.
"What is this that has become the talk of the countryside and the
disgrace of my name?" continued the father, in deepening tones.
"No very great disgrace, surely," said Billy Jack, lightly, hoping
to turn his father's anger.
"Be you silent, sir!" commanded the old man, sternly. "I will ask
for your opinion when I require it. You and others beside you in
this house need to learn your places."
Billy Jack made no reply, fearing to make matters worse, though he
found it hard not to resent this taunt, which he knew well was
flung at his mother.
"I wonder at you, Thomas, after such a sermon as yon. I wonder you
are able to sit there unconcerned at this table. I wonder you are
not hiding your head in shame and confusion." The old man was
lashing himself into a white rage, while Thomas sat looking
stolidly before him, his slow tongue finding no words of defense.
And indeed, he had little thought of defending himself. He was
conscious of an acute self-condemnation, and yet, struggling
through his slow-moving mind there was a feeling that in some sense
he could not define, there was justification for what he had done.
"It is not often that Thomas has grieved you," ventured the mother,
timidly, for, with all her courage, she feared her husband when he
was in this mood.
"Woman, be silent!" blazed forth the old man, as if he had been
waiting for her words. "It is not for you to excuse his
wickedness. You are too fond of that work, and your children are
reaping the fruits of it."
Billy Jack looked up quickly as if to answer, but his mother turned
her face full upon him and commanded him with steady eyes, giving,
herself, no sign of emotion except for a slight tightening of the
lips and a touch of color in her face.
"Your children have well learned their lesson of rebellion and
deceit," continued her husband, allowing his passion a free rein.
"But I vow unto the Lord I will put an end to it now, whatever.
And I will give you to remember, sir," turning to Thomas, "to the
end of your days, this occasion. And now, hence from this table.
Let me not see your face till the Sabbath is past, and then, if the
Lord spares me, I shall deal with you."
Thomas hesitated a moment as if he had not quite taken in his
father's words, then, leaving his supper untouched, he rose slowly,
and without a word climbed the ladder to the loft. The mother
followed him a moment with her eyes, and then once more turning to
Billy Jack, held him with calm, steady gaze. Her immediate fear
was for her eldest son. Thomas, she knew, would in the mean time
simply suffer what might be his lot, but for many a day she had
lived in terror of an outbreak between her eldest son and her
husband. Again Billy Jack caught her look, and commanded himself
to silence.
"The fire is low, William John," she said, in a quiet voice. Billy
Jack rose, and from the wood-box behind the stove, replenished the
fire, reading perfectly his mother's mind, and resolving at all
costs to do her will.
At the taking of the books that night the prayer, which was spoken
in a tone of awful and almost inaudible solemnity, was for the most
part an exaltation of the majesty and righteousness of the
government of God, and a lamentation over the wickedness and
rebellion of mankind. And Billy Jack thought it was no good augury
that it closed with a petition for grace to maintain the honor of
that government, and to uphold that righteous majesty in all the
relations of life. It was a woeful evening to them all, and as
soon as possible the household went miserably to bed.
Before going to her room the mother slipped up quietly to the loft
and found Thomas lying in his bunk, dressed and awake. He was
still puzzling out his ethical problem. His conscience clearly
condemned him for his fight with the master, and yet, somehow he
could not regret having stood up for Jimmie and taken his
punishment. He expected no mercy at his father's hands next
morning. The punishment he knew would be cruel enough, but it was
not the pain that Thomas was dreading; he was dimly struggling with
the sense of outrage, for ever since the moment he had stood up and
uttered his challenge to the master, he had felt himself to be
different. That moment now seemed to belong to the distant years
when he was a boy, and now he could not imagine himself submitting
to a flogging from any man, and it seemed to him strange and almost
impossible that even his father should lift his hand to him.
"You are not sleeping, Thomas," said his mother, going up to his
bunk.
"No, mother."
"And you have had no supper at all."
"I don't want any, mother."
The mother sat silent beside him for a time, and then said, quietly,
"You did not tell me, Thomas."
"No, mother, I didn't like."
"It would have been better that your father should have heard this
from--I mean, should have heard it at home. And--you might have
told me, Thomas."
"Yes, mother, I wish now I had. But, indeed, I can't understand
how it happened. I don't feel as if it was me at all." And then
Thomas told his mother all the tale, finishing his story with the
words, "And I couldn't help it, mother, at all."
The mother remained silent for a little, and then, with a little
tremor in her voice, she replied: "No, Thomas, I know you couldn't
help it, and I--" here her voice quite broke--"I am not ashamed of
you."
"Are you not, mother?" said Thomas, sitting up suddenly in great
surprise. "Then I don't care. I couldn't make it out well."
"Never you mind, Thomas, it will be well," and she leaned over him
and kissed him. Thomas felt her face wet with tears, and his
stolid reserve broke down.
"Oh, mother, mother, I don't care now," he cried, his breath coming
in great sobs. "I don't care at all." And he put his arms round
his mother, clinging to her as if he had been a child.
"I know, laddie, I know," whispered his mother. "Never you fear,
never fear." And then, as if to herself, she added, "Thank the
Lord you are not a coward, whatever."
Thomas found himself again without words, but he held his mother
fast, his big body shaking with his sobs.
"And, Thomas," she continued, after a pause, "your father--we must
just be patient." All her life long this had been her struggle.
"And--and--he is a good man." Her tears were now flowing fast, and
her voice had quite lost its calm.
Thomas was alarmed and distressed. He had never in all his life
seen his mother weep, and rarely had heard her voice break.
"Don't, mother," he said, growing suddenly quiet himself. "Don't
you mind, mother. It'll be all right, and I'm not afraid."
"Yes," she said, rising and regaining her self-control, "it will be
all right, Thomas. You go to sleep." And there were such evident
reserves of strength behind her voice that Thomas lay down, certain
that all would be well. His mother had never failed him.
The mother went downstairs with the purpose in her heart of having
a talk with her husband, but Donald Finch knew her ways well, and
had resolved that he would have no speech with her upon the matter,
for he knew that it would be impossible for him to persevere in his
intention to "deal with" Thomas, if he allowed his wife to have any
talk with him.
The morning brought the mother no opportunity of speech with her
husband. He, contrary to his custom, remained until breakfast in
his room. Outside in the kitchen, he could hear Billy Jack's
cheerful tones and hearty laugh, and it angered him to think that
his displeasure should have so little effect upon his household.
If the house had remained shrouded in gloom, and the family had
gone about on tiptoes and with bated breath, it would have shown no
more than a proper appreciation of the father's displeasure; but as
Billy Jack's cheerful words and laughter fell upon his ear, he
renewed his vows to do his duty that day in upholding his
authority, and bringing to his son a due sense of his sin.
In grim silence he ate his breakfast, except for a sharp rebuke to
Billy Jack, who had been laboring throughout the meal to make
cheerful conversation with Jessac and his mother. At his father's
rebuke Billy Jack dropped his cheerful tone, and avoiding his
mother's eyes, he assumed at once an attitude of open defiance, his
tones and words plainly offering to his father war, if war he would
have.
"You will come to me in the room after breakfast," said his father,
as Thomas rose to go to the stable.
"There's a meeting of the trustees at nine o'clock at the school-
house at which Thomas must be present," interposed Billy Jack, in
firm, steady tones.
"He may go when I have done with him," said his father, angrily,
"and meantime you will attend to your own business."
"Yes, sir, I will that!" Billy Jack's response came back with
fierce promptness.
The old man glanced at him, caught the light in his eyes, hesitated
a moment, and then, throwing all restraint to the winds, thundered
out, "What do you mean, sir?"
"What I say. I am going to attend to my own business, and that
soon." Billy Jack's tone was quick, eager, defiant.
Again the old man hesitated, and then replied, "Go to it, then."
"I am going, and I am going to take Thomas to that meeting at nine
o'clock."
"I did not know that you had business there," said the old man,
sarcastically.
"Then you may know it now," blazed forth Billy Jack, "for I am
going. And as sure as I stand here, I will see that Thomas gets
fair play there if he doesn't at home, if I have to lick every
trustee in the section."
"Hold your peace, sir!" said his father, coming nearer him. "Do
not give me any impertinence, and do not accuse me of unfairness."
"Have you heard Thomas's side of the story?" returned Billy Jack.
"I have heard enough, and more than enough."
"You haven't heard both sides."
"I know the truth of it, whatever, the shameful and disgraceful
truth of it. I know that the country-side is ringing with it. I
know that in the house of God the minister held up my family to the
scorn of the people. And I vowed to do my duty to my house."
The old man's passion had risen to such a height that for a moment
Billy Jack quailed before it. In the pause that followed the old
man's outburst the mother came to her son.
"Hush, William John! You are not to forget yourself, nor your duty
to your father and to me. Thomas will receive full justice in this
matter." There was a quiet strength and dignity in her manner that
commanded immediate attention from both men.
The mother went on in a low, even voice, "Your father has his duty
to perform, and you must not take upon yourself to interfere."
Billy Jack could hardly believe his ears. That his mother should
desert him, and should support what he knew she felt to be
injustice and tyranny, was more than he could understand. No less
perplexed was her husband.
As they stood there looking at each other, uncertain as to the next
step, there came a knock at the back door. The mother went to open
it, pausing on her way to push back some chairs and put the room to
rights, thus allowing the family to regain its composure.
"Good morning, Mrs. Finch. You will be thinking I have slept in
your barn all night." It was Long John Cameron.
"Come away in, Mr. Cameron. It is never too early for friends to
come to this house," said Mrs. Finch, her voice showing her great
relief.
Long John came in, glanced shrewdly about, and greeted Mr. Finch
with great heartiness.
"It's a fine winter day, Mr. Finch, but it looks as if we might
have a storm. You are busy with the logs, I hear."
Old Donald was slowly recovering himself.
"And a fine lot you are having," continued Long John. "I was just
saying the other day that it was wonderful the work you could get
through."
"Indeed, it is hard enough to do anything here," said Donald Finch,
with some bitterness.
"You may say so," responded Long John, cheerfully. "The snow is
that deep in the bush, and--"
"You were wanting to see me, Mr. Cameron," interrupted Donald. "I
have a business on hand which requires attention."
"Indeed, and so have I. For it is--"
"And indeed, it is just as well you and all should know it, for my
disgrace is well known."
"Disgrace!" exclaimed Long John.
"Ay, disgrace. For is it not a disgrace to have the conduct of
your family become the occasion of a sermon on the Lord's Day?"
"Indeed, I did not think much of yon sermon, whatever," replied
Long John.
"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Cameron. It was a powerful sermon,
and it was only too sorely needed. But I hope it will not be
without profit to myself."
"Indeed, it is not the sermon you have much need of," said Long
John, "for every one knows what a--"
"Ay, it is myself that needs it, but with the help of the Lord I
will be doing my duty this morning."
"And I am very glad to hear that," replied Long John, "for that is
why I am come."
"And what may you have to do with it?" asked the old man.
"As to that, indeed," replied Long John, coolly, "I am not yet
quite sure. But if I might ask without being too bold, what is the
particular duty to which you are referring?"
"You may ask, and you and all have a right to know, for I am about
to visit upon my son his sins and shame."
"And is it meaning to wheep him you are?"
"Ay," said the old man, and his lips came fiercely together.
"Indeed, then, you will just do no such thing this morning."
"And by what right do you interfere in my domestic affairs?"
demanded old Donald, with dignity. "Answer me that, Mr. Cameron."
"Right or no right," replied Long John, "before any man lays a
finger on Thomas there, he will need to begin with myself. And,"
he added, grimly, "there are not many in the county who would care
for that job."
Old Donald Finch looked at his visitor in speechless amazement. At
length Long John grew excited.
"Man alive!" he exclaimed, "it's a quare father you are. You may
be thinking it disgrace, but the section will be proud that there
is a boy in it brave enough to stand up for the weak against a
brute bully." And then he proceeded to tell the tale as he had
heard it from Don, with such strong passion and such rude vigor,
that in spite of himself old Donald found his rage vanish, and his
heart began to move within him toward his son.
"And it is for that," cried Long John, dashing his fist into his
open palm, "it is for that that you would punish your son. May God
forgive me! but the man that lays a finger on Thomas yonder, will
come into sore grief this day. Ay, lad," continued Long John,
striding toward Thomas and gripping him by the shoulders with both
hands, "you are a man, and you stood up for the weak yon day, and
if you efer will be wanting a friend, remember John Cameron."
"Well, well, Mr. Cameron," said old Donald, who was more deeply
moved than he cared to show, "it maybe as you say. It maybe the
lad was not so much in the wrong."
"In the wrong?" roared Long John, blowing his nose hard. "In the
wrong? May my boys ever be in the wrong in such a way!"
"Well," said old Donald, "we shall see about this. And if Thomas
has suffered injustice it is not his father will refuse to see him
righted." And soon they were all off to the meeting at the school-
house.
Thomas was the last to leave the room. As usual, he had not been
able to find a word, but stood white and trembling, but as he found
himself alone with his mother, once more his stolid reserve broke
down, and he burst into a strange and broken cry, "Oh, mother,
mother," but he could get no further.
"Never mind, laddie," said his mother, "you have borne yourself
well, and your mother is proud of you."
At the investigation held in the school-house, it became clear
that, though the insubordination of both Jimmie and Thomas was
undeniable, the provocation by the master had been very great. And
though the minister, who was superintendent of instruction for the
district, insisted that the master's authority must, at all costs,
be upheld, such was the rage of old Donald Finch and Long John
Cameron that the upshot was that the master took his departure from
the section, glad enough to escape with bones unbroken.
CHAPTER VII
FOXY
After the expulsion of the master, the Twentieth School fell upon
evil days, for the trustees decided that it would be better to try
"gurl" teachers, as Hughie contemptuously called them; and this
policy prevailed for two or three years, with the result that the
big boys left the school, and with their departure the old heroic
age passed away, to be succeeded by an age soft, law-abiding, and
distinctly commercial.
The spirit of this unheroic age was incarnate in the person of
"Foxy" Ross. Foxy got his name, in the first instance, from the
peculiar pinky red shade of hair that crowned his white, fat face,
but the name stuck to him as appropriately descriptive of his
tricks and his manners. His face was large, and smooth, and fat,
with wide mouth, and teeth that glistened when he smiled. His
smile was like his face, large, and smooth, and fat. His eyes,
which were light gray--white, Hughie called them--were shifty,
avoiding the gaze that sought to read them, or piercingly keen,
according as he might choose.
After the departure of the big boys, Foxy gradually grew in
influence until his only rival in the school was Hughie. Foxy's
father was the storekeeper in the Twentieth, and this brought
within Foxy's reach possibilities of influence that gave him an
immense advantage over Hughie. By means of bull's-eyes and
"lickerish" sticks, Foxy could win the allegiance of all the
smaller boys and many of the bigger ones, while with the girls,
both big and small, his willingness to please and his smooth
manners won from many affection, and from the rest toleration,
although Betsy Dan Campbell asserted that whenever Foxy Ross came
near her she felt something creeping up her backbone.
With the teacher, too, Foxy was a great favorite. He gave her
worshipful reverence and many gifts from his father's store,
eloquent of his devotion. He was never detected in mischief, and
was always ready to expose the misdemeanors of the other boys.
Thus it came that Foxy was the paramount influence within the
school.
Outside, his only rival was Hughie, and at times Hughie's rivalry
became dangerous. In all games that called for skill, activity,
and reckless daring, Hughie was easily leader. In "Old Sow,"
"Prisoner's Base," but especially in the ancient and noble game of
"Shinny," Hughie shone peerless and supreme. Foxy hated games, and
shinny, the joy of those giants of old, who had torn victory from
the Sixteenth, and even from the Front one glorious year, was at
once Foxy's disgust and terror. As a little boy, he could not for
the life of him avoid turning his back to wait shuddering, with
humping shoulders, for the enemy's charge, and in anything like a
melee, he could not help jumping into the air at every dangerous
stroke.
And thus he brought upon himself the contempt even of boys much
smaller than himself, who, under the splendid and heroic example of
those who led them, had only one ambition, to get a whack at the
ball, and this ambition they gratified on every possible occasion
reckless of consequences. Hence, when the last of the big boys,
Thomas Finch, against whose solid mass hosts had flung themselves
to destruction, finally left the school, Foxy, with great skill,
managed to divert the energies of the boys to games less violent
and dangerous, and by means of his bull's-eyes and his liquorice,
and his large, fat smile, he drew after him a very considerable
following of both girls and boys.
The most interesting and most successful of Foxy's schemes was the
game of "store," which he introduced, Foxy himself being the
storekeeper. He had the trader's genius for discovering and
catering to the weaknesses of people, and hence his store became,
for certain days of the week, the center of life during the
recreation hours. The store itself was a somewhat pretentious
successor to the little brush cabin with wide open front, where in
the old days the boys used to gather, and lying upon piles of
fragrant balsam boughs before the big blazing fire placed in front,
used to listen to the master talk, and occasionally read.
Foxy's store was built of slabs covered with thick brush, and
set off with a plank counter and shelves, whereon were displayed
his wares. His stock was never too large for his personal
transportation, but its variety was almost infinite, bull's-eyes
and liquorice, maple sugar and other "sweeties," were staples.
Then, too, there were balls of gum, beautifully clear, which in its
raw state Foxy gathered from the ends of the pine logs at the
sawmill, and which, by a process of boiling and clarifying known
only to himself, he brought to a marvelous perfection.
But Foxy's genius did not confine itself to sweets. He would buy
and sell and "swap" anything, but in swapping no bargain was ever
completed unless there was money for Foxy in the deal. He had
goods second-hand and new, fish-hooks and marbles, pot-metal knives
with brass handles, slate-pencils that would "break square," which
were greatly desired by all, skate-straps, and buckskin whangs.
But Foxy's financial ability never displayed itself with more
brilliancy than when he organized the various games of the school
so as to have them begin and end with the store. When the river
and pond were covered with clear, black ice, skating would be the
rage, and then Foxy's store would be hung with skate-straps, and
with cedar-bark torches, which were greatly in demand for the
skating parties that thronged the pond at night. There were no
torches like Foxy's. The dry cedar bark any one could get from the
fences, but Foxy's torches were always well soaked in oil and bound
with wire, and were prepared with such excellent skill that they
always burned brighter and held together longer than any others.
These cedar-bark torches Foxy disposed of to the larger boys who
came down to the pond at night. Foxy's methods of finance were
undoubtedly marked by ability, and inasmuch as his accounts were
never audited, the profits were large and sure. He made it a point
to purchase a certain proportion of his supplies from his father,
who was proud of his son's financial ability, but whether his
purchases always equaled his sales no one ever knew.
If the pond and river were covered with snow, then Foxy would
organize a deer-hunt, when all the old pistols in the section would
be brought forth, and the store would display a supply of gun caps,
by the explosion of which deadly ammunition the deer would be
dropped in their tracks, and drawn to the store by prancing steeds
whose trappings had been purchased from Foxy.
When the interest in the deer-hunt began to show signs of waning,
Foxy would bring forth a supply of gunpowder, for the purchase of
which any boy who owned a pistol would be ready to bankrupt
himself. In this Hughie took a leading part, although he had to
depend upon the generosity of others for the thrilling excitement
of bringing down his deer with a pistol-shot, for Hughie had never
been able to save coppers enough to purchase a pistol of his own.
But deer-hunting with pistols was forbidden by the teacher from the
day when Hughie, in his eagerness to bring his quarry down, left
his ramrod in his pistol, and firing at Aleck Dan Campbell at
point-blank range, laid him low with a lump on the side of his head
as big as a marble. The only thing that saved Aleck's life, the
teacher declared, was his thick crop of black hair. Foxy was in
great wrath at Hughie for his recklessness, which laid the deer-
hunting under the teacher's ban, and which interfered seriously
with the profits of the store.
But Foxy was far too great a man to allow himself to be checked by
any such misfortune as this. He was far too astute to attempt to
defy the teacher and carry on the forbidden game, but with great
ability he adapted the principles of deer-hunting to a game even
more exciting and profitable. He organized the game of "Injuns,"
some of the boys being set apart as settlers who were to defend the
fort, of which the store was the center, the rest to constitute the
invading force of savages.
The result was, that the trade in caps and gunpowder was brisker
than ever, for not only was the powder needed for the pistols, but
even larger quantities were necessary for the slow-matches which
hissed their wrath at the approaching enemy, and the mounted guns,
for which earthen ink-bottles did excellently, set out on a big
stump to explode, to the destruction of scores of creeping redskins
advancing through the bush, who, after being mutilated and mangled
by these terrible explosions, were dragged into the camp and
scalped. Foxy's success was phenomenal. The few pennies and fewer
half-dimes and dimes that the boys had hoarded for many long weeks
would soon have been exhausted had Hughie not wrecked the game.
Hughie alone had no fear of Foxy, but despised him utterly. He had
stood and yelled when those heroes of old, Murdie and Don Cameron,
Curly Ross, and Ranald Macdonald, and last but not to be despised
Thomas Finch, had done battle with the enemy from the Sixteenth or
the Front, and he could not bring himself to acknowledge the
leadership of Foxy Ross, for all his bull's-eyes and liquorice.
Not but what Hughie yearned for bull's-eyes and liquorice with
great yearning, but these could not atone to him for the loss out
of his life of the stir and rush and daring of the old fighting
days. And it galled him that the boys of the Sixteenth could flout
the boys of the Twentieth in all places and on all occasions with
impunity.
But above all, it seemed to him a standing disgrace that the
habitant teamsters from the north, who in former days found it a
necessary and wise precaution to put their horses to a gallop as
they passed the school, in order to escape with sleighs intact from
the hordes that lined the roadway, now drove slowly past the very
gate without an apparent tremor. But besides all this, he had an
instinctive shrinking from Foxy, and sympathized with Betsy Dan in
her creepy feeling whenever he approached. Hence he refused
allegiance, and drew upon himself Foxy's jealous hatred.
It was one of Foxy's few errors in judgment that, from his desire
to humiliate Hughie and to bring him to a proper state of
subjection, he succeeded in shutting him out from the leadership in
the game of "Injuns," for Hughie promptly refused a subordinate
position and withdrew, like Achilles, to his tent. But, unlike
Achilles, though he sulked, he sulked actively, and to some
purpose, for, drawing off with him his two faithful henchmen,
"Fusie"--neither Hughie nor any one else ever knew another name for
the little French boy who had drifted into the settlement and made
his home with the MacLeods--and Davie "Scotch," a cousin of Davie
MacDougall, newly arrived from Scotland, he placed them in
positions which commanded the store entrance, and waited until the
settlers had all departed upon their expedition against the
invading Indians. Foxy, with one or two smaller boys, was left in
charge of the store waiting for trade.
In a few moments Foxy's head appeared at the door, when, whiz! a
snowball skinned his ear and flattened itself with a bang against
the slabs.
"Hold on there! Stop that! You're too close up," shouted Foxy,
thinking that the invaders were breaking the rules of the game.
Bang! a snowball from another quarter caught him fair in the neck.
"Here, you fools, you! Stop that!" cried Foxy, turning in the
direction whence the snowball came and dodging round to the side of
the store. But this was Hughie's point of attack, and soon Foxy
found that the only place of refuge was inside, whither he fled,
closing the door after him. Immediately the door became a target
for the hidden foe.
Meantime, the Indian war was progressing, but now and again a
settler would return to the fort for ammunition, and the moment he
reached the door a volley of snowballs would catch him and hasten
his entrance. Once in it was dangerous to come out.
By degrees Hughie augmented his besieging force from the more
adventurous settlers and Indians, and placed them in the bush
surrounding the door.
The war game was demoralized, but the new game proved so much more
interesting that it was taken up with enthusiasm and prosecuted
with vigor. It was rare sport. For the whole noon hour Hughie
and his bombarding force kept Foxy and his friends in close
confinement, from which they were relieved only by the ringing of
the school bell, for at the sound of the bell Hughie and his men,
having had their game, fled from Foxy's wrath to the shelter of the
school.
When Foxy appeared it was discovered that one eye was half shut,
but the light that gleamed from the other was sufficiently baleful
to give token of the wrath blazing within, and Hughie was not a
little anxious to know what form Foxy's vengeance would take. But
to his surprise, by the time recess had come Foxy's wrath had
apparently vanished, and he was willing to treat Hughie's exploit
in the light of a joke. The truth was, Foxy never allowed passion
to interfere with business, and hence he resolved that he must
swallow his rage, for he realized clearly that Hughie was far too
dangerous as a foe, and that he might become exceedingly valuable
as an ally. Within a week Hughie was Foxy's partner in business,
enjoying hugely the privilege of dispensing the store goods, with
certain perquisites that naturally attached to him as storekeeper.
CHAPTER VIII
FOXY'S PARTNER
It was an evil day for Hughie when he made friends with Foxy and
became his partner in the store business, for Hughie's hoardings
were never large, and after buying a Christmas present for his
mother, according to his unfailing custom, they were reduced to a
very few pennies indeed. The opportunities for investment in his
new position were many and alluring. But all Hughie's soul went
out in longing for a pistol which Foxy had among his goods, and
which would fire not only caps, but powder and ball, and his
longing was sensibly increased by Foxy generously allowing him to
try the pistol, first at a mark, which Hughie hit, and then at a
red squirrel, which he missed. By day Hughie yearned for this
pistol, by night he dreamed of it, but how he might secure it for
his own he did not know.
Upon this point he felt he could not consult his mother, his usual
counselor, for he had an instinctive feeling that she would not
approve of his having a pistol in his possession; and as for his
father, Hughie knew he would soon make "short work of any such
folly." What would a child like Hughie do with a pistol? He had
never had a pistol in all his life. It was difficult for the
minister to realize that young Canada was a new type, and he would
have been more than surprised had any one told him that already
Hughie, although only twelve, was an expert with a gun, having for
many a Saturday during the long, sunny fall roamed the woods, at
first in company with Don, and afterwards with Don's gun alone, or
followed by Fusie or Davie Scotch. There was thus no help for
Hughie at home. The price of the pistol reduced to the lowest
possible sum, was two dollars and a half, which Foxy declared was
only half what he would charge any one else but his partner.
"How much have you got altogether?" he asked Hughie one day, when
Hughie was groaning over his poverty.
"Six pennies and two dimes," was Hughie's disconsolate reply. He
had often counted them over. "Of course," he went on, "there's my
XL knife. That's worth a lot, only the point of the big blade's
broken."
"Huh!" grunted Foxy, "there's jist the stub left."
"It's not!" said Hughie, indignantly. "It's more than half, then.
And it's bully good stuff, too. It'll nick any knife in the
school"; and Hughie dived into his pocket and pulled out his knife
with a handful of boy's treasures.
"Hullo!" said Foxy, snatching a half-dollar from Hughie's hand,
"whose is that?"
"Here, you, give me that! That's not mine," cried Hughie.
"Whose is it, then?"
"I don't know. I guess it's mother's. I found it on the kitchen
floor, and I know it's mother's."
"How do you know?"
"I know well enough. She often puts money on the window, and it
fell down. Give me that, I tell you!" Hughie's eyes were blazing
dangerously, and Foxy handed back the half-dollar.
"O, all right. You're a pretty big fool," he said, indifferently.
"'Losers seekers, finders keepers.' That's my rule."
Hughie was silent, holding his precious half-dollar in his hand,
deep in his pocket.
"Say," said Foxy, changing the subject, "I guess you had better pay
up for your powder and caps you've been firing."
"I haven't been firing much," said Hughie, confidently.
"Well, you've been firing pretty steady for three weeks."
"Three weeks! It isn't three weeks."
"It is. There's this week, and last week when the ink-bottle bust
too soon and burnt Fusie's eyebrows, and the week before when you
shot Aleck Dan, and it was the week before that you began, and
that'll make it four."
"How much?" asked Hughie, desperately, resolved to know the worst.
Foxy had been preparing for this. He took down a slate-pencil box
with a sliding lid, and drew out a bundle of crumbled slips which
Hughie, with sinking heart, recognized as his own vouchers.
"Sixteen pennies." Foxy had taken care of this part of the
business.
"Sixteen!" exclaimed Hughie, snatching up the bunch.
"Count them yourself," said Foxy, calmly, knowing well he could
count on Hughie's honesty.
"Seventeen," said Hughie, hopelessly.
"But one of those I didn't count," said Foxy, generously. "That's
the one I gave you to try at the first. Now, I tell you," went on
Foxy, insinuatingly, "you have got how much at home?" he inquired.
"Six pennies and two dimes." Hughie's tone indicated despair.
"You've got six pennies and two dimes. Six pennies and two dimes.
That's twenty--that's thirty-two cents. Now if you paid me that
thirty-two cents, and if you could get a half-dollar anywhere, that
would be eighty-two. I tell you what I would do. I would let you
have that pistol for only one dollar more. That ain't much," he
said.
"Only a dollar more," said Hughie, calculating rapidly. "But where
would I get the fifty cents?" The dollar seemed at that moment to
Hughie quite a possible thing, if only the fifty cents could be
got. The dollar was more remote, and therefore less pressing.
Foxy had an inspiration.
"I tell you what. You borrow that fifty cents you found, and then
you can pay me eighty-two cents, and--and--" he hesitated--"perhaps
you will find some more, or something."
Hughie's eyes were blazing with great fierceness.
Foxy hastened to add, "And I'll let you have the pistol right off,
and you'll pay me again some time when you can, the other dollar."
Hughie checked the indignant answer that was at his lips. To have
the pistol as his own, to take home with him at night, and to keep
all Saturday--the temptation was great, and coming suddenly upon
Hughie, was too much for him. He would surely, somehow, soon pay
back the fifty cents, he argued, and Foxy would wait for the
dollar. And yet that half-dollar was not his, but his mother's,
and more than that, if he asked her for it, he was pretty sure she
would refuse. But then, he doubted his mother's judgment as to his
ability to use firearms, and besides, this pistol at that price was
a great bargain, and any of the boys might pick it up. Poor
Hughie! He did not know how ancient was that argument, nor how
frequently it had done duty in smoothing the descent to the lower
regions. The pistol was good to look at, the opportunity of
securing it was such as might not occur again, and as for the half-
dollar, there could be no harm in borrowing that for a little
while.
That was Foxy's day of triumph, but to Hughie it was the beginning
of many woeful days and nights. And his misery came upon him swift
and sure, in the very moment that he turned in from the road at the
manse gate, for he knew that at the end of the lane would be his
mother, and his winged feet, upon which he usually flew from the
gate home, dragged heavily.
He found his mother, not at the door, but in the large, pleasant
living-room, which did for all kinds of rooms in the manse. It was
dining-room and sewing-room, nursery and playroom, but it was
always a good room to enter, and in spite of playthings strewn
about, or snippings of cloth, or other stour, it was always a place
of brightness and of peace, for it was there the mother was most
frequently to be found. This evening she was at the sewing-machine
busy with Hughie's Sunday clothes, with the baby asleep in the
cradle beside her in spite of the din of the flying wheels, and
little Robbie helping to pull through the long seam. Hughie shrank
from the warm, bright, loving atmosphere that seemed to fill the
room, hating to go in, but in a moment he realized that he must
"make believe" with his mother, and the pain of it and the shame of
it startled and amazed him. He was glad that his mother did not
notice him enter, and by the time he had put away his books he had
braced himself to meet her bright smile and her welcome kiss.
The mother did not apparently notice his hesitation.
"Well, my boy, home again?" she cried, holding out her hand to him
with the air of good comradeship she always wore with him. "Are
you very hungry?"
"You bet!" said Hughie, kissing her, and glad of the chance to get
away.
"Well, you will find something pretty nice in the pantry we saved
for you. Guess what."
"Don't know."
"I know," shouted Robbie. "Pie! It's muzzie's pie. Muzzie tept
it for 'oo."
"Now, Robbie, you were not to tell," said his mother, shaking her
finger at him.
"O-o-o, I fordot," said Robbie, horrified at his failure to keep
his promise.
"Never mind. That's a lesson you will have to learn many times,
how to keep those little lips shut. And the pie will be just as
good."
"Thank you, mother," said Hughie. "But I don't want your pie."
"My pie!" said the mother. "Pie isn't good for old women."
"Old women!" said Hughie, indignantly. "You're the youngest and
prettiest woman in the congregation," he cried, and forgetting for
the moment his sense of meanness, he threw his arms round his
mother.
"Oh, Hughie, shame on you! What a dreadful flatterer you are!"
said his mother. "Now, run away to your pie, and then to your
evening work, my boy, and we will have a good lesson together after
supper."
Hughie ran away, glad to get out of her presence, and seizing the
pie, carried it out to the barn and hurled it far into the snow.
He felt sure that a single bite of it would choke him.
If he could only have seen Foxy any time for the next hour, how
gladly would he have given him back his pistol, but by the time he
had fed his cow and the horses, split the wood and carried it in,
and prepared kindling for the morning's fires, he had become
accustomed to his new self, and had learned his first lesson in
keeping his emotions out of his face. But from that night, and
through all the long weeks of the breaking winter, when games in
the woods were impossible by reason of the snow and water, and when
the roads were deep with mud, Hughie carried his burden with him,
till life was one long weariness and dread.
And through these days he was Foxy's slave. A pistol without
ammunition was quite useless. Foxy's stock was near at hand. It
was easy to write a voucher for a penny's worth of powder or caps,
and consequently the pile in Foxy's pencil-box steadily mounted
till Hughie was afraid to look at it. His chance of being free
from his own conscience was still remote enough.
During these days, too, Foxy reveled in his power over his rival,
and ground his slave in bitter bondage, subjecting him to such
humiliation as made the school wonder and Hughie writhe; and if
ever Hughie showed any sign of resentment or rebellion, Foxy could
tame him to groveling submission by a single word. "Well, I guess
I'll go down to-night to see your mother," was all he needed to say
to make Hughie grovel again. For with Hughie it was not the fear
of his father's wrath and heavy punishment, though that was
terrible enough, but the dread that his mother should know, that
made him grovel before his tyrant, and wake at night in a cold
sweat. His mother's tender anxiety for his pale face and gloomy
looks only added to the misery of his heart.
He had no one in whom he could confide. He could not tell any of
the boys, for he was unwilling to lose their esteem, besides, it
was none of their business; he was terrified of his father's wrath,
and from his mother, his usual and unfailing resort in every
trouble of his whole life, he was now separated by his terrible
secret.
Then Foxy began to insist upon payment of his debts. Spring was at
hand, the store would soon be closed up, for business was slack in
the summer, and besides, Foxy had other use for his money.
"Haven't you got any money at all in your house?" Foxy sneered one
day, when Hughie was declaring his inability to meet his debts.
"Of course we have," cried Hughie, indignantly.
"Don't believe it," said Foxy, contemptuously.
"Father's drawer is sometimes full of dimes and half-dimes. At
least, there's an awful lot on Mondays, from the collections, you
know," said Hughie.
"Well, then, you had better get some for me, somehow," said Foxy.
"You might borrow some from the drawer for a little while."
"That would be stealing," said Hughie.
"You wouldn't mean to keep it," said Foxy. "You would only take it
for a while. It would just be borrowing."
"It wouldn't," said Hughie, firmly. "It's taking out of his
drawer. It's stealing, and I won't steal."
"Huh! you're mighty good all at once. What about that half-
dollar?"
"You said yourself that wasn't stealing," said Hughie, passionately.
"Well, what's the difference? You said it was your mother's, and
this is your father's. It's all the same, except that you're
afraid to take your father's."
"I'm not afraid. At least it isn't that. But it's different to
take money out of a drawer, that isn't your own."
"Huh! Mighty lot of difference! Money's money, wherever it is.
Besides, if you borrowed this from your father, you could pay back
your mother and me. You would pay the whole thing right off."
Once more Hughie argued with himself. To be free from Foxy's
hateful tyranny, and to be clear again with his mother--for that he
would be willing to suffer almost anything. But to take money out
of that drawer was awfully like stealing. Of course he would pay
it back, and after all it would only be borrowing. Besides, it
would enable him to repay what he owed to his mother and to Foxy.
Through all the mazes of specious argument Hughie worked his way,
arriving at no conclusion, except that he carried with him a
feeling that if he could by some means get that money out of the
drawer in a way that would not be stealing, it would be a vast
relief, greater than words could tell.
That night brought him the opportunity. His father and mother were
away at the prayer meeting. There was only Jessie left in the
house, and she was busy with the younger children. With the firm
resolve that he would not take a single half-dime from his father's
drawer, he went into the study. He would like to see if the drawer
were open. Yes, it was open, and the Sabbath's collection lay
there with all its shining invitation. He tried making up the
dollar and a half out of the dimes and half-dimes. What a lot of
half-dimes it took! But when he used the quarters and dimes, how
much smaller the piles were. Only two quarters and five dimes made
up the dollar, and the pile in the drawer looked pretty much the
same as before. Another quarter-dollar withdrawn from the drawer
made little difference. He looked at the little heaps on the
table. He believed he could make Foxy take that for his whole
debt, though he was sure he owed him more. Perhaps he had better
make certain. He transferred two more dimes and a half-dime from
the drawer to the table. It was an insignificant little heap.
That would certainly clear off his whole indebtedness and make him
a free man.
He slipped the little heaps of money from the table into his
pocket, and then suddenly he realized that he had never decided to
take the money. The last resolve he could remember making was
simply to see how the dollar and a half looked. Without noticing,
he had passed the point of final decision. Alas! like many
another, Hughie found the going easy and the slipping smooth upon
the down incline. Unconsciously he had slipped into being a thief.
Now he could not go back. His absorbing purpose was concealment.
Quietly shutting the drawer, he was slipping hurriedly up to his
own room, when on the stairway he met Jessie.
"What are you doing here, Jessie?" he asked, sharply.
"Putting Robbie off to bed," said Jessie, in surprise. "What's the
matter with you?"
"What's the matter?" echoed Hughie, smitten with horrible fear that
perhaps she knew. "I just wanted to know," he said, weakly.
He slipped past her, holding his pocket tight lest the coins should
rattle. When he reached his room he stood listening in the dark to
Jessie going down the stairs. He was sure she suspected something.
He would go back and put the money in the drawer again, whenever
she reached the kitchen. He stood there with his heart-beats
filling his ears, waiting for the kitchen door to slam.
Then he resolved he would wrap the money up in paper and put it
safely away, and go down and see if Jessie knew. He found one of
his old copybooks, and began tearing out a leaf. What a noise it
made! Robbie would surely wake up, and then Jessie would come back
with the light. He put the copy-book under the quilt, and holding
it down firmly with one hand, removed the leaf with the other.
With great care he wrapped up the dimes and half-dimes by
themselves. They fitted better together. Then he took up the
quarters, and was proceeding to fold them in a similar parcel, when
he heard Jessie's voice from below.
"Hughie, what are you doing?" She was coming up the stair.
He jumped from the bed to go to meet her. A quarter fell on the
floor and rolled under the bed. It seemed to Hughie as if it would
never stop rolling, and as if Jessie must hear it. Wildly he
scrambled on the floor in the dark, seeking for the quarter, while
Jessie came nearer and nearer.
"Are you going to bed already, Hughie?" she asked.
Quickly Hughie went out to the hall to meet her.
"Yes," he yawned, gratefully seizing upon her suggestion. "I'm
awfully sleepy. Give me the candle, Jessie," he said, snatching it
from her hand. "I want to go downstairs."
"Hughie, you are very rude. What would your mother say? Let me
have the candle immediately, I want to get Robbie's stockings."
Hughie's heart stood still.
"I'll throw them down, Jessie. I want the candle downstairs just a
minute."
"Leave that candle with me," insisted Jessie. "There's another on
the dining-room table you can get."
"I'll not be a minute," said Hughie, hurrying downstairs. "You
come down, Jessie, I want to ask you something. I'll throw you
Robbie's stockings."
"Come back here, the rude boy that you are," said Jessie, crossly,
"and bring me that candle."
There was no reply. Hughie was standing, pale and shaking, in the
dining-room, listening intently for Jessie's step. Would she go
into his room, or would she come down? Every moment increased the
agony of his fear.
At length, with a happy inspiration, he went to the cupboard,
opened the door noisily, and began rattling the dishes.
"Mercy me!" he heard Jessie exclaim at the top of the stair. "That
boy will be my death. Hughie," she called, "just shut that
cupboard! You know your mother doesn't like you to go in there."
"I only want a little," called out Hughie, still moving the dishes,
and hearing, to his great relief, Jessie's descending step. In
desperation he seized a dish of black currant preserves which he
found on the cupboard shelf, and spilled it over the dishes and
upon the floor just as Jessie entered the room.
"Land sakes alive, boy! Will you never be done your mischief?" she
cried, rushing toward him.
"Oh!" he said, "I spilt it."
"Spilt it!" echoed Jessie, indignantly, "you needn't be telling me
that. Bring me a cloth from the kitchen."
"I don't know where it is, Jessie," cried Hughie, slipping upstairs
again with his candle.
To his great relief he saw that Jessie's attention was so entirely
taken up with removing the stains of the preserves from the
cupboard shelves and dishes, that she for the moment forgot
everything else, Robbie's stockings included.
Hurrying to his room, and shading the candle with his hand lest the
light should waken his little brother, he hastily seized the money
upon the bed quilt, and after a few moments' searching under the
bed, found the strayed quarter.
With these in his hand he passed into his mother's room. Leaving
the candle there, he came back to the head of the stairs and
listened for a moment, with great satisfaction, to Jessie muttering
to herself while she cleaned up the mess he had made. Then he
turned, and with trembling fingers he swiftly made up the quarter-
dollars into another parcel. With a great sigh of relief he put
the two parcels in his pocket, and seizing his candle turned to
leave the room. As he did so, he caught sight of himself in the
glass. With a great shock of surprise he stood gazing at the
terrified, white face, with the staring eyes.
"What a fool I am!" he said, looking at himself in the glass.
"Nobody will know, and I'll pay this back soon."
His eyes wandered to a picture which stood on a little shelf beside
the glass. It was a picture of his mother, the one he loved best
of all he had ever seen of her.
There was a sudden stab of pain at his heart, his breath came in a
great sob. For a moment he looked into the eyes that looked back
at him so full of love and reproach.
"I won't do it," he said, grinding his teeth hard, and forthwith
turned to go to his father's study.
But as he left the room he saw Jessie half-way up the stairs.
"What are you doing now?" she cried, wrathfully. "Up to some
mischief, I doubt."
With a sudden, inexplicable rage, Hughie turned toward her.
"It's none of your business! You mind your own business, will you,
and leave me alone." The terrible emotions of the last few minutes
were at the back of his rage.
"Just wait, you," said Jessie, "till your mother comes. Then
you'll hear it."
"You shut your mouth!" cried Hughie, his passion sweeping his whole
being like a tempest. "You shut your mouth, you old cat, or I'll
throw this candle at you." He raised the candle high in his hand
as he spoke, and altogether looked so desperate that Jessie stood
in terror lest he should make good his threat.
"Stop, now, Hughie," she entreated. "You will be setting the house
on fire."
Hughie hesitated a moment, and then turned from her, and going into
his room, banged the door in her face, and Jessie, not knowing what
to make of it all, went slowly downstairs again, forgetting once
more Robbie's stockings.
"The old cat!" said Hughie to himself. "She just stopped me. I
was going to put it back."
The memory that he had resolved to undo his wrong brought him a
curious sense of relief.
"I was just going to put it back," he said, "when she had to
interfere."
He was conscious of a sense of injury against Jessie. It was not
his fault that that money was not now in the drawer.
"I'll put it back in the morning, anyhow," he said, firmly. But
even as he spoke he was conscious of an infinality in his
determination, while he refused to acknowledge to himself a secret
purpose to leave the question open till the morning. But this
determination, inconclusive though it was, brought him a certain
calm of mind, so that when his mother came into his room she found
him sound asleep.
She stood beside his bed looking down upon him for a few moments,
with face full of anxious sadness.
"There's something wrong with the boy," she said to herself,
stooping to kiss him. "There's something wrong with him," she
repeated, as she left the room. "He's not the same."
During these weeks she had been conscious that Hughie had changed
in some way to her. The old, full, frank confidence was gone.
There was a constraint in his manner she could not explain. "He is
no longer a child," she would say to herself, seeking to allay the
pain in her heart. "A boy must have his secrets. It is foolish in
me to think anything else. Besides, he is not well. He is growing
too fast." And indeed, Hughie's pale, miserable face gave ground
enough for this opinion.
"That boy is not well," she said to her husband.
"Which boy?"
"Hughie," she replied. "He is looking miserable, and somehow he is
different."
"Oh, nonsense! He eats well enough, and sleeps well enough," said
her husband, making light of her fears.
"There's something wrong," repeated his wife. "And he hates his
school."
"Well, I don't wonder at that," said her husband, sharply. "I
don't see how any boy of spirit could take much pleasure in that
kind of a school. The boys are just wasting their time, and worse
than that, they have lost all the old spirit. I must see to it
that the policy of those close-fisted trustees is changed. I am
not going to put up with those chits of girls teaching any longer."
"There may be something in what you say," said his wife, sadly,
"but certainly Hughie is always begging to stay at home from
school."
"And indeed, he might as well stay home," answered her husband,
"for all the good he gets."
"I do wish we had a good man in charge," replied his wife, with a
great sigh. "It is very important that these boys should have a
good, strong man over them. How much it means to a boy at Hughie's
time of life! But so few are willing to come away into the
backwoods here for so small a salary."
Suddenly her husband laid down his pipe.
"I have it!" he exclaimed. "The very thing! Wouldn't this be the
very thing for young Craven. You remember, the young man that
Professor MacLauchlan was writing about."
His wife shook her head very decidedly.
"Not at all," she said. "Didn't Professor MacLauchlan say he was
dissipated?"
"O, just a little wild. Got going with some loose companions. Out
here there would be no temptation."
"I am not at all sure of that," said his wife, "and I would not
like Hughie to be under his influence."
"MacLauchlan says he is a young man of fine disposition and of fine
parts," argued her husband, "and if temptation were removed from
him he believes he would turn out a good man."
Mrs. Murray shook her head doubtfully. "He is not the man to put
Hughie under just now."
"What are we to do with Hughie?" replied her husband. "He is
getting no good in the school as it is, and we cannot send him away
yet."
"Send him away!" exclaimed his wife. "No, no, not a child like
that."
"Craven might be a very good man," continued her husband. "He
might perhaps live with us. I know you have more than enough to do
now," he added, answering her look of dismay, "but he would be a
great help to Hughie with his lessons, and might start him in his
classics. And then, who knows what you might make of the young
man."
Mrs. Murray did not respond to her husband's smile, but only
replied, "I am sure I wish I knew what is the matter with the boy,
and I wish he could leave school for a while."
"O, the boy is all right," said her husband, impatiently. "Only a
little less noisy, as far as I can see."
"No, he is not the same," replied his wife. "He is different to
me." There was almost a cry of pain in her voice.
"Now, now, don't imagine things. Boys are full of notions at
Hughie's age. He may need a change, but that is all."
With this the mother tried to quiet the tumult of anxious fear and
pain she found rising in her heart, but long after the house was
still, and while both her boy and his father lay asleep, she kept
pouring forth that ancient sacrifice of self-effacing love before
the feet of God.
CHAPTER IX
HUGHIE'S EMANCIPATION
Hughie rose late next morning, and the hurry and rush of getting
off to school in time left him no opportunity to get rid of the
little packages in his pocket, that seemed to burn and sting him
through his clothes. He determined to keep them safe in his pocket
all day and put them back in the drawer at night. His mother's
face, white with her long watching, and sad and anxious in spite of
its brave smile, filled him with such an agony of remorse that,
hurrying through his breakfast, he snatched a farewell kiss, and
then tore away down the lane lest he should be forced to confess
all his terrible secret.
The first person who met him in the school-yard was Foxy.
"Have you got that?" was his salutation.
A sudden fury possessed Hughie.
"Yes, you red-headed, sneaking fox," he answered, "and I hope it
will bring you the curse of luck, anyway."
Foxy hurried him cautiously behind the school, with difficulty
concealing his delight while Hughie unrolled his little bundles and
counted out the quarters and dimes and half dimes into his hand.
"There's a dollar, and there's a quarter, and--and--there's
another," he added, desperately, "and God may kill me on the spot
if I give you any more!"
"All right, Hughie," said Foxy, soothingly, putting the money into
his pocket. "You needn't be so mad about it. You bought the
pistol and the rest right enough, didn't you?"
"I know I did, but--but you made me, you big, sneaking thief--and
then you--" Hughie's voice broke in his rage. His face was pale,
and his black eyes were glittering with fierce fury, and in his
heart he was conscious of a wild longing to fall upon Foxy and tear
him to pieces. And Foxy, big and tall as he was, glanced at
Hughie's face, and saying not a word, turned and fled to the front
of the school where the other boys were.
Hughie followed slowly, his heart still swelling with furious rage,
and full of an eager desire to be at Foxy's smiling, fat face.
At the school door stood Miss Morrison, the teacher, smiling down
upon Foxy, who was looking up at her with an expression of such
sweet innocence that Hughie groaned out between his clenched teeth,
"Oh, you red-headed devil, you! Some day I'll make you smile out
of the other side of your big, fat mouth."
'Who are you swearing at?" It was Fusie.
"Oh, Fusie," cried Hughie, "let's get Davie and get into the woods.
I'm not going in to-day. I hate the beastly place, and the whole
gang of them."
Fusie, the little, harum-scarum French waif was ready for anything
in the way of adventure. To him anything was better than the even
monotony of the school routine. True, it might mean a whipping
both from the teacher and from Mrs. McLeod; but as to the teacher's
whipping, Fusie was prepared to stand that for a free day in the
woods, and as to the other, Fusie declared that Mrs. McLeod's
whipping "wouldn't hurt a skeeter."
To Davie Scotch, however, playing truant was a serious matter. He
had been reared in an atmosphere of reverence for established law
and order, but when Hughie gave command, to Davie there seemed
nothing for it but to obey.
The three boys watched till the school was called, and then
crawling along on their stomachs behind the heavy cedar-log fence,
they slipped into the balsam thicket at the edge of the woods and
were safe. Here they flung down their schoolbags, and lying prone
upon the fragrant bed of pine-needles strewn thickly upon the moss,
they peered out through the balsam boughs at the house of their
bondage with an exultant sense of freedom and a feeling of pity, if
not of contempt, for the unhappy and spiritless creatures who were
content to be penned inside any house on such a day as this, and
with such a world outside.
For some minutes they rolled about upon the soft moss and balsam-
needles and the brown leaves of last year, till their hearts were
running over with a deep and satisfying delight. It is hard to
resist the ministry of the woods. The sympathetic silence of the
trees, the aromatic airs that breathe through the shady spaces, the
soft mingling of broken lights--these all combine to lay upon the
spirit a soothing balm, and bring to the heart peace. And Hughie,
sensitive at every pore to that soothing ministry, before long
forgot for a time even Foxy, with his fat, white face and smiling
mouth, and lying on the broad of his back, and looking up at the
far-away blue sky through the interlacing branches and leaves, he
began to feel again that it was good to be alive, and that with all
his misery there were compensations.
But any lengthened period of peaceful calm is not for boys of the
age and spirit of Hughie and his companions.
"What are you going to do?" asked Fusie, the man of adventure.
"Do nothing," said Hughie from his supine position. "This is good
enough for me."
"Not me," said Fusie, starting to climb a tall, lithe birch, while
Hughie lazily watched him. Soon Fusie was at the top of the birch,
which began to sway dangerously.
"Try to fly into that balsam," cried Hughie.
"No, sir!"
"Yes, go on."
"Can't do it."
"Oh, pshaw! you can."
"No, nor you either. That's a mighty big jump."
"Come on down, then, and let me try," said Hughie, in scorn. His
laziness was gone in the presence of a possible achievement.
In a few minutes he had taken Fusie's place a the top of the
swaying birch. It did not look so easy from the top of the birch
as from the ground to swing into the balsam-tree. However, he
could not go back now.
"Dinna try it, Hughie!" cried Davie to him. "Ye'll no mak it, and
ye'll come an awfu' cropper, as sure as deith." But Hughie,
swaying gently back and forth, was measuring the distance of his
drop. It was not a feat so very difficult, but it called for good
judgment and steady nerve. A moment too soon or a moment too late
in letting go, would mean a nasty fall of twenty feet or more upon
the solid ground, and one never knew just how one would light.
"I wudna dae it, Hughie," urged Davie, anxiously.
But Hughie, swaying high in the birch, heeded not the warning, and
suddenly swinging out from the slender trunk and holding by his
hands, he described a parabola, and releasing the birch dropped on
to the balsam top. But balsam-trees are of uncertain fiber, and
not to be relied upon, and this particular balsam, breaking off
short in Hughie's hands, allowed him to go crashing through the
branches to the earth.
"Man! man!" cried Davie Scotch, bending over Hughie as he lay white
and still upon the ground. "Are ye deid? Maircy me! he's deid,"
sobbed Davie, wringing his hands. "Fusie, Fusie, ye gowk! where
are ye gone?"
In a moment or two Fusie reappeared through the branches with a
capful of water, and dashed it into Hughie's face, with the result
that the lad opened his eyes, and after a gasp or two, sat up and
looked about him.
"Och, laddie, laddie, are ye no deid?" said Davie Scotch.
"What's the matter with you, Scottie?" asked Hughie, with a
bewildered look about him. "And who's been throwing water all over
me?" he added, wrathfully, as full consciousness returned.
"Man! I'm glad to see ye mad. Gang on wi' ye," shouted Davie,
joyously. "Ye were deid the noo. Ay, clean deid. Was he no,
Fusie?" Fusie nodded.
"I guess not," said Hughie. "It was that rotten balsam top,"
looking vengefully at the broken tree.
"Lie doon, man," said Davie, still anxiously hovering about him.
"Dinna rise yet awhile."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Hughie, and he struggled to his feet; "I'm all
right." But as he spoke he sank down upon the moss, saying, "I
feel kind of queer, though."
"Lie still, then, will ye," said Davie, angrily. "Ye're fair
obstinate."
"Get me some water, Fusie," said Hughie, rather weakly.
"Run, Fusie, ye gomeril, ye!"
In a minute Fusie was back with a capful of water.
"That's better. I'm all right now," said Hughie, sitting up.
"Hear him!" said Davie. "Lie ye doon there, or I'll gie ye a crack
that'll mak ye glad tae keep still."
For half an hour the boys lay on the moss discussing the accident
fully in all its varying aspects and possibilities, till the sound
of wheels came up the road.
"Who's that, Fusie?" asked Hughie, lazily.
"Dunno me," said Fusie, peering through the trees.
"Do you, Scotty?"
"No, not I."
Hughie crawled over to the edge of the brush.
"Why, you idiots! it's Thomas Finch. Thomas!" he called, but
Thomas drove straight on. In a moment Hughie sprang up, forgetting
all about his weakness, and ran out to the roadside.
"Hello, Thomas!" he cried, waving his hand. Thomas saw him,
stopped, and looked at him, doubtfully. He, with all the Section,
knew how the school was going, and he easily guessed what took
Hughie there.
"I'm not going to school to-day," said Hughie, answering Thomas's
look.
Thomas nodded, and sat silent, waiting. He was not a man to waste
his words.
"I hate the whole thing!" exclaimed Hughie.
"Foxy, eh?" said Thomas, to whom on other occasions Hughie had
confided his grievances, and especially those he suffered at the
hands of Foxy.
"Yes, Foxy," cried Hughie, in a sudden rage. "He's a fat-faced
sneak! And the teacher just makes me sick!"
Thomas still waited.
"She just smiles and smiles at him, and he smiles at her. Ugh! I
can't stand him."
"Not much harm in smiling," said Thomas, solemnly.
"Oh, Thomas, I hate the school. I'm not going to go any more."
Thomas looked gravely down upon Hughie's passionate face for a few
moments, and then said, "You will do what your mother wants you, I
guess."
Hughie said nothing in reply, while Thomas sat pondering.
Finally he said, with a sudden inspiration, "Hughie, come along
with me, and help me with the potatoes."
"They won't let me," grumbled Hughie. "At least father won't. I
don't like to ask mother."
Thomas's eyes opened in surprise. This was a new thing in Hughie.
"I'll ask your mother," he said, at length. "Get in with me here."
Still Hughie hesitated. To get away from school was joy enough, to
go with Thomas to the potato planting was more than could be hoped
for. But still he stood making pictures in the dust with his bare
toes.
"There's Fusie," he said, "and Davie Scotch."
"Well," said Thomas, catching sight of those worthies through the
trees, "let them come, too."
Fusie was promptly willing, but Davie was doubtful. He certainly
would not go to the manse, where he might meet the minister, and
meeting the minister's wife under the present circumstances was a
little worse.
"Well, you can wait at the gate with Fusie," suggested Hughie, and
so the matter was settled.
Fortunately for Hughie, his father was not at home. But not
Thomas's earnest entreaties nor Hughie's eager pleading would have
availed with the mother, for attendance at school was a sacred duty
in her eyes, had it not been that her boy's face, paler than usual,
and with the dawning of a new defiance in it, startled her, and
confirmed in her the fear that all was not well with him.
"Well, Thomas, he may go with you to the Cameron's for the
potatoes, but as to going with you to the planting, that is another
thing. Your mother is not fit to be troubled with another boy, and
especially a boy like Hughie. And how is she to-day, Thomas?"
continued Mrs. Murray, as Thomas stood in dull silence before her.
"She's better," said Thomas, answering more quickly than usual, and
with a certain eagerness in his voice. "She's a great deal better,
and Hughie will do her no harm, but good."
Mrs. Murray looked at Thomas as he spoke, wondering at the change
in his voice and manner. The heavy, stolid face had changed since
she had last seen it. It was finer, keener, than before. The
eyes, so often dull, were lighted up with a new, strange fire.
"She's much better," said Thomas again, as if insisting against
Mrs. Murray's unbelief.
"I am glad to hear it, Thomas," she said, gently. "She will soon
be quite well again, I hope, for she has had a long, long time of
suffering."
"Yes, a long, long time," replied Thomas. His face was pale, and
in his eyes was a look of pain, almost of fear.
"And you will come to see her soon?" he added. There was almost a
piteous entreaty in his tone.
"Yes, Thomas, surely next week. And meantime, I shall let Hughie
go with you."
A look of such utter devotion poured itself into Thomas's eyes that
Mrs. Murray was greatly moved, and putting her hand on his
shoulder, she said, gently, "'He will give His angels charge.'
Don't be afraid, Thomas."
"Afraid!" said Thomas, with a kind of gasp, his face going white.
"Afraid! No. Why?" But Mrs. Murray turned from him to hide the
tears that she could not keep out of her eyes, for she knew what
was before Thomas and them all.
Meantime Hughie was busy putting into his little carpet-bag what he
considered the necessary equipment for his visit.
"You must wear your shoes, Hughie."
"Oh, mother, shoes are such an awful bother planting potatoes.
They get full of ground and everything."
"Well, put them in your bag, at any rate, and your stockings, too.
You may need them."
By degrees Hughie's very moderate necessities were satisfied, and
with a hurried farewell to his mother he went off with Thomas. At
the gate they picked up Fusie and Davie Scotch, and went off to the
Cameron's for the seed potatoes, Hughie's heart lighter than it had
been for many a day. And all through the afternoon, and as he
drove home with Thomas on the loaded bags, his heart kept singing
back to the birds in the trees overhead.
It was late in the afternoon when they drove into the yard, for the
roads were still bad in the swamp, where the corduroy had been
broken up by the spring floods.
Thomas hurried through unhitching, and without waiting to unharness
he stood the horses in their stalls, saying, "We may need them this
afternoon again," and took Hughie off to the house straight-way.
The usual beautiful order pervaded the house and its surroundings.
The back yard, through which the boys came from the barn, was free
of litter; the chips were raked into neat little piles close to the
wood-pile, for summer use. On a bench beside the "stoop" door was
a row of milk-pans, lapping each other like scales on a fish,
glittering in the sun. The large summer kitchen, with its spotless
floor and white-washed walls, stood with both its doors open to the
sweet air that came in from the fields above, and was as pleasant a
room to look in upon as one could desire. On the sill of the open
window stood a sweet-scented geranium and a tall fuschia with white
and crimson blossoms hanging in clusters. Bunches of wild flowers
stood on the table, on the dresser, and up beside the clock, and
the whole room breathed of sweet scents of fields and flowers, and
"the name of the chamber was peace."
Beside the open window sat the little mother in an arm-chair, the
embodiment of all the peaceful beauty and sweet fragrance of the
room.
"Well, mother," said Thomas, crossing the floor to her and laying
his hand upon her shoulder, "have I been long away? I have brought
Hughie back with me, you see."
"Not so very long, Thomas," said the mother, her dark face lighting
with a look of love as she glanced up at her big son. "And I am
glad to see Hughie. He will excuse me from rising," she added,
with fine courtesy.
Hughie hurried toward her.
"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Finch. Don't think of rising." But he could
get no further. Boy as he was, and at the age when boys are most
heartless and regardless, he found it hard to keep his lip and his
voice steady and to swallow the lump in his throat, and in spite of
all he could do his eyes were filling up with tears as he looked
into the little woman's face, so worn and weary, so pathetically
bright.
It was months since he had seen her, and during these months a
great change had come to her and to the Finch household. After
suffering long in secret, the mother had been forced to confess to
a severe pain in her breast and under her arm. Upon examination
the doctor pronounced the case to be malignant cancer, and there
was nothing for it but removal. It was what Dr. Grant called "a
very beautiful operation, indeed," and now she was recovering her
strength, but only slowly, so slowly that Thomas at times found his
heart sink with a vague fear. But it was not the pain of the wound
that had wrought that sweet, pathetic look into the little woman's
face, but the deeper pain she carried in her heart for those she
loved better than herself.
The mother's sickness brought many changes into the household, but
the most striking of all the changes was that wrought in the slow
and stolid Thomas. The father and Billy Jack were busy with the
farm matters outside, upon little Jessac, now a girl of twelve
years, fell the care of the house, but it was Thomas that, with the
assistance of a neighbor at first, but afterwards alone, waited on
his mother, dressing the wound and nursing her. These weeks of
watching and nursing had wrought in him the subtle change that
stirred Mrs. Murray's heart as she looked at him that day, and that
made even Hughie wonder. For one thing his tongue was loosed, and
Thomas talked to his mother of all that he had seen and heard on
the way to the Cameron's and back, making much of his little visit
to the manse, and of Mrs. Murray's kindness, and enlarging upon her
promised visit, and all with such brightness and picturesqueness of
speech that Hughie listened amazed. For all the years he had known
Thomas he had never heard from his lips so many words as in the
last few minutes of talk with his mother. Then, too, Thomas seemed
to have found his fingers, for no woman could have arranged more
deftly and with gentler touch the cushions at his mother's back,
and no nurse could have measured out the medicine and prepared her
egg-nog with greater skill. Hughie could hardly believe his eyes
and ears. Was this Thomas the stolid, the clumsy, the heavy-
handed, this big fellow with the quick tongue and the clever,
gentle hand?
Meantime Jessac had set upon the table a large pitcher of rich
milk, with oat cakes and butter, and honey in the comb.
"Now, Hughie, lad, draw in and help yourself. You and Thomas will
be too hungry to wait for supper," said the mother. And Hughie,
protesting politely that he was not very hungry, proceeded to
establish the contrary, to the great satisfaction of himself and
the others.
"Now, Thomas," said the mother, "we had better cut the seed."
"Indeed, and not a seed will you cut, mother," said Thomas,
emphatically. "You may boss the job, though. I'll bring the
potatoes to the back door." And this he did, thinking it no
trouble to hitch up the team to draw the wagon into the back yard
so that his mother might have a part in the cutting of the seed
potatoes, as she had had every year of her life on the farm.
Very carefully, and in spite of her protests that she could walk
quite well, Thomas carried his mother out to her chair in the shade
of the house, arranging with tender solicitude the pillows at her
back and the rug at her feet. Then they set to work at the
potatoes.
"Mind you have two eyes in every seed, Hughie," said Jessac,
severely.
"Huh! I know. I've cut them often enough," replied Hughie,
scornfully.
"Well, look at that one, now," said Jessac, picking up a seed that
Hughie had let fall; "that's only got one eye."
"There's two," said Hughie, triumphantly.
"That's not an eye," said Jessac, pointing to a mark on the potato;
"that's where the top grew out of, isn't it, mother?"
"It is, isn't it?" appealed Hughie.
Mrs. Finch took the seed and looked at it.
"Well, there's one very good eye, and that will do."
"But isn't that the mark of the top, mother?" insisted Jessac. But
the mother only shook her head at her.
"That's right, Jessac," said Thomas, driving off with his team;
"you look after Hughie, and mother will look after you both till I
get back, and there'll be a grand crop this year."
It was a happy hour for them all. The slanting rays of the
afternoon sun filled the air with a genial warmth. A little breeze
bore from the orchard near by a fragrance of apple-blossoms. A
matronly hen, tethered by the leg to her coop, raised indignant
protest against the outrage on her personal liberty, or clucked and
crooned her invitations, counsels, warnings, and encouragements, in
as many different tones, to her independent, fluffy brood of
chicks, while a huge gobbler strutted up and down, thrilling with
pride in the glossy magnificence of his outspread tail and pompous,
mighty chest.
Hughie was conscious of a deep and grateful content, but across his
content lay a shadow. If only that would lift! As he watched
Thomas with his mother, he realized how far he had drifted from his
own mother, and he thought with regret of the happy days, which now
seemed so far in the past, when his mother had shared his every
secret. But for him those days could never come again.
At supper, Hughie was aware of some subtle difference in the spirit
of the home. As to Thomas so to his father a change had come. The
old man was as silent as ever, indeed more so, but there was no
asperity in his silence. His critical, captious manner was gone.
His silence was that of a great sorrow, and of a great fear. While
there was more cheerful conversation than ever at the table, there
was through all a new respect and a certain tender consideration
shown toward the silent old man at the head, and all joined in an
effort to draw him from his gloom. The past months of his wife's
suffering had bowed him as with the weight of years. Even Hughie
could note this.
After supper the old man "took the Books" as usual, but when, as
High Priest, he "ascended the Mount of Ordinances to offer the
evening sacrifice," he was as a man walking in thick darkness
bewildered and afraid. The prayer was largely a meditation on the
heinousness of sin and the righteous judgments of God, and closed
with an exaltation of the Cross, with an appeal that the innocent
might be spared the punishment of the guilty. The conviction had
settled in the old man's mind that "the Lord was visiting upon him
and his family his sins, his pride, his censoriousness, his
hardness of heart." The words of his prayer fell meaningless upon
Hughie's English ears, but the boy's heart quivered in response to
the agony of entreaty in the pleading tones, and he rose from his
knees awed and subdued.
There was no word spoken for some moments after the prayer. With
people like the Finches it was considered to be an insult to the
Almighty to depart from "the Presence" with any unseemly haste.
Then Thomas came to help his mother to her room, but she, with her
eyes upon her husband, quietly put Thomas aside and said, "Donald,
will you tak me ben?"
Rarely had she called him by his name before the family, and all
felt that this was a most unusual demonstration of tenderness on
her part.
The old man glanced quickly at her from under his overhanging
eyebrows, and met her bright upward look with an involuntary shake
of the head and a slight sigh. Comfort was not for him, and he
must not delude himself. But with a little laugh she put her hand
on his arm, and as if administering reproof to a little child, she
said some words in Gaelic.
"Oh, woman, woman!" said Donald in reply, "if it was yourself we
had to deal with--"
"Whisht, man! Will you be putting me before your Father in
heaven?" she said, as they disappeared into the other room.
There was no fiddle that evening. There was no heart for it with
Thomas, neither was there time, for there was the milking to do,
and the "sorting" of the pails and pans, and the preparing for
churning in the morning, so that when all was done, the long
evening had faded into the twilight and it was time for bed.
Before going upstairs, Thomas took Hughie into "the room" where his
mother's bed had been placed. Thomas gave her her medicine and
made her comfortable for the night.
"Is there nothing else now, mother?" he said, still lingering about
her.
"No, Thomas, my man. How are the cows doing?"
"Grand; Blossom filled a pail to-night, and Spotty almost twice.
She's a great milker, yon."
"Yes, and so was her mother. I remember she used to fill two pails
when the grass was good."
"I remember her, too. Her horns curled right back, didn't they?
And she always looked so fierce."
"Yes, but she was a kindly cow. And will the churn be ready for
the morning?"
"Yes, mother, we'll have buttermilk for our porridge, sure enough."
"Well, you'll need to be up early for that, too early, Thomas, lad,
for a boy like you."
"A boy like me!" said Thomas, feigning indignation, and stretching
himself to his full height. "Where would you be getting your men,
mother?"
"You are man enough, laddie," said his mother, "and a good one you
will come to be, I doubt. And you, too, Hughie, lad," she added,
turning to him. "You will be like your father."
"I dunno," said Hughie, his face flushing scarlet. He was weary
and sick of his secret, and the sight of the loving comradeship
between Thomas and his mother made his burden all the heavier.
"What's wrong with yon laddie?" asked Mrs. Finch, when Hughie had
gone away to bed.
"Now, mother, you're too sharp altogether. And how do you know
anything is wrong with him?"
"I warrant you his mother sees it. Something is on his mind.
Hughie is not the lad he used to be. He will not look at you
straight, and that is not like Hughie."
"Oh, mother, you're a sharp one," said Thomas. "I thought no one
had seen that but myself. Yes, there is something wrong with him.
It's something in the school. It's a poor place nowadays, anyway,
and I wish Hughie were done with it."
"He must keep at the school, Thomas, and I only wish you could do
the same." His mother sighed. She had her own secret ambition for
Thomas, and though she never opened her heart to her son, or indeed
to any one, Thomas somehow knew that it was her heart's desire to
see him "in the pulpit."
"Never you mind, mother," he said, brightly. "It'll all come
right. Aren't you always the one preaching faith to me?"
"Yes, laddie, and it is needed, and sorely at times."
"Now, mither," said Thomas, dropping into her native speech, "ye
mauna be fashin' yersel. Ye'll jist say 'Now I lay me,' and gang
to sleep like a bairnie."
"Ay, that's a guid word, laddie, an' a'll tak it. Ye may kiss me
guid nicht. A'll tak it."
Thomas bent over her and whispered in her ear, "Ay, mither, mither,
ye're an angel, and that ye are."
"Hoots, laddie, gang awa wi' ye," said his mother, but she held her
arms about his neck and kissed him once and again. There was no
one to see, and why should they not give and take their heart's
fill of love.
But when Thomas stood outside the room door, he folded his arms
tight across his breast and whispered with lips that quivered, "Ay,
mither, mither, mither, there's nane like ye. There's nane like
ye." And he was glad that when he went upstairs, he found Hughie
unwilling to talk.
The next three days they were all busy with the planting of the
potatoes, and nothing could have been better for Hughie. The
sweet, sunny air, and the kindly, wholesome earth and honest hard
work were life and health to mind and heart and body. It is
wonderful how the touch of the kindly mother earth cleanses the
soul from its unwholesome humors. The hours that Hughie spent in
working with the clean, red earth seemed somehow to breathe virtue
into him. He remembered the past months like a bad dream. They
seemed to him a hideous unreality, and he could not think of Foxy
and his schemes, nor of his own weakness in yielding to temptation,
without a horrible self-loathing. He became aware of a strange
feeling of sympathy and kinship with old Donald Finch. He seemed
to understand his gloom. During those days their work brought
those two together, for Billy Jack had the running of the drills,
and to Thomas was intrusted the responsibility of "dropping" the
potatoes, so Hughie and the old man undertook to "cover" after
Thomas.
Side by side they hoed together, speaking not a word for an hour at
a time, but before long the old man appeared to feel the lad's
sympathy. Hughie was quick to save him steps, and eager in many
ways to anticipate his wishes. He was quick, too, with the hoe,
and ambitious to do his full share of the work, and this won the
old man's respect, so that by the end of the first day there was
established between them a solid basis of friendship.
Old Donald Finch was no cheerful companion for Hughie, but it was
to Hughie a relief, more than anything else, that he was not much
with either Thomas or Billy Jack.
"You're tired," he ventured, in answer to a deep sigh from the old
man, toward the close of the day.
"No, laddie," replied the old man, "I know not that I am working.
The burden of toil is the least of all our burdens." And then,
after a pause, he added, "It is a terrible thing, is sin."
To an equal in age the old man would never have ventured this
confidence, but to Hughie, to his own surprise, he found it easy to
talk.
"A terrible thing," he repeated, "and it will always be finding you
out."
Hughie listened to him with a fearful sinking of heart, thinking of
himself and his sin.
"Yes," repeated the old man, with awful solemnity, "it will come up
with you at last."
"But," ventured Hughie, timidly, "won't God forgive? Won't he ever
forget?"
The old man looked at him, leaning upon his hoe.
"Yes, he will forgive. But for those who have had great
privileges, and who have sinned against light--I will not say."
The fear deepened in Hughie's heart.
"Do you mean that God will not forgive a man who has had a good
chance, an elder, or a minister, or--or--a minister's son, say,
like me?"
There was something in Hughie's tone that startled the old man. He
glanced at Hughie's face.
"What am I saying?" he cried. "It is of myself I am thinking, boy,
and of no minister or minister's son."
But Hughie stood looking at him, his face showing his terrible
anxiety. God and sin were vivid realities to him.
"Yes, yes," said the old man to himself, "it is a great gospel.
'As far as the east is distant from the west.' 'And plenteous
redemption is ever found with him.'"
"But, do you think," said Hughie, in a low voice, "God will tell
all our sins? Will he make them known?"
"God forbid!" cried the old man. "'And their sins and their
iniquities will I remember no more.' 'The depths of the sea.' No,
no, boy, he will surely forget, and he will not be proclaiming
them."
It was a strange picture. The old man leaning upon the top of his
hoe looking over at the lad, the gloom of his face irradiated with
a momentary gleam of hope, and the boy looking back at him with
almost breathless eagerness.
"It would be great," said Hughie, at last, "if he would forget."
"Yes," said the old man, the gleam in his face growing brighter,
"'If we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us,'
and forgiving with him is forgetting. Ah, yes, it is a great
gospel," he continued, and standing there he lifted up his hand and
broke into a kind of chant in Gaelic, of which Hughie could catch
no meaning, but the exalted look on the old man's face was
translation enough.
"Must we always tell?" said Hughie, after the old man had ceased.
"What are you saying, laddie?"
"I say must we always tell our sins--I mean to people?"
The old man thought a moment. "It is not always good to be talking
about our sins to people. That is for God to hear. But we must be
ready to make right what is wrong."
"Yes, yes," said Hughie, eagerly, "of course one would be glad to
do that."
The old man gave him one keen glance, and began hoeing again.
"Ye'd better be asking ye're mother about that. She will know."
"No, no," said Hughie, "I can't."
The old man paused in his work, looked at the boy for a moment or
two, and then went on working again.
"Speak to my woman," he said, after a few strokes of his hoe.
"She's a wonderful wise woman." And Hughie wished that he dared.
During the days of the planting they became great friends, and to
their mutual good. The mother's keen eyes noted the change both in
Hughie and in her husband, and was glad for it. It was she that
suggested to Billy Jack that he needed help in the back pasture
with the stones. Billy Jack, quick to take her meaning, eagerly
insisted that help he must have, indeed he could not get on with
the plowing unless the stones were taken off. And so it came that
Hughie and the old man, with old Fly hitched up in the stone-boat,
spent two happy and not unprofitable days in the back pasture.
Gravely they discussed the high themes of God's sovereignty and
man's freedom, with all their practical issues upon conduct and
destiny. Only once, and that very shyly, did the old man bring
round the talk to the subject of their first conversation that
meant so much to them both.
"The Lord will not be wanting to shame us beyond what is
necessary," he said. "There are certain sins which he will bring
to light, but there are those that, in his mercy, he permits us to
hide; provided always," he added, with emphasis, "we are done with
them."
"Yes, indeed," assented Hughie, eagerly, "and who wouldn't be done
with them?"
But the old man shook his head sadly.
"If that were always true a man would soon be rid of his evil
heart. But," he continued, as if eager to turn the conversation,
"you will be talking with my woman about it. She's a wonderful
wise woman, yon."
Somehow the opportunity came to Hughie to take the old man's
advice. On Saturday evening, just before leaving for home, he
found himself alone with Mrs. Finch sitting beside the open window,
watching the sun go down behind the trees.
"What a splendid sunset!" he cried. He was ever sensitive to the
majestic drama of nature.
"Ay," said Mrs. Finch, "the clouds and the sun make wonderful
beauty together, but without the sun the clouds are ugly things.
Hughie quickly took her meaning.
"They are not pleasant," he said.
"No, not pleasant," she replied, "but with the sunlight upon them
they are wonderful."
Hughie was silent for some moments, and then suddenly burst out,
"Mrs. Finch, does God forget sins, and will he keep them hid, from
people, I mean?"
"Ay," she said, with quiet conviction, "he will forget, and he will
hide them. Why should he lay the burden of our sins upon others?
And if he does not why should we?"
"Do you mean we need not always tell? I'd like to tell my--some
one."
"Ay," she replied, "it's a weary wark and a lanely to carry it oor
lane, but it's an awfu' grief to hear o' anither's sin. An awfu'
grief," she repeated to herself.
"But," burst out Hughie, "I'll never be right till I tell my
mother."
"Ay, and then it is she would be carrying the weight o' it."
"But it's against her," said Hughie, his hands going up to his
face. "Oh, Mrs. Finch, it's just awful mean. I don't know how I
did it."
"Ye can tell me, laddie, if ye will," said she, kindly, and Hughie
poured forth the whole burden that had lain so long upon him, but
he told it laying upon Foxy small blame, for during those days, his
own part had come to bulk so large with him that Foxy's was almost
forgotten.
For some moments after he had done Mrs. Finch sat in silence,
leaning forward and patting the boy's bowed head.
"Ay, but he is rightly named," she said, at length.
"Who?" asked Hughie, surprised.
"Yon store-keepin' chiel." Then she added, "But ye're done wi' him
and his tricks, and ye'll stand up against him and be a man for the
wee laddies."
"Oh, I don't know," said Hughie, too sick at heart and too
penetrated with the miserable sense of his own meanness and
cowardice, to make any promise.
"And as tae ye're mither, laddie," went on Mrs. Finch, "it will be
a sair burden for her." When Mrs. Finch was greatly moved she
always dropped into her broadest Scotch.
"Oh, yes, I know," said Hughie, his voice now broken with sobs,
"and that's the worst of it. If I didn't have to tell her! She'll
just break her heart, I know. She thinks I'm so--oh, oh--" The
long pent up feelings came flooding forth in groans and sobs.
For some moments Mrs. Finch sat quietly, and then she said,
"Listen, laddie. There is Another to be thought of first."
"Another?" asked Hughie. "Oh, yes, I know. But He knows already,
and indeed I have often told Him. But besides, you say He will
forget, and take it away. But mother doesn't know, and doesn't
suspect."
"Well, then, laddie," said Mrs. Finch, with quiet firmness, "let
her tell ye what to do. Mak ye're offer to tell her, and warn her
that it'll grieve ye baith, and then let her say."
"Yes, I'll do it. I'll do it to-night, and if she says so, then
I'll tell her."
And so he did, and when he came back to the Finch's on Monday
morning, for his mother saw that leaving school for a time would be
no serious loss, and a week or two with the Finches might be a
great gain, he came radiant to Mrs. Finch, and finding her in her
chair by the open window alone, he burst forth, "I told her, and
she wouldn't let me. She didn't want to know so long as I said it
was all made right. And she promised she would trust me just the
same. Oh, she's splendid, my mother! And she's coming this week
to see you. And I tell you I just feel like--like anything! I
can't keep still. I'm like Fido when he's let off his chain. He
just goes wild."
Then, after a pause, he added, in a graver tone, "And mother read
Zaccheus to me. And isn't it fine how He never said a word to
him?"--Hughie was too excited to be coherent--"but stood up for
him, and"--here Hughie's voice became more grave--"I'm going to
restore fourfold. I'm going to work at the hay, and I fired that
old pistol into the pond, and I'm not afraid of Foxy any more, not
a bit."
Hughie rushed breathlessly through his story, while the dark face
before him glowed with intelligent sympathy, but she only said,
when he had done, "It is a graund thing to be free, is it no'?"
CHAPTER X
THE BEAR HUNT
"Is Don round, Mrs. Cameron?"
"Mercy me, Hughie! Did ye sleep in the woods? Come away in.
Ye're a sight for sore eyes. Come away in. And how's ye're mother
and all?"
"All right, thank you. Is Don in?"
"Don? He's somewhere about the barn. But come away, man, there's
a bit bannock here, and some honey."
"I'm in a hurry, Mrs. Cameron, and I can't very well wait," said
Hughie, trying to preserve an evenness of tone and not allow his
excitement to appear.
"Well, well! What's the matter, whatever?" When Hughie refused a
"bit bannock" and honey, something must be seriously wrong.
"Nothing at all, but I'm just wanting Don for a--for something."
"Well, well, just go to the old barn and cry at him."
Hughie found Don in the old barn, busy "rigging up" his plow, for
the harvest was in and the fall plowing was soon to begin.
"Man, Don!" cried Hughie, in a subdued voice, "it's the greatest
thing you ever heard!"
"What is it now, Hughie? You look fairly lifted. Have you seen a
ghost?"
"A ghost? No, something better than that, I can tell you."
Hughie drew near and lowered his voice, while Don worked on
indifferently.
"It's a bear, Don."
Don dropped his plow. His indifference vanished. The Camerons
were great hunters, and many a bear had they, with their famous
black dogs, brought home in their day, but not for the past year or
two; and never had Don bagged anything bigger than a fox or a coon.
"Where did you see him?"
"I didn't see him." Don looked disgusted. "But he was in our
house last night."
"Look here now, stop that!" said Don, gripping Hughie by the jacket
and shaking him.
But Hughie's summer in the harvest-field had built up his muscles,
and so he shook himself free from Don's grasp, and said, "Look out
there! I'm telling you the truth. Last night father was out late
and the supper things were left on the table--some honey and stuff--
and after father had been asleep for a while he was wakened by
some one tramping about the house. He got up, came out of his
room, and called out, 'Jessie, where are the matches?' And just
then there was an awful crash, and something hairy brushed past his
leg in the dark and got out of the door. We all came down, and
there was the table upset, the dishes all on the floor, and four
great, big, deep scratches in the table."
"Pshaw! It must have been Fido."
"Fido was in the barn, and just mad to get out; and besides, the
tracks are there yet behind the house. It was a bear, sure enough,
and I'm going after him."
"You?"
"Yes, and I want you to come with the dogs."
"Oh, pshaw! Dear knows where he'll be now," said Don, considering.
"Like enough in the Big Swamp or in McLeod's beech bush. They're
awful fond of beechnuts. But the dogs can track him, can't they?"
"By jingo! I'd like to get him," said Don, kindling under Hughie's
excitement. "Wait a bit now. Don't say a word. If Murdie hears
he'll want to come, sure, and we don't want him. You wait here
till I get the gun and the dogs."
"Have you got any bullets or slugs?"
"Yes, lots. Why? Have you a gun?"
"Yes, you just bet! I've got our gun. What did you think I was
going to do? Put salt on his tail? I've got it down the lane."
"All right, you wait there for me."
"Don't be long," said Hughie, slipping away.
It was half an hour before Don appeared with the gun and the dogs.
"What in the world kept you? I thought you were never coming,"
said Hughie, impatiently.
"I tell you it's no easy thing to get away with mother on hand, but
it's all right. Here's your bullets and slugs. I've brought some
bannocks and cheese. We don't know when we'll get home. We'll
pick up the track in your brule. Does any one know you're going?"
"No, only Fusie. He wanted to come, but I wouldn't have it. Fusie
gets so excited." Hughie's calmness was not phenomenal. He could
hardly stand still for two consecutive seconds.
"Well, let's go," and Don set off on a trot, with one of the black
dogs in leash and the other following, and after him came Hughie
running lightly.
In twenty minutes they were at the manse clearing.
"Now," said Don, pulling up, "where did you say you saw his track?"
"Just back of the house there, and round the barn, and then
straight for the brule."
The boys stood looking across the fallen timber toward the barn.
"There's Fido barking," said Hughie. "I bet he's on the scent
now."
"Yes," answered Don, "and there's your father, too."
"Gimmini crickets! so it is," said Hughie, slowly. "I don't think
it's worth while going up there to get that track. Can't we get it
just as well in the woods here?" There were always things to do
about the house, and besides, the minister knew nothing of Hughie's
familiarity with the gun, and hence would soon have put a stop to
any such rash venture as bear-hunting.
The boys waited, listening to Fido, who was running back and
forward between the brule and the house barking furiously. The
minister seemed interested in Fido's manoeuvres, and followed him a
little way.
"Man!" said Hughie, in a whisper, "perhaps he'll go and look for
the gun himself. And Fido will find us, sure. I say, let's go."
"Let's wait a minute," said Don, "to see what direction Fido takes,
and then we'll put our dogs on."
In a few minutes Hughie breathed more freely, for his father seemed
to lose his interest in Fido, and returned slowly to the house.
"Now," said Hughie, "let's get down into the brule as near Fido as
we can get."
Cautiously the boys made their way through the fallen timber,
keeping as much as possible under cover of the underbrush. But
though they hunted about for some time, the dogs evidently got no
scent, for they remained quite uninterested in the proceedings.
"We'll have to get up closer to where Fido is," said Don, "and the
sooner we get there the better."
"I suppose so," said Hughie. "I suppose I had better go. Fido
will stop barking for me." So, while Don lay hid with the dogs in
the brule, Hughie stole nearer and nearer to Fido, who was still
chasing down toward the brule and back to the house, as if urging
some one to come forth and investigate the strange scent he had
discovered. Gradually Hughie worked his way closer to Fido until
within calling distance.
Just as he was about to whistle for the dog, the back door opened
and forth came the minister again. By this time Fido had passed
into the brule a little way, and could not be seen from the house.
It was an anxious moment for Hughie. He made a sudden desperate
resolve. He must secure Fido now, or else give up the chance of
getting on the trail of the bear. So he left his place of hiding,
and bending low, ran swiftly forward until Fido caught sight of
him, and hearing his voice, came to him, barking loudly and making
every demonstration of excitement and joy. He seized the dog by
the collar and dragged him down, and after holding him quiet for a
moment, hauled him back to Don.
"We'll have to take him with us," he said. "I'll put this string
on his collar, and he'll go all right." And to this Don agreed,
though very unwillingly, for he had no confidence in Fido's hunting
ability.
"I tell you he's a great fighter," said Hughie, "if we should ever
get near that bear."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Don, "he may fight dogs well enough, but when it
comes to a bear, it's a different thing. Every dog is scared of a
bear the first time he sees him."
"Well, I bet you Fido won't run from anything," said Hughie,
confidently.
To their great relief they saw the minister set off in the opposite
direction across the fields.
"Thank goodness! He's off to the McRae's," said Hughie.
"Now, then," said Don, "we'll go back to the track there, and put
the dogs on. You go on with Fido." And Hughie set off with Fido
pulling eagerly upon the string.
When they reached the spot where Fido had been seized by Hughie,
suddenly the black dog who had been following Don at some distance,
stopped short and began to growl. In a moment his mate threw up
his nose and began sniffing about, the hair rising stiff upon his
back.
"He's catching it," said Don, in an excited tone. "Here, you hold
him. I must get the other one, or he'll be off." He was not a
minute too soon, for the other dog, who had been ranging about,
suddenly found the trail, and with a fierce, short bark, was about
to dash off when Don threw himself upon him. In a few moments both
dogs were on the leash, and set off upon the scent at a great pace.
The trail was evidently plain enough to the dogs, for they followed
hard, leading the boys deeper and deeper into the bush.
"He's making for the Big Swamp," said Don, and on they went, with
eyes and ears on the alert, expecting every moment to hear the
snort of a bear, or to meet him on the further side of every bunch
of underbrush.
For an hour they went on at a steady trot, over and under fallen
logs, splashing through water holes, crashing over dead brushwood,
and tearing through the interlacing boughs of the thick underbrush
of spruce and balsam. The black dogs never hesitated. They knew
well what was their business there, and that they kept strictly in
mind. Fido, on the other hand, who loved to roam the woods in an
aimless hunt for any and every wild thing that might cross his
nose, but who never had seriously hunted anything in particular,
trotted good-naturedly behind Hughie with rather a bored expression
on his face.
The trail, which had led them steadily north, all at once turned
west and away from the swamp.
"Say," said Don, "he's making for Alan Gorrach's cabin."
"Man!" said Hughie, "that would be fine, to get him there. It's
good and open, too."
"Too open by a long way," grunted Don. "We'd never get him there."
Sure enough, the dogs led up from the swamp and along the path to
Alan's cabin. The door stood open, and in answer to Don's "Horo!"
Alan came out.
"What now?" he said, glowering at Don.
"You won't be wanting any dogs to-day, Alan?" said Don, politely.
Alan glanced at him suspiciously, but said not a word.
"These are very good dogs, indeed, Alan."
"Go on your ways, now," said Alan.
"These black ones are not in very good condition, but Fido there is
a good, fat dog."
Alan's wrath began to rise.
"Will you be going on, now, about your business?"
"Better take them, Alan, there's a hard winter coming on."
"Mac an' Diabhoil!" cried Alan, in a shrill voice, suddenly
bursting into fury. "I will be having your heart's blood," he
cried, rushing into his cabin.
"Come on, Hughie," cried Don, and away they rushed, following the
black dogs upon the trail of the bear.
Deeper and deeper into the swamp the dogs led the way, the going
becoming more difficult and the underbrush thicker at every step.
After an hour or two of hard work, the dogs began to falter, and
ran hither and thither, now on one scent and then on another, till
tired out and disgusted, Don held them in, and threw himself down
upon the soft moss that lay deep over everything.
"We're on his old tracks here," said Don, savagely, "and you can't
pick out the new from the old."
"His hole must be somewhere not too far away," said Hughie.
"Yes, perhaps it is, but then again it may be across the ridge. At
any rate, we'll have some grub."
As they ate the bannocks and cheese, they pictured to themselves
what they should do if they ever should come up with the bear.
"One thing we've got to be careful of," said Don, "and that is, not
to lose our heads."
"That's so," assented Hughie, feeling quite cool and self-possessed
at the time.
"Because if you lose your head you're done for," continued Don.
"Remember Ken McGregor?"
"No," said Hughie.
"Didn't you ever hear that? Why, he ran into a bear, and made a
drive at him with his axe, but the bear, with one paw knocked the
axe clear out of his hand, and with one sweep of the other tore his
insides right out. They're mighty cute, too," went on Don.
"They'll pretend to be almost dead just to coax you near enough,
and then they'll spin round on their hind legs like a rooster. If
they ever do catch you, the only thing to do is to lie still and
make believe you're dead, and then, unless they're very hungry,
they won't hurt you much."
After half an hour's rest, the hunting instinct awoke again within
them, and the boys determined to make another attempt. After
circling about the swamp for some time, the boys came upon a beaten
track which led straight through the heart of the swamp.
"I say," said Don, "this is going to strike the ridge somewhere
just about there," pointing northeast, "and if we don't see
anything between here and the ridge, we'll strike home that way.
It'll be better walking than this cursed swamp, anyway. Are you
tired?"
Hughie refused to acknowledge any weariness.
"Well, then, I am," said Don.
The trail was clear enough, and they were able to follow at a good
pace, so that in a few minutes, as they had expected, they struck
the northeast end of the swamp. Here again they called a halt, and
tying up the dogs, lay down upon the dry, brown leaves, lazily
eating the beechnuts and discussing their prospects of meeting the
bear, and their plans for dealing with him.
"Well, let's go on," at length said Don. "There's just a chance of
our meeting him on this ridge. He's got a den somewhere down in
the swamp, and he may be coming home this way. Besides, it'll take
us all our time, now, to get home before dark. I guess there's no
use keeping the dogs any longer. We'll just let them go." So
saying, Don let the black dogs go free, but after a little
skirmishing through the open beech woods, the dogs appeared to lose
all interest in the expedition, and kept close to Don's heels.
Fido, on the other hand, followed, ranging the woods on either
side, cheerfully interested in scaring up rabbits, ground-hogs, and
squirrels. He had never known the rapture of bringing down big
game, and so was content with whatever came his way.
At length the hunters reached the main trail where their paths
separated; but a little of the swamp still remained, and on the
other side was the open clearing.
"This is your best way," said Don, pointing out the path to Hughie.
"We had bad luck to-day, but we'll try again. We may meet him
still, you know, so don't fire at any squirrel or anything. If I
hear a shot I'll come to you, and you do the same by me."
"I say," said Hughie, "where does this track of mine come out? Is
it below the Deepole there, or is it on the other side of the
clearing?"
"Why, don't you know?" said Don. "This runs right up to the back
of the Fisher's berry patch, and through the sugar-bush to your own
clearing. I'll go with you if you like."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Hughie, "I'll find it all right. Come on, Fido."
But Fido had disappeared. "Good night, Don."
"Good night," said Don. "Mind you don't fire unless it's at a
bear. I'll do the same."
In a few minutes Hughie found himself alone in the thick underbrush
of the swamp. The shadows were lying heavy, and the sunlight that
still caught the tops of the tall trees was quite lost in the gloom
of the low underbrush. Deep moss under foot, with fallen trees and
thick-growing balsam and cedars, made the walking difficult, and
every step Hughie wished himself out in the clearing. He began to
feel, too, the oppression of the falling darkness. He tried
whistling to keep up his courage, but the sound seemed to fill the
whole woods about him, and he soon gave it up.
After a few minutes he stood still and called for Fido, but the dog
had gone on some hunt of his own, and with a sense of deeper
loneliness, he set himself again to his struggle with the moss and
brush and fallen trees. At length he reached firmer ground, and
began with more cheerful heart to climb up to the open.
Suddenly he heard a rustle, and saw the brush in front of him move.
"Oh, there you are, you brute," he cried, "come in here. Come in,
Fido. Here, sir!"
He pushed the bushes aside, and his heart jumped and filled his
mouth. A huge, black shape stood right across his path not ten
paces away. A moment they gazed at each other, and then, with a
low growl, the bear began to sway awkwardly toward him. Hughie
threw up his gun and fired. The bear paused, snapping viciously
and tearing at his wounded shoulder, and then rushed on Hughie
without waiting to rise on his hind legs.
Like a flash Hughie dodged behind the brush, and then fled like the
wind toward the open. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the bear
shambling after him at a great pace, and gaining at every jump, and
his heart froze with terror. The balsams and spruces were all too
low for safety. A little way before him he saw a small birch. If
he could only make that he might escape. Summoning all his
strength he rushed for the tree, the bear closing fast upon him.
Could he spring up out of reach of the bear's awful claws?
Two yards from the tree he heard an angry snap and snarl at his
heels. With a cry, he dropped his gun, and springing for the
lowest bough, drew up his legs quickly after him with the horrible
feeling of having them ripped asunder. To his amazement he found
that the bear was not scrambling up the tree after him, but was
still some paces off, with Fido skirmishing at long range. It was
Fido's timely nip that had brought him to a sudden halt, and
allowed Hughie to make his climb in safety.
"Good dog, Fido. Sic him! Sic him, old fellow!" cried out Hughie,
but Fido was new to this kind of warfare, and at every jump of the
raging brute he fled into the brush with his tail between his legs,
returning, however, to the attack as the bear retired.
After driving Fido off, the bear rushed at the tree, and in a fury
began tearing up its roots. Then, as if realizing the futility of
this, he flung himself upon its trunk and began shaking it with
great violence from side to side.
Hughie soon saw that the tree would not long stand such an attack.
He slipped down to the lowest bough so that his weight might be
taken from the swaying top, and encouraging Fido, awaited results.
He found himself singularly cool. Having escaped immediate danger,
the hunter's instinct awoke within him, and he longed to get that
bear. If he only had his gun, he would soon settle him, but the
bear, unfortunately, had possession of that. He began hurriedly to
cut off as stout a branch as he could to make himself a club. He
was not a moment too soon, for the bear, realizing that he could
neither tear up the tree by the roots nor shake his enemy out of
it, decided, apparently, to go up for him.
He first set himself to get rid of Fido, which he partially
succeeded in doing by chasing him a long distance off. Then, with
a great rush, he flew at the tree, and with amazing rapidity began
to climb.
Hughie, surprised by this swift attack, hastened to climb to the
higher branches, but in a moment he saw that this would be fatal.
Remembering that the bear is like the dog in his sensitive parts,
he descended to meet his advancing foe, and reaching down, hit him
a sharp blow on the snout. With a roar of rage and surprise the
bear let go his hold, slipped to the ground, and began to tear up
the earth, sneezing violently.
"Oh, if I only had that gun," groaned Hughie, "I'd get him. And if
he gets away after Fido again, I believe I'll try it."
The bear now set himself to plan some new form of attack. He had
been wounded, but only enough to enrage him, and his fury served to
fix more firmly in his head the single purpose of getting into his
grip this enemy of his in the tree, whom he appeared to have so
nearly at his mercy.
Whatever his new plan might be, a necessary preliminary was getting
rid of Fido, and this he proceeded to do. Round about the trees he
pursued him, getting farther and farther away from the birch, till
Hughie, watching his chance, slipped down the tree and ran for his
gun. But no sooner had he stooped for it than the bear saw the
move, and with an angry roar rushed for him.
Once more Hughie sprang for his branch, but the gun caught in the
boughs and he slipped to the ground, the bear within striking
distance. With a cry he sprang again, reached his bough and drew
himself up, holding his precious gun safe, wondering how he had
escaped. Again it was Fido that had saved him, for as the bear had
gathered himself to spring, Fido, seeing his chance, rushed boldly
in, and flinging himself upon the hind leg of the enraged brute,
held fast. It was the boy's salvation, but alas! it was Fido's
destruction, for wheeling suddenly, the bear struck a swift
downward blow with his powerful front paw, and tore the whole side
of the faithful brute wide open. With a howl, poor Fido dragged
himself away out of reach and lay down, moaning pitifully.
The bear, realizing that he had got rid of one foe, now proceeded
more cautiously to deal with the other, and began warily climbing
the tree, keeping his wicked little eyes fixed upon Hughie.
Meantime, Hughie was loading his gun with all speed. He emptied
his powder-horn into the muzzle, and with the bear coming slowly
nearer, began to search for his bullets. Through one pocket after
another his trembling fingers flew, while with the butt of his gun
he menaced his approaching enemy.
"Where are those bullets?" he groaned. "Ah, here they are!" diving
into his trousers pocket. "Fool of a place to keep them, too!"
He took a handful of slugs and bullets, poured them into his gun,
rammed down a wadding of leaves upon all, retreating as he did so
to the higher limbs, the bear following him steadily. But just as
he had his cap securely fixed upon the nipple, the bear suddenly
revealed his plan. Holding by his front paws, he threw his hind
legs off from the trunk. It was his usual method of felling trees.
The tree swayed and bent till the top almost touched the ground.
But Hughie, with his legs wreathed round the trunk, brought his gun
to his shoulder, and with its muzzle almost touching the breast of
the hanging brute, pulled the trigger.
There was a terrific report, the bear dropped in a heap from the
tree, and Hughie was hurled violently to the ground some distance
away, partially stunned. He raised himself to see the bear
struggle up to a sitting position, and gnashing his teeth, and
flinging blood and foam from his mouth, begin to drag himself
toward him. He was conscious of a languid indifference, and found
himself wondering how long the bear would take to cover the
distance.
But while he was thus cogitating there was a sharp, quick bark, and
a great black form hurled itself at the bear's throat and bore the
fierce brute to the ground.
Drawing a long sigh, Hughie sank back to the ground, with the sound
of a far-away shot in his ears, and darkness veiling his eyes.
He was awakened by Don's voice anxiously calling him.
"Are you hurt much, Hughie? Did he squeeze you?"
Hughie sat up, blinking stupidly.
"What?" he asked. "Who?"
"Why, the bear, of course."
"The bear? No. Man! It's too bad you weren't here, Don," he went
on, rousing himself. "He can't be gone far."
"Not very," said Don, laughing loud. "Yonder he lies."
Hughie turned his head and gazed, wondering, at the great black
mass over which Don's black dogs were standing guard, and sniffing
with supreme satisfaction.
Then all came back to him.
"Where's Fido?" he asked, rising. "Yes, it was Fido saved me, for
sure. He tackled the bear every time he rushed at me, and hung
onto him just as I climbed the tree the second time."
As he spoke he walked over to the place where he had last seen the
dog. A little farther on, behind a spruce-tree, they found poor
Fido, horribly mangled and dead.
Hughie stooped down over him. "Poor old boy, poor old Fido," he
said, in a low voice, stroking his head.
Don turned away and walked whistling toward the bear. As he sat
beside the black carcass his two dogs came to him. He threw his
arms round them, saying, "Poor old Blackie! Poor Nigger!" and he
understood how Hughie was feeling behind the spruce-tree beside the
faithful dog that had given him his life.
As he sat there waiting for Hughie, he heard voices.
"Horo!" he shouted.
"Where are you? Is that you, Don?" It was his father's voice.
"Yes, here we are."
"Is Hughie there?" inquired another voice.
"Losh me! that's the minister," said Don. "Yes, all right," he
cried aloud, as up came Long John Cameron and the minister, with
Fusie and a stranger bringing up the rear.
"Fine work, this. You're fine fellows, indeed," cried Long John,
"frightening people in this way."
"Where is Hughie?" said the minister, sternly.
Hughie came from behind the brush, hurriedly wiping his eyes.
"Here, father," he said.
"And what are you doing here at this hour of the night, pray?" said
the minister, angrily, turning toward him.
"I couldn't get home very well," replied Hughie.
"And why not, pray? Don't begin any excuses with me, sir."
Nothing annoyed the minister as an attempt to excuse ill-doing.
"I guess he would have been glad enough to have got home half an
hour ago, sir," broke in Don, laughing. "Look there." He pointed
to the bear lying dead, with Nigger standing over him.
"The Lord save us!" said Long John Cameron, himself the greatest
among the hunters of the county. "What do you say? And how did
you get him? Jee-ru-piter! he's a grand one."
The old man, the minister, and Don walked about the bear in
admiring procession.
"Yon's a terrible gash," said Long John, pointing to a gaping wound
in the breast. "Was that your Snider, Don?"
"Not a bit of it, father. The bear's Hughie's. He killed him
himself."
"Losh me! And you don't tell me! And how did you manage that,
Hughie?"
"He chased me up that tree, and I guess would have got me only for
Fido."
The minister gasped.
"Got you? Was he as near as that?"
"He wasn't three feet away," said Hughie, and with that he
proceeded to give, in his most graphic style, a description of his
great fight with the bear.
"When I heard the first shot," said Don, "I was away across the
swamp. I tell you I tore back here, and when I came, what did I
see but Hughie and Mr. Bear both sitting down and looking coolly at
each other a few yards apart. And then Nigger downed him and I put
a bullet into his heart." Don was greatly delighted, and extremely
proud of Hughie's achievement.
"And how did you know about it?" asked Don of his father.
"It was the minister here came after me."
"Yes," said the minister, "it was Fusie told me you had gone off on
a bear hunt, and so I went along to the Cameron's with Mr. Craven
here, to see if you had got home."
Meantime, Mr. Craven had been looking Hughie over.
"Mighty plucky thing," he said. "Great nerve," and he lapsed into
silence, while Fusie could not contain himself, but danced from one
foot to the other with excited exclamations.
The minister had come out intending, as he said, "to teach that boy
a lesson that he would remember," but as he listened to Hughie's
story, his anger gave place to a great thankfulness.
"It was a great mercy, my boy," he said at length, when he was
quite sure of his voice, "that you had Fido with you."
"Yes, indeed, father," said Hughie. "It was Fido saved me."
"It was the Lord's goodness," said the minister, solemnly.
"And a great mercy," said Long John, "that your lad kept his head
and showed such courage. You have reason to be proud of him."
The minister said nothing just then, but at home, when recounting
the exploit to the mother, he could hardly contain his pride in his
son.
"Never thought the boy would have a nerve like that, he's so
excitable. I had rather he killed that bear than win a medal at
the university."
The mother sat silent through all the story, her cheek growing more
and more pale, but not a word did she say until the tale was done,
and then she said, "'Who delivereth thee from destruction.'"
"A little like David, mother, wasn't it?" said Hughie; but though
there was a smile on his face, his manner and tone were earnest
enough.
"Yes," said his mother, "a good deal like David, for it was the
same God that delivered you both."
"Rather hard to cut Fido out of his share of the glory," said Mr.
Craven, "not to speak of a cool head and a steady nerve."
Mrs. Murray regarded him for a moment or two in silence, as if
meditating an answer, but finally she only said, "We shall cut no
one out of the glory due to him."
At the supper-table the whole affair was discussed in all its
bearings. In this discussion Hughie took little part, making light
of his exploit, and giving most of the credit to Fido, and the
mother wondered at the unusual reserve and gravity that had fallen
upon her boy. Indeed, Hughie was wondering at himself. He had a
strange new feeling in his heart. He had done a man's deed, and
for the first time in his life he felt it unnecessary to glory in
his deeds. He had come to a new experience, that great deeds need
no voice to proclaim them. During the thrilling moments of that
terrible hour he had entered the borderland of manhood, and the awe
of that new world was now upon his spirit.
It was chiefly this new experience of his that was sobering him,
but it helped him not a little to check his wonted boyish
exuberance that at the table opposite him sat a strange young man,
across whose dark, magnetic face there flitted, now and then, a
lazy, cynical smile. Hughie feared that lazy smile, and he felt
that it would shrivel into self-contempt any feeling of
boastfulness.
The mother and Hughie said little to each other, waiting to be
alone, and after Hughie had gone to his room his mother talked long
with him, but when Mr. Craven, on his way to bed, heard the low,
quiet tones of the mother's voice through the shut door, he knew it
was not to Hughie she was speaking, and the smile upon his face
lost a little of its cynicism.
Next day there was no smile when he stood with Hughie under the
birch-tree, watching the lad hew flat one side, but gravely enough
he took the paper on which Hughie had written, "Fido, Sept. 13th,
18--," saying as he did so, "I shall cut this for you. It is good
to remember brave deeds."
CHAPTER XI
JOHN CRAVEN'S METHOD
Mr. John Craven could not be said to take his school-teaching
seriously; and indeed, any one looking at his face would hardly
expect him to take anything seriously, and certainly those who in
his college days followed and courted and kept pace with Jack
Craven, and knew his smile, would have expected from him anything
other than seriousness. He appeared to himself to be enacting a
kind of grim comedy, exile as he was in a foreign land, among
people of a strange tongue.
He knew absolutely nothing of pedagogical method, and consequently
he ignored all rules and precedents in the teaching and conduct of
the school. His discipline was of a most fantastic kind. He had a
feeling that all lessons were a bore, therefore he would assign the
shortest and easiest of tasks. But having assigned the tasks, he
expected perfection in recitation, and impressed his pupils with
the idea that nothing less would pass. His ideas of order were of
the loosest kind, and hence the noise at times was such that even
the older pupils found it unbearable; but when the hour for
recitation came, somehow a deathlike stillness fell upon the
school, and the unready shivered with dread apprehension. And yet
he never thrashed the boys; but his fear lay upon them, for his
eyes held the delinquent with such an intensity of magnetic,
penetrating power that the unhappy wretch felt as if any kind of
calamity might befall him.
When one looked at John Craven's face, it was the eyes that caught
and held the attention. They were black, without either gleam or
glitter, indeed almost dull--a lady once called them "smoky eyes."
They looked, under lazy, half-drooping lids, like things asleep,
except in moments of passion, when there appeared, far down, a
glowing fire, red and terrible. At such moments it seemed as if,
looking through these, one were catching sight of a soul ablaze.
They were like the dull glow of a furnace through an inky night.
He was constitutionally and habitually lazy, but in a reading
lesson he would rouse himself at times, and by his utterance of a
single line make the whole school sit erect. Friday afternoon he
gave up to what he called "the cultivation of the finer arts." On
that afternoon he would bring his violin and teach the children
singing, hear them read and recite, and read for them himself; and
no greater punishment could be imposed upon the school than the
loss of this afternoon.
"Man alive! Thomas, he's mighty queer," Hughie explained to his
friend. "When he sits there with his feet on the stove smoking
away and reading something or other, and letting them all gabble
like a lot of ducks, it just makes me mad. But when he wakes up
he puts the fear of death on you, and when he reads he makes you
shiver through and through. You know that long rigmarole,
'Friends, Romans, countrymen'? I used to hate it. Well, sir, he
told us about it last Friday. You know, on Friday afternoons we
don't do any work, but just have songs and reading, and that sort
of thing. Well, sir, last Friday he told us about the big row in
Rome, and how Caesar was murdered, and then he read that thing to
us. By gimmini whack! it made me hot and cold. I could hardly
keep from yelling, and every one was white. And then he read that
other thing, you know, about Little Nell. Used to make me sick,
but, my goodness alive! do you know, before he got through the
girls were wiping their eyes, and I was almost as bad, and you
could have heard a pin drop. He's mighty queer, though, lazy as
the mischief, and always smiling and smiling, and yet you don't
feel like smiling back."
"Do you like him?" asked Thomas, bluntly.
"Dunno. I'd like to, but he won't let you, somehow. Just smiles
at you, and you feel kind of small."
The reports about the master were conflicting and disquieting, and
although Hughie was himself doubtful, he stood up vehemently for
him at home.
"But, Hughie," protested the minister, discussing these reports, "I
am told that he actually smokes in school."
Hughie was silent.
"Answer me! Does he smoke in school hours?"
"Well," confessed Hughie, reluctantly, "he does sometimes, but only
after he gives us all our work to do."
"Smoke in school hours!" ejaculated Mrs. Murray, horrified.
"Well, what's the harm in that? Father smokes."
"But he doesn't smoke when he is preaching," said the mother.
"No, but he smokes right afterwards."
"But not in church."
"Well, perhaps not in church, but school's different. And anyway,
he makes them read better, and write better too," said Hughie,
stoutly.
"Certainly," said his father, "he is a most remarkable man. A most
unusual man."
"What about your sums, Hughie?" asked his mother.
"Don't know. He doesn't bother much with that sort of thing, and
I'm just as glad."
"You ought really to speak to him about it," said Mrs. Murray,
after Hughie had left the room.
"Well, my dear," said the minister, smiling, "you heard what Hughie
said. It would be rather awkward for me to speak to him about
smoking. I think, perhaps, you had better do it."
"I am afraid," said his wife, with a slight laugh, "it would be
just as awkward for me. I wonder what those Friday afternoons of
his mean," she continued.
"I am sure I don't know, but everywhere throughout the section I
hear the children speak of them. We'll just drop in and see. I
ought to visit the school, you know, very soon."
And so they did. The master was surprised, and for a moment
appeared uncertain what to do. He offered to put the classes
through their regular lessons, but at once there was a noisy outcry
against this on the part of the school, which, however, was
effectually and immediately quelled by the quiet suggestion on the
master's part that anything but perfect order would be fatal to the
programme. And upon the minister requesting that the usual
exercises proceed, the master smilingly agreed.
"We make Friday afternoons," he said, "at once a kind of reward
day for good work during the week, and an opportunity for the
cultivation of some of the finer arts."
And certainly he was a master in this business. He had strong
dramatic instincts, and a remarkable power to stimulate and draw
forth the emotions.
When the programme of singing, recitations, and violin-playing was
finished, there were insistent calls on every side for "Mark
Antony." It appeared to be the 'piece de resistance' in the minds
of the children.
"What does this mean?" inquired the minister, as the master stood
smiling at his pupils.
"Oh, they are demanding a little high tragedy," he said, "which I
sometimes give them. It assists in their reading lessons," he
explained, apologetically, and with that he gave them what Hughie
called, "that rigmarole beginning, 'Friends, Romans, countrymen,'"
Mark Antony's immortal oration.
"Well," said the minister, as they drove away from the school,
"what do you think of that, now?"
"Marvelous!" exclaimed his wife. "What dramatic power, what
insight, what interpretation!"
"You may say so," exclaimed her husband. "What an actor he would
make!"
"Yes," said his wife, "or what a minister he would make! I
understand, now, his wonderful influence over Hughie, and I am
afraid."
"O, he can't do Hughie any harm with things like that," replied her
husband, emphatically.
"No, but Hughie now and then repeats some of his sayings about--
about religion and religious convictions, that I don't like. And
then he is hanging about that Twentieth store altogether too much,
and I fancied I noticed something strange about him last Friday
evening when he came home so late."
"O, nonsense," said the minister. "His reputation has prejudiced
you, and that is not fair, and your imagination does the rest."
"Well, it is a great pity that he should not do something with
himself," replied his wife. "There are great possibilities in that
young man."
"He does not take himself seriously enough," said her husband.
"That is the chief trouble with him."
And this was apparently Jack Craven's opinion of himself, as is
evident from his letter to his college friend, Ned Maitland.
"Dear Ned:--
"For the last two months I have been seeking to adjust myself to my
surroundings, and find it no easy business. I have struck the land
of the Anakim, for the inhabitants are all of 'tremenjous' size,
and indeed, 'tremenjous' in all their ways, more particularly in
their religion. Religion is all over the place. You are liable to
come upon a boy anywhere perched on a fence corner with a New
Testament in his hand, and on Sunday the 'tremenjousness' of their
religion is overwhelming. Every other interest in life, as meat,
drink, and dress, are purely incidental to the main business of the
day, which is the delivering, hearing, and discussing of sermons.
"The padre, at whose house I am very happily quartered, is a
'tremenjous' preacher. He has visions, and gives them to me. He
gives me chills and thrills as well, and has discovered to me a
conscience, a portion of my anatomy that I had no suspicion of
possessing.
"The congregation is like the preacher. They will sit for two
hours, and after a break of a few minutes they will sit again for
two hours, listening to sermons; and even the interval is somewhat
evenly divided between their bread and cheese in the churchyard and
the discussion of the sermon they have just listened to. They are
great on theology. One worthy old party tackled me on my views of
the sermon we had just heard; after a little preliminary sparring I
went to my corner. I often wonder in what continent I am.
"The school, a primitive little log affair, has much run to seed,
but offers opportunity for repose. I shall avoid any unnecessary
excitement in this connection.
"In private life the padre is really very decent. We have great
smokes together, and talks. On all subjects he has very decided
opinions, and in everything but religion, liberal views. I lure
him into philosophic discussions, and overwhelm him with my newest
and biggest metaphysical terms, which always reduce his enormous
cocksureness to more reasonable dimensions.
"The minister's wife is quite another proposition. She argues,
too, but unfortunately she asks questions, in the meekest way
possible acknowledging her ignorance of my big terms, and insisting
upon definitions and exact meanings, and then it's all over with
me. How she ever came to this far land, heaven knows, and none but
heaven can explain such waste. Having no kindred soul to talk
with, I fancy she enjoys conversation with myself, (sic) revels in
music, is transported to the fifth heaven by my performance on the
violin, but evidently pities me and regards me as dangerous. But,
my dear Maitland, after a somewhat wide and varied experience of
fine ladies, I give you my verdict that here among the Anakim, and
in this wild, woody land, is a lady fine and fair and saintly. She
will bother me, I know. Her son Hughie (he of the bear), of whom I
told you, the lad with the face of an angel and the temper of an
angel, but of a different color--her son Hughie she must make into
a scholar. And no wonder, for already he has attained a remarkable
degree of excellence, by the grace, not of the little log school,
however, I venture to shy. His mother has been at him. But now
she feels that something more is needed, and for that she turns to
me. You will be able to see the humor of it, but not the pathos.
She wants to make a man out of her boy, 'a noble, pure-hearted
gentleman,' and this she lays upon me! Did I hear you laugh?
Smile not, it is the most tragic of pathos. Upon me, Jack Craven,
the despair of the professors, the terror of the watch, the--alas!
you know only too well. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth,
and before I could cry, 'Heaven forbid that I should have a hand in
the making of your boy!' she accepted my pledge to do her desire
for her young angel with the OTHER-angelic temper.
"And now, my dear Ned, is it for my sins that I am thus pursued?
What is awaiting me I know not. What I shall do with the young cub
I have not the ghostliest shadow of an idea. Shall I begin by
thrashing him soundly? I have refrained so far; I hate the role of
executioner. Or shall I teach him boxing? The gloves are a great
educator, and are at times what the padre would call 'means of
grace.'
"But what will become of me? Shall I become prematurely aged, or
shall I become a saint? Expect anything from your most devoted,
but most sorely bored and perplexed,
"J. C."
CHAPTER XII
THE DOWNFALL
In one point the master was a great disappointment to Hughie; he
could not be persuaded to play shinny. The usual challenge had
come up from the Front, with its more than usual insolence, and
Hughie, who now ranked himself among the big boys, felt the shame
and humiliation to be intolerable. By the most strenuous exertions
he started the game going with the first fall of snow, but it was
difficult to work up any enthusiasm for the game in the face of
Foxy's very determined and weighty opposition, backed by the
master's lazy indifference. For, in spite of Hughie's contempt and
open sneers, Foxy had determined to reopen his store with new and
glowing attractions. He seemed to have a larger command of capital
than ever, and he added several very important departments to his
financial undertaking.
The rivalry between Hughie and Foxy had become acute, but besides
this, there was in Hughie's heart a pent-up fierceness and longing
for revenge that he could with difficulty control. And though he
felt pretty certain that in an encounter with Foxy he would come
off second best, and though in consequence he delayed that
encounter as long as possible, he never let Foxy suspect his fear
of him, and waited with some anxiety for the inevitable crisis.
Upon one thing Hughie was resolved, that the challenge from the
Front should be accepted, and that they should no longer bear the
taunt of cowardice, but should make a try, even though it meant
certain defeat.
His first step had been the organization of the shinny club. His
next step was to awaken the interest of the master. But in vain he
enlarged upon the boastfulness and insolence of the Front; in vain
he recounted the achievements of their heroes of old, who in those
brave days had won victory and fame over all comers for their
school and county; the master would not be roused to anything more
than a languid interest in the game. And this was hardly to be
wondered at, for shinny in the snow upon the roadway in front of
the school was none too exciting. But from the day when the game
was transferred to the mill-pond, one Saturday afternoon when the
North and South met in battle, the master's indifference vanished,
for it turned out that he was an enthusiastic skater, and as Hughie
said, "a whirlwind on the ice."
After that day shinny was played only upon the ice, and the master,
assuming the position of coach, instituted a more scientific style
of game, and worked out a system of combined play that made even
small boys dangerous opponents to boys twice their size and weight.
Under his guidance it was that the challenge to the Front was so
worded as to make the contest a game on ice, and to limit the
number of the team to eleven. Formerly the number had been
somewhat indefinite, varying from fifteen to twenty, and the style
of play a general melee. Hughie was made captain of the shinny
team, and set himself, under the master's direction, to perfect
their combination and team play.
The master's unexpected interest in the shinny game was the first
and chief cause of Foxy's downfall as leader of the school, and if
Hughie had possessed his soul in patience he might have enjoyed the
spectacle of Foxy's overthrow without involving himself in the
painful consequences which his thirst for vengeance and his
vehement desire to accomplish Foxy's ruin brought upon him.
The story of the culmination of the rivalry between Hughie and Foxy
is preserved in John Craven's second letter to his friend Edward
Maitland. The letter also gives an account of the master's own
undoing--an undoing which bore fruit to the end of his life.
"Dear Ned:--
"I hasten to correct the false impression my previous letter must
have conveyed to you. It occurs to me that I suggested that this
school afforded unrivaled opportunities for repose. Further
acquaintance reveals to me the fact that it is the seething center
of the most nerve-racking excitement. The life of the school is
reflected in the life of the community, and the throbs of excitement
that vibrate from the school are felt in every home of the section.
We are in the thick of preparations for a deadly contest with the
insolent, benighted, boastful, but hitherto triumphant Front, in the
matter of shinny. You know my antipathy to violent sports, and you
will find some difficulty in picturing me an enthusiastic trainer
and general director of the Twentieth team, flying about, wildly
gesticulating with a club, and shrieking orders, imprecations,
cautions, encouragements, in the most frantic manner, at as furious
a company of little devils as ever went joyously to battle.
"Then, as if this were not excitement enough, I am made the
unwitting spectator of a truly Homeric contest, bloodier by far
than many of those fought on the plains of windy Troy, between the
rival leaders of the school, to wit, Hughie of the angelic face and
OTHER-angelic temper, and an older and much heavier boy, who
rejoices in the cognomen of 'Foxy,' as being accurately descriptive
at once of the brilliance of his foliage and of his financial
tactics.
"It appears that for many months this rivalry has existed, but I am
convinced that there is more in the struggle than appears on the
surface. There is some dark and deadly mystery behind it all that
only adds, of course, to the thrilling interest it holds for me.
"Long before I arrived on the arena, which was an open space in the
woods in front of what Foxy calls his store, wild shrieks and yells
fell upon my ears, as if the aboriginal denizens of the forest had
returned. Quietly approaching, I soon guessed the nature of the
excitement, and being unwilling to interfere until I had thoroughly
grasped the ethical and other import of the situation, I shinned up
a tree, and from this point of vantage took in the spectacle. It
appeared from Foxy's violent accusations that Hughie had been
guilty of wrecking the store, which, by the way, the latter utterly
despises and contemns. The following interesting and striking
conversation took place:
"'What are you doing in my store, anyway?' says he of the brilliant
foliage. 'You're just a thief, that's what you are, and a sneaking
thief.'
"Promptly the lie comes back. 'I wasn't touching your rotten
stuff!' and again the lie is exchanged.
"Immediately there is demand from the spectators that the matter be
argued to a demonstration, and thereupon one of the larger boys,
wishing to precipitate matters and to furnish a casus belli, puts a
chip upon Hughie's shoulder and dares Foxy to knock it off. But
Hughie flings the chip aside.
"'Go away with yourself and your chip. I'm not going to fight for
any chip.'
"Yells of derision, 'Cowardy, cowardy, custard,' 'Give him a good
cuffing, Foxy,' 'He's afraid,' and so forth. And indeed, Hughie
appears none too anxious to prove his innocence and integrity upon
the big and solid body of his antagonist.
"Foxy, much encouraged by the clamor of his friends, deploys in
force in front of his foe, shouting, 'Come on, you little thief!'
"'I'm not a thief! I didn't touch one of your things!'
"'Whether you touched my things or not, you're a thief, anyway, and
you know you are. You stole money, and I know it, and you know it
yourself.'
"To this Hughie strangely enough makes no reply, wherein lies the
mystery. But though he makes no reply he faces up boldly to Foxy
and offers battle. This is evidently a surprise to Foxy, who
contents himself with threats as to what he can do with his one
hand tied behind his back, and what he will do in a minute, while
Hughie waits, wasting no strength upon words.
"Finally Foxy strides to his store door, and apparently urged to
frenzy by the sight of the wreckage therein, comes back and lands a
sharp cuff on his antagonist's ear.
"It is all that is needed. As if he had touched a spring, Hughie
flew at him wildly, inconsequently making a windmill of his arms.
But fortunately he runs foul of one of Foxy's big fists, and falls
back with spouting nose. Enthusiastic yells from Foxy's following.
And Foxy, having done much better than he expected, is encouraged
to pursue his advantage.
"Meantime the blood is being mopped off Hughie's face with a
snowball, his tears flowing equally with his blood.
"'Wait till to-morrow,' urges Fusie, his little French fidus
Achates.
"'To-morrow!' yells Hughie, suddenly. 'No, but now! I'll kill the
lying, sneaking, white-faced beast now, or I'll die myself!' after
which heroic resolve he flings himself, blood and tears, upon the
waiting Foxy, and this time with better result, for Foxy, waiting
the attack with arms up and eyes shut, finds himself pummeled all
over the face, and after a few moments of ineffectual resistance,
turns, and in quite the Homeric way seeks safety in flight,
followed by the furious and vengeful Achilles, and the jeering
shouts of the bloodthirsty but disappointed rabble.
"As I have said, the mystery behind it remains unsolved, but Foxy's
reign is at an end, and with him goes the store, for which I am
devoutly thankful.
"I would my tale ended here with the downfall of Foxy, but, my dear
Ned, I have to record a sadder and more humiliating downfall than
that--the abject and utter collapse of my noble self. I have once
more played the fool, and played into the hands of the devil, mine
own familiar and well-beloved devil.
"The occasion I need not enlarge upon; it always waits. A long
day's skate, a late supper with some of the wilder and more
reckless outcasts of this steady-going community that frequent the
back store, results in my appearing at the manse door late at
night, very unsteady of leg and incoherent of speech. By a most
unhappy chance, a most scurvy trick my familiar devil played upon
me, the door is opened by the minister's wife. I can see her look
of fear, horror, and loathing yet. It did more to pull me together
than a cold bath, so that I saved myself the humiliation of speech
and escaped to my room.
"And now, what do you think? Reproaches, objurgations, and final
dismissal on the part of the padre, tearful exhortations to
repentance on the part of his wife? Not a bit. If you believe me,
sir, my unhappy misadventure remains a secret with her. She told
not a soul. Remarkably fine, I call that. And what more, think
you? A cold and haughty reserve, or a lofty pity, with the fearful
expectation of judgment? Not in the least. Only a little added
kindness, a deeper note to the frank, sympathetic interest she has
always shown, and that is all. My dear chap, I offered to leave,
but when she looked at me with those great hazel-brown eyes of hers
and said, 'Why should you go? Would it be better for you any place
else?' I found myself enjoying the luxury of an entirely new set of
emotions, which I shall not analyze to you. But I feel more
confident than ever that I shall either die early or end in being a
saint.
"And now, do you know, she persists in ignoring that anything has
taken place, talks to me about her young men and her hopes for
them, the work she would do for them, and actually asks my
assistance! It appears that ever since their Great Revival, which
is the beginning of days to them, events being dated from before
the Great Revival or after, some of these young men have a desire
to be ministers, or think they have. It is really her desire, I
suspect, for them. The difficulty is, preparation for college. In
this she asks my help. The enormous incongruity of the situation
does not appear to strike her, that I, the--too many unutterable
things--should be asked to prepare these young giants, with their
'tremenjous' religious convictions, for the ministry; nevertheless
I yield myself to do anything and everything she lays upon me. I
repeat, I shall without doubt end in being a saint myself, and
should not be surprised to find myself with these 'tremenjous'
young men on the way to Holy Orders. Fancy the good Doctor's face!
He would suspect a lurking pleasantry in it all.
"This letter, I know, will render chaotic all your conceptions of
me, and in this chaos of mind I can heartily sympathize. What the
next chapter will be, God only knows! It depends upon how my
familiar devil behaves himself. Meantime, I am parleying with him,
and with some anxiety as to the result subscribe myself,
"Your friend,
"J. C."
CHAPTER XIII
THE FIRST ROUND
The challenge from the Front was for the best two out of three, the
first game to be played the last day of the year. Steadily, under
Craven's coaching, the Twentieth team were perfected in their
systematic play; for although Craven knew nothing of shinny, he had
captained the champion lacrosse team of the province of Quebec, and
the same general rules of defense and attack could be applied with
equal success to the game of shinny. The team was greatly
strengthened by the accession of Thomas Finch and Don Cameron, both
of whom took up the school again with a view to college. With
Thomas in goal, Hughie said he felt as if a big hole had been
filled up behind him.
The master caused a few preliminary skirmishes with neighboring
teams to be played by way of practice, and by the time the end of
the year had come, he felt confident that the team would not
disgrace their school. His confidence was not ill-founded.
"We have covered ourselves with glory," he writes to his friend Ned
Maitland, "for we have whipped to a finish the arrogant and mighty
Front. I am more than ever convinced that I shall have to take a
few days off and get away to Montreal, or some other retired spot,
to recover from the excitement of the last week.
"Under my diligent coaching, in which, knowing nothing whatever of
shinny, I have striven to introduce something of the lacrosse
method, our team got into really decent fighting trim. Under the
leadership of their captain, who has succeeded in infusing his own
fierce and furious temper into his men, they played like little
demons, from the drop of the ball till the game was scored.
'Furious' is the word, for they and their captain play with
headlong fury, and that, I might say, is about their only defect,
for if they ever should run into a bigger team, who had any
semblance of head about them, and were not merely feet, they would
surely come to grief.
"I cannot stay to recount our victory. Let it suffice that we were
driven down in two big sleigh-loads by Thomas Finch, the back wall
of our defense, and Don Cameron, who plays in the right of the
forward line, both great, strapping fellows, who are to be
eventually, I believe, members of my preparatory class.
"The Front came forth, cheerful, big, confident, trusting in the
might of their legs. We are told that the Lord taketh no pleasure
in the legs of man, and this is true in the game of shinny. Not
legs alone, but heart and head win, with anything like equal
chances.
"Game called, 2:30; Captain Hughie has the drop; seizes the ball,
passes it to Fusie, who rushes, passes back to Hughie, who has
arrived in the vicinity of the enemy's goal, and shoots, swift and
straight, a goal. Time, 30 seconds.
"Again and again my little demons pierce the heavy, solid line of
the Front defense, and score, the enemy, big and bewildered, being
chiefly occupied in watching them do it. By six o'clock that
evening I had them safe at the manse in a condition of dazed
jubilation, quite unable to realize the magnificence of their
achievement. They had driven twelve miles down, played a two
hours' game of shinny, score eight to two, and were back safe and
sound, bearing with them victory and some broken shins, equally
proud of both.
"There is a big supper at the manse, prepared, I believe, with the
view of consolation, but transformed into a feast of triumph, the
minister being enthusiastically jubilant over the achievement of
his boys, his wife, if possible, even more so. The heroes feed
themselves to fullness, amazing and complete, the minister holds a
thanksgiving service, in which I have no doubt my little demons
most earnestly join, after which they depart to shed the radiance
of their glory throughout the section.
"And now I have to recount another experience of mine, quite unique
and altogether inexplicable. It appears that in this remarkable
abode--I would call it 'The Saint's Rest' were it not for the
presence of others than saints, and for the additional fact that
there is little rest for the saint who makes her dwelling here--in
this abode there prevails the quaint custom of watching the death
of the old year and the birth of the new. It is made the occasion
of religious and heart-searching rite. As the solemn hour of
midnight draws on, a silence falls upon the family, all of whom,
with the exception of the newest infant, are present. It is the
family festival of the year.
"'And what will they be doing at your home, Mr. Craven?' inquires
the minister. The contrast that rose before my mind was vivid
enough, for having received my invitation to a big dance, I knew my
sweet sisters would be having a jolly wild time about that moment.
My answer, given I feel in a somewhat flippant tone, appears to
shock my shinny captain of the angelic face, who casts a honor-
stricken glance at his mother, and waits for the word of reproof
that he thinks is due from the padre's lips.
"But before it falls the mother interposes with 'They will miss you
greatly this evening.' It was rather neatly done, and I think I
appreciated it.
"The rite proceeds. The initial ceremony is the repeating of a
verse of Scripture all round, and to save my life nothing comes to
my mind but the words, 'Remember Lot's wife.' As I cannot see the
appropriateness of the quotation, I pass.
"Five minutes before the stroke of twelve, they sing the Scottish
paraphrase beginning, 'O God of Bethel.' I do not suppose you ever
heard it, but it is a beautiful hymn, and singularly appropriate to
the hour. In this I lend assistance with my violin, the tune being
the very familiar one of 'Auld Lang Syne,' associated in my mind,
however, with occasions somewhat widely diverse from this. I
assure you I am thankful that my part is instrumental, for the
whole business is getting onto my emotions in a disturbing manner,
and especially when I allow my eyes to linger for a moment or two
on the face of the lady, the center of the circle, who is
deliberately throwing away her fine culture and her altogether
beautiful soul upon the Anakim here, and with a beautiful
unconsciousness of anything like sacrifice, is now thanking God for
the privilege of doing so. I have some moments of rare emotional
luxury, those moments that are next to tears.
"Then the padre offers one of those heart-racking prayers of his
that, whether they reach anything outside or not, somehow get down
into one's vitals, and stir up remorses, and self-condemnings, and
longings unutterable. Then they all kiss the mother and wish her a
Happy New-Year.
"My boy, my dear boy, I have never known deeper moments than those.
And when I went to shake hands with her, she seemed so like a queen
receiving homage, that without seeming to feel I was making a fool
of myself, I did the Queen Victoria act, and saluted her hand. It
is wonderful how great moments discover the lady to you. She must
have known how I was feeling, for with a very beautiful grace, she
said, 'Let me be your mother for to-night,' and by Jove, she kissed
me. I have been kissed before, and have kissed some women in my
time, but that is the only kiss I can remember, and s'help me Bob,
I'll never kiss another till I kiss my wife.
"And then and there, Maitland, I swore by all that I knew of God,
and by everything sacred in life, that I'd quit the past and be
worthy of her trust; for the mischief of it is, she will persist in
trusting you, puts you on your honor noblesse oblige business, and
all that. I think I told you that I might end in being a saint.
That dream I have surrendered, but, by the grace of heaven, I'm
going to try to be a man. And I am going to play shinny with those
boys, and if I can help them to win that match, and the big game of
life, I will do it.
"As witness my hand and seal, this first day of January, 18--
"J. C."
CHAPTER XIV
THE FINAL ROUND
After the New-Year the school filled up with big boys, some of whom
had returned with the idea of joining the preparatory class for
college, which the minister had persuaded John Craven to organize.
Shinny, however, became the absorbing interest for all the boys,
both big and little. This interest was intensified by the rumors
that came up from the Front, for it was noised through the
Twentieth section that Dan Munro, whose father was a cousin of
Archie Munro, the former teacher, had come from Marrintown and
taken charge of the Front school, and that, being used to the ice
game, and being full of tricks and swift as a bird, he was an
exceedingly dangerous man. More than that, he was training his
team with his own tricks, and had got back to school some of the
old players, among whom were no less renowned personages than Hec
Ross and Jimmie "Ben." Jimmie Ben, to wit, James son of Benjamin
McEwen, was more famed for his prowess as a fighter than for his
knowledge of the game of shinny, but every one who saw him play
said he was "a terror." Further, it was rumored that there was a
chance of them getting for goal Farquhar McRae, "Little Farquhar,"
or "Farquhar Bheg" (pronounced "vaick"), as he was euphoniously
called, who presumably had once been little, but could no longer
claim to be so, seeing that he was six feet, and weighed two
hundred pounds.
It behooved the Twentieth team, therefore, to bestir themselves
with all diligence, and in this matter Hughie gave no rest either
to himself or to any one else likely to be of use in perfecting his
team. For Hughie had been unanimously chosen captain, in spite of
his protests that the master or one of the big boys should hold
that place. But none of the big boys knew the new game as
perfectly as Hughie, and the master had absolutely refused, saying,
"You beat them once, Hughie, and you can do it again." And as the
days and weeks went on, Hughie fully justified the team's choice of
him as captain. He developed a genius for organization, a sureness
of judgment, and a tact in management, as well as a skill and speed
in play, that won the confidence of every member of his team. He
set himself resolutely to banish any remaining relics of the
ancient style of play. In the old game every one rushed to hit the
ball without regard to direction or distance, and the consequence
was, that from end to end of the field a mob of yelling, stick-
waving players more or less aimlessly followed in the wake of the
ball. But Hughie and the master changed all that, forced the men
to play in their positions, training them never to drive wildly
forward, but to pass to a man, and to keep their clubs down and
their mouths shut.
The striking characteristic of Hughie's own playing was a certain
fierceness, amounting almost to fury, so that when he was in the
attack he played for every ounce there was in him. His chief
weakness lay in his tempestuous temper, which he found difficult to
command, but as he worked his men from day to day, and week to
week, the responsibility of his position and the magnitude of the
issues at stake helped him to a self-control quite remarkable in
him.
As the fateful day drew near the whole section was stirred with an
intense interest and excitement, in which even the grave and solemn
elders shared, and to a greater degree, the minister and his wife.
At length the day, as all days great and small, actually arrived.
A big crowd awaited the appearance of "the folks from the Front."
They were expected about two, but it was not till half-past that
there was heard in the distance the sound of the bagpipes.
"Here they are! That's Alan the cooper's pipes," was the cry, and
before long, sure enough there appeared Alphonse le Roque driving
his French-Canadian team, the joy and pride of his heart, for
Alphonse was a born horse-trainer, and had taught his French-
Canadians many extraordinary tricks. On the dead gallop he
approached the crowd till within a few yards, when, at a sudden
command, they threw themselves upon their haunches, and came almost
to a standstill. With a crack of his long whip Alphonse gave the
command, "Deesplay yousef!" At once his stout little team began to
toss their beautiful heads, and broke into a series of prancing
curves that would not have shamed a pair of greyhounds. Then, as
they drew up to the stopping-point, he gathered up his lines, and
with another crack of his whip, cried, "Salute ze ladies!" when,
with true equine courtesy, they rose upon their hind legs and
gracefully pawed the empty air. Finally, after depositing his load
amid the admiring exclamations of the crowd, he touched their tails
with the point of his whip, gave a sudden "Whish!" and like hounds
from the leash his horses sprang off at full gallop.
One after another the teams from the Front swung round and emptied
their loads.
"Man! what a crowd!" said Hughie to Don. "There must be a hundred
at least."
"Yes, and there's Hec Ross and Jimmie Ben," said Don, "and sure
enough, Farquhar Begh. We'll be catching it to-day, whatever,"
continued Don, cheerfully.
"Pshaw! we licked as big men before. It isn't size," said Hughie,
with far more confidence than he felt.
It was half an hour before the players were ready to begin. The
rules of the game were few and simple. The play was to be one hour
each way, with a quarter of an hour rest between. There was to be
no tripping, no hitting on the shins when the ball was out of the
scrimmage, and all disputes were to be settled by the umpire, who
on this occasion was the master of the Sixteenth school.
"He's no good," grumbled Hughie to his mother, who was even more
excited than her boy himself. "He can't play himself, and he's too
easy scared."
"Never mind," said his mother, brightly; "perhaps he won't have
much to do."
"Much to do! Well, there's Jimmie Ben, and he's an awful fighter,
but I'm not going to let him frighten me," said Hughie, savagely;
"and there's Dan Munro, too, they say he's a terror, and Hec Ross.
Of course we've got just as good men, but they won't fight. Why,
Johnnie 'Big Duncan' and Don, there, are as good as any of them,
but they won't fight."
The mother smiled a little.
"What a pity! But why should they fight? Fighting is not shinny."
"No, that's what the master says. And he's right enough, too, but
it's awful hard when a fellow doesn't play fair, when he trips you
up or clubs you on the shins when you're not near the ball. You
feel like hitting him back."
"Yes, but that's the very time to show self-control."
"I know. And that's what the master says."
"Of course it is," went on his mother. "That's what the game is
for, to teach the boys to command their tempers. You remember 'he
that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city.'
"O, it's all right," said Hughie, "and easy enough to talk about."
"What's easy enough to talk about?" asked the master, coming up.
"Taking a city," said Mrs. Murray, smiling at him.
The master looked puzzled.
"Mother means," said Hughie, "keeping one's temper in shinny. But
I'm telling her it's pretty hard when a fellow clubs you on the
shins when you're away from the ball."
"Yes, of course it's hard," said the master, "but it's better than
being a cad," which brought a quick flush to Hughie's face, but
helped him more than anything else to keep himself in hand that
day.
"Can't understand a man," said the master, "who goes into a game
and then quits it to fight. If it's fighting, why fight, but if
it's shinny, play the game. Big team against us, eh, captain?" he
continued, looking at the Front men, who were taking a preliminary
spin upon the ice, "and pretty swift, too."
"If they play fair, I don't mind," said Hughie. "I'm not afraid of
them; but if they get slugging--"
"Well, if they get slugging," said the master, "we'll play the game
and win, sure."
"Well, it's time to begin," said Hughie, and with a good by to his
mother he turned away.
"Remember, take a city," she called out after him.
"All right, muzzie, I'll remember."
In a few moments the teams were in position opposite each other.
The team from the Front made a formidable show in weight and
muscle. At the right of the forward line stood the redoubtable Dan
Munro, the stocky, tricky, fierce captain of the Front team, and
with him three rather small boys in red shirts. The defense
consisted of Hec Ross, the much-famed and much-feared Jimmie Ben,
while in goal, sure enough, stood the immense and solid bulk of
Farquhar Bheg. The center was held by four boys of fair size and
weight.
In the Twentieth team the forward line was composed of Jack Ross,
Curly Ross's brother, Fusie, Davie Scotch, and Don Cameron. The
center was played by Hughie, with three little chaps who made up
for their lack of weight by their speed and skill. The defense
consisted of Johnnie "Big Duncan," to wit, John, the son of Big
Duncan Campbell, on the left hand, and the master on the right,
backed up by Thomas Finch in goal, who much against his will was in
the game that day. His heart was heavy within him, for he saw, not
the gleaming ice and the crowding players, but "the room" at home,
and his mother, with her pale, patient face, sitting in her chair.
His father, he knew, would be beside her, and Jessac would be
flitting about. "But for all that, she'll have a long day," he
said to himself, for only his loyalty to the school and to Hughie
had brought him to the game that day.
When play was called, Hughie, with Fusie immediately behind him,
stood facing Dan in the center with one of the little Red Shirts at
his back. It was Dan's drop. He made a pass or two, then shot
between his legs to a Red Shirt, who, upon receiving, passed far
out to Red Shirt number three, who flew along the outer edge and
returned swiftly to Dan, now far up the other side. Like the wind
Dan sped down the line, dodged Johnnie Big Duncan easily, and shot
from the corner, straight, swift, and true, a goal.
"One for the Front!" Eleven shinny-sticks went up in the air, the
bagpipes struck up a wild refrain, big Hec Ross and Jimmie Ben
danced a huge, unwieldy, but altogether jubilant dance round each
other, and then settled down to their places, for it was Hughie's
drop.
Hughie took the ball from the umpire and faced Dan with some degree
of nervousness, for Dan was heavy and strong, and full of
confidence. After a little manoeuvering he dropped the ball
between Dan's legs, but Dan, instead of attending to the ball,
charged full upon him and laid him flat, while one of the Red
Shirts, seizing the ball, flew off with it, supported by a friendly
Red Shirt on either side of him, with Dan following hard.
Right through the crowd dodged the Red Shirts till they came up to
the Twentieth line of defense, when forth came Johnnie Big Duncan
in swift attack. But the little Red Shirt who had the ball,
touching it slightly to the right, tangled himself up in Johnnie
Big Duncan's legs and sent him sprawling, while Dan swiped the ball
to another Red Shirt who had slipped in behind the master, for
there was no such foolishness as off-side in that game. Like
lightning the Red Shirt caught the ball, and rushing at Thomas,
shot furiously at close quarters. Goal number two for the Front!
Again on all sides rose frantic cheers. "The Front! The Front!
Murro forever!" Two games had been won, and not a Twentieth man
had touched the ball. With furtive, uncertain glances the men of
the Twentieth team looked one at the other, and all at their
captain, as if seeking explanation of this extraordinary situation.
"Well," said Hughie, in a loud voice, to the master, and with a
careless laugh, though at his heart he was desperate, "they are
giving us a little taste of our own medicine."
The master dropped to buckle his skate, deliberately unwinding the
strap, while the umpire allowed time.
"Give me a hand with this, Hughie," he called, and Hughie skated up
to him.
"Well," said Craven, smiling up into Hughie's face, "that's a good,
swift opening, isn't it?"
"Oh, it's terrible," groaned Hughie. "They're going to lick us off
the ice."
"Well," replied the master, slowly, "I wouldn't be in a hurry to
say so. We have a hundred minutes and more to win in yet. Now,
don't you see that their captain is their great card. Suppose you
let the ball go for a game or two, and stick to Dan. Trail him,
never let him shake you. The rest of us will take care of the
game."
"All right," said Hughie, "I'll stick to him," and off he set for
the center.
As the loser, Hughie again held the drop. He faced Dan with
determination to get that ball out to Fusie, and somehow he felt in
his bones that he should succeed in doing this. Without any
preliminary he dropped, and knocked the ball toward Fusie.
But this was evidently what Dan expected, for as soon as Hughie
made the motion to drop he charged hard upon the waiting Fusie.
Hughie, however, had his plan as well, for immediately upon the
ball leaving his stick, he threw himself in Dan's way, checking him
effectually, and allowing Fusie, with Don and Scotchie following,
to get away.
The Front defense, however, was too strong, and the ball came
shooting back toward the line of Reds, one of whom, making a short
run, passed far out to Dan on the right. But before the latter
could get up speed, Hughie was upon him, and ignoring the ball,
blocked and bothered and checked him, till one of the Twentieth
centers, rushing in, secured it for his side.
"Ha! well done, captain!" came Craven's voice across the ice, and
Hughie felt his nerve come back. If he could hold Dan, that deadly
Front combination might be broken.
Meantime Don had secured the ball from Craven, and was rushing up
his right wing.
"Here you are, Hughie," he cried, shooting across the Front goal.
Hughie sprang to receive, but before he could shoot Dan was upon
him, checking so hard that Hughie was sent sprawling to the ice,
while Dan shot away with the ball.
But before he had gone very far Hughie was after him like a
whirlwind, making straight for his own goal, so that by the time
Dan had arrived at shooting distance, Hughie was again upon him,
and while in the very act of steadying himself for his try at the
goal, came crashing into him with such fierceness of attack that
Dan was flung aside, while Johnnie Big Duncan, capturing the ball,
sent it across to the master.
It was the master's first chance for the day. With amazing
swiftness and dexterity he threaded the outer edge of the ice, and
with a sudden swerve across, avoided the throng that had gathered
to oppose him, and then with a careless ease, as if it were a
matter of little importance, he dodged in between the heavy Front
defense, shot his goal, and skated back coolly to his place.
The Twentieth's moment had come, and both upon the ice and upon the
banks the volume and fierceness of the cheering testified to the
intensity of the feeling that had been so long pent up.
That game had revealed to Hughie two important facts: the first,
that he was faster than Dan in a straight race; and the second,
that it would be advisable to feed the master, for it was clearly
apparent that there was not his equal upon the ice in dodging.
"That was well done, captain," said Craven to Hughie, as he was
coolly skating back to his position.
"A splendid run, sir," cried Hughie, in return.
"Oh, the run was easy. It was your check there that did the trick.
That's the game," he continued, lowering his voice. "It's hard on
you, though. Can you stand it?"
"Well, I can try for a while," said Hughie, confidently.
"If you can," said the master, "we've got them," and Hughie settled
down into the resolve that, cost what it might, he would stick like
a leech to Dan.
He imparted his plan to Fusie, adding, "Now, whenever you see me
tackle Dan, run in and get the ball. I'm not going to bother about
it."
Half an hour had gone. The score stood two to one in favor of the
Front, but the result every one felt to be still uncertain. That
last attack of Hughie's, and the master's speedy performance, gave
some concern to the men of the Front, and awakened a feeling of
confidence in the Twentieth team.
But Dan, wise general that he was, saw the danger, and gave his
commands ere he faced off for the new game.
"When that man Craven gets it," he said to the men of the center,
"make straight for the goal. Never mind the ball."
The wisdom of this order became at once evident, for when in the
face-off he secured the ball, Hughie clung so tenaciously to his
heels and checked him so effectually, that he was forced to resign
it to the Reds, who piercing the Twentieth center, managed to
scurry up the ice with the ball between them. But when, met by
Craven and Johnnie Big Duncan, they passed across to Dan, Hughie
again checked so fiercely that Johnnie Big Duncan secured the ball,
passed back to the master, who with another meteoric flash along
the edge of the field broke through the Front's defense, and again
shot.
It was only Farquhar Bheg's steady coolness that saved the goal.
It was a near enough thing, however, to strike a sudden chill to
the heart of the Front goal-keeper, and to make Dan realize that
something must be done to check these dangerous rushes of Craven.
"Get in behind the defense there, and stay there," he said to two
of his centers, and his tone indicated that his serene confidence
in himself and his team was slightly shaken. Hughie's close
checking was beginning to chafe him, for his team in their practice
had learned to depend unduly upon him.
Noticing Dan's change in the disposition of his men, Hughie moved
up two of his centers nearer to the Front defense.
"Get into their way," he said "and give the master a clear field."
But this policy only assisted Dan's plan of defense, for the
presence of so many players before the Front goal filled up the ice
to such an extent that Craven's rushes were impeded by mere
numbers.
For some time Dan watched the result of his tactics well satisfied,
remaining himself for the time in the background. During one of
the pauses, when the ball was out of play, he called one of the
little Reds to him.
"Look here," he said, "you watch this. Right after one of those
rushes of Craven's, don't follow him down, but keep up to your
position. I'll get the ball to you somehow, and then you'll have a
chance to shoot. No use passing to me, for this little son of a
gun is on my back like a flea on a dog." Dan was seriously
annoyed.
The little Red passed the word around and patiently waited his
chance. Once and again the plan failed, chiefly because Dan could
not get the ball out of the scrimmage, but at length, when Hughie
had been tempted to rush in with the hope of putting in a shot, the
ball slid out of the scrimmage, and Dan, swooping down upon it,
passed swiftly to the waiting Red who immediately shot far out to
his alert wing, and then rushing down the center and slipping past
Johnnie Big Duncan, who had gone forth to meet Dan coming down the
right, and the master who was attending to the little Red on the
wing, received the ball, and putting in a short, swift shot, scored
another goal for the Front, amid a tempest of hurrahings from the
team and their supporters.
The game now stood three to one in favor of the Front, and up to
the end of the first hour no change was made in this score.
And now there was a scene of the wildest enthusiasm and confusion.
The Front people flocked upon the ice and carried off their team to
their quarter of the shanty, loading them with congratulations and
refreshing them with various drinks.
"Better get your men together, captain," suggested Craven, and
Hughie gathered them into the Twentieth corner of the shanty.
In spite of the adverse score Hughie found his team full of fight.
They crowded about him and the master, eager to listen to any
explanation of the present defeat that might be offered for their
comfort, or to any plans by which the defeat might be turned into
victory. Some minutes they spent in excitedly discussing the
various games, and in good-naturedly chaffing Thomas Finch for his
failure to prevent a score. But Thomas had nothing to say in
reply. He had done his best, and he had a feeling that they all
knew it. No man was held in higher esteem by the team than the
goal-keeper.
"Any plan, captain?" asked the master, after they had talked for
some minutes, and all grew quiet.
"What do you think, sir?" said Hughie.
"O, let us hear from you. You're the captain."
"Well," said Hughie, slowly, and with deliberate emphasis, "I think
we are going to win." (Yells from all sides.) "At any rate we
ought to win, for I think we have the better team." (More yells.)
"What I mean is this, I think we are better in combination play,
and I don't think they have a man who can touch the master."
Enthusiastic exclamations, "That's right!" "Better believe it!"
"Horo!"
"But we have a big fight before us. And that Dan Munro's a terror.
The only change I can think of is to open out more and fall back
from their goal for a little while. And then, if I can hold Dan--"
"Cries of "You'll hold him all right!" "You are the lad!"
"Everybody should feed the master. They can't stop him, any of
them. But I would say for the first while, anyway, play defense.
What do you think, sir?" appealing to the master.
"I call that good tactics. But don't depend too much upon me; if
any man has a chance for a run and a shot, let him take it. And
don't give up your combination in your forward line. The captain
is quite right in seeking to draw them away from their goal. Their
defense territory is too full now. Now, what I have noticed is
this, they mainly rely upon Dan Munro and upon their three big
defense men. For the first fifteen minutes they will make their
hardest push. Let us take the captain's advice, fall back a
little, and so empty their defense. But on the whole, keep your
positions, play to your men, and," he added, with a smile, "don't
get too mad."
"I guess they will be making some plans, too," said Thomas Finch,
slowly, and everybody laughed.
"That's quite right, Thomas, but we'll give them a chance for the
first while to show us what they mean to do."
At this point the minister came in, looking rather gloomy.
"Well, Mr. Craven, rather doubtful outlook, is it not?"
"O, not too bad, sir," said the master, cheerfully.
"Three to one. What worse do you want?"
"Well, six to one would be worse," replied the master. "Besides,
their first two games were taken by a kind of fluke. We didn't
know their play. You will notice they have taken only one in the
last three-quarters of an hour."
"I doubt they are too big for you," continued the minister.
"Isn't altogether size that wins in shinny," said Mr. Craven.
"Hughie there isn't a very big man, but he can hold any one of
them."
"Well, I hope you may be right," said the minister. "I am sorry I
have to leave the game to see a sick man up Kenyon way."
"Sorry you can't stay, sir, to see us win," said Craven,
cheerfully, while Hughie slipped out to see his mother before she
went.
"Well, my boy," said his mother, "you are playing a splendid game,
and you are getting better as you go on."
"Thanks, mother. That's the kind of talk we like," said Hughie,
who had been a little depressed by his father's rather gloomy
views. "I'm awfully sorry you can't stay."
"And so am I, but we must go. But we shall be back in time for
supper, and you will ask all the team to come down to celebrate
their victory."
"Good for you, mother! I'll tell them, and I bet they'll play."
Meantime the team from the Front had been having something of a
jollification in their quarters. They were sure of victory, and in
spite of their captain's remonstrances had already begun to pass
round the bottle in the way of celebration.
"They're having something strong in there," said little Mac
McGregor. "Wish they'd pass some this way."
"Let them have it," said Johnnie Big Duncan, whose whole family
ever since the revival had taken a total abstinence pledge,
although this was looked upon as a very extreme position indeed, by
almost all the community. But Big Duncan Campbell had learned by
very bitter experience that for him, at least, there was no safety
in a moderate use of "God's good creature," as many of his fellow
church-members designated the "mountain dew," and his sons had
loyally backed him up in this attitude.
"Quite, right!" said the master, emphatically. "And if they had
any sense they would know that with every drink they are throwing
away a big chance of winning."
"Horo, you fellows!" shouted big Hec Ross across to them, "aren't
you going to play any more? Have you got enough of it already?"
"We will not be caring for any more of yon kind," said Johnnie Big
Duncan, good-naturedly, "and we were thinking of giving you a
change."
"Come away and be at it, then," said Hec, "for we're all getting
cold."
"That's easily cured," said Dan, as they sallied forth to the ice
again, "for I warrant you will not be suffering from the cold in
five minutes."
When the teams took up their positions, it was discovered that Dan
had fallen back to the center, and Hughie was at a loss to know how
to meet this new disposition of the enemy's force.
"Let them go on," said the master, with whom Hughie was holding a
hurried consultation. "You stick to him, and we'll play defense
till they develop their plan."
The tactics of the Front became immediately apparent upon the drop
of the ball, and proved to be what the master had foretold. No
sooner had the game begun than the big defense men advanced with
the centers to the attack, and when Hughie followed up his plan of
sticking closely to Dan Munro and hampering him, he found Jimmie
Ben upon him, swiping furiously with his club at his shins, with
evident intention of intimidating him, as well as of relieving Dan
from his attentions. But if Jimmie Ben thought by his noisy
shouting and furious swiping to strike terror to the heart of the
Twentieth captain, he entirely misjudged his man; for without
seeking to give him back what he received in kind, Hughie played
his game with such skill and pluck, that although he was
considerably battered about the shins, he was nevertheless able to
prevent Dan from making any of his dangerous rushes.
Craven, meantime, if he noticed Hughie's hard case, was so fully
occupied with the defense of the goal that he could give no thought
to anything else. Shot after shot came in upon Thomas at close
range, and so savage and reckless was the charge of the Front that
their big defense men, Hec Ross and Jimmie Ben, abandoning their
own positions, were foremost in the melee before the Twentieth
goal.
For fully fifteen minutes the ball was kept in the Twentieth
territory, and only the steady coolness of Craven and Johnnie Big
Duncan, backed by Hughie's persistent checking of the Front captain
and the magnificent steadiness of Thomas in goal, saved the game.
At length, as the fury of the charge began to expend itself a
little, Craven got his chance. The ball had been passed out to Dan
upon the left wing of the Front forward line. At once Hughie was
upon him, but Jimmie Ben following hard, with a cruel swipe at
Hughie's skates, laid him flat, but not until he had succeeded in
hindering to some degree Dan's escape with the ball. Before the
Front captain could make use of his advantage and get clear away,
the master bore down upon him like a whirlwind, hurled him clear
off his feet, secured the ball, dashed up the open field, and
eluding the two centers, who had been instructed to cover the goal,
easily shot between the balsam-trees.
For a few moments the Twentieth men went mad, for they all felt
that a crisis had been passed. The failure of the Front in what
had evidently been a preconcerted and very general attack was
accepted as an omen of victory.
The Front men, on the other hand, were bitterly chagrined. They
had come so near it, and yet had failed. Jimmie Ben was especially
savage. He came down the ice toward the center, yelling defiance
and threats of vengeance. "Come on here! Don't waste time. Let
us at them. We'll knock them clear off the ice."
It was Dan's drop. As he was preparing to face off, the master
skated up and asked the umpire for time. At once the crowd
gathered round.
"What's the matter?" "What's up?" "What do you want?" came on all
sides from the Front team, now thoroughly aroused and thirsting for
vengeance.
"Mr. Umpire," said the master, "I want to call your attention to a
bit of foul play that must not be allowed to go on"; and then he
described Jimmie Ben's furious attack upon Hughie.
"It was a deliberate trip, as well as a savage swipe at a man's
shins when the ball was not near."
At once Jimmie Ben gave him the lie, and throwing down his club,
slammed his cap upon the ice and proceeded to execute a war-dance
about it.
For a few moments there was a great uproar, and then the master's
voice was heard again addressing the umpire.
"I want to know your ruling upon this, Mr. Umpire"; and somehow his
voice commanded a perfect stillness.
"Well," said the umpire, hesitating, "of course--if a man trips it
is foul play, but--I did not see any tripping. And of course--
swiping at a man's shins is not allowed, although sometimes--it
can't very well be helped in a scrimmage."
"I merely want to call your attention to it," said the master. "My
understanding of our arrangements, Mr. Munro," he said, addressing
the Front captain, "is that we are here to play shinny. You have
come up here, I believe, to win the game by playing shinny, and we
are here to prevent you. If you have any other purpose, or if any
of your men have any other purpose, we would be glad to know it
now, for we entered this game with the intention of playing
straight, clean shinny."
"That's right!" called out Hec Ross; "that's what we're here for."
And his answer was echoed on every side, except by Jimmie Ben, who
continued to bluster and offer fight.
"O, shut your gab!" finally said Farquhar Bheg, impatiently. "If
you want to fight, wait till after the game is done."
"Here's your cap, Jimmie," piped a thin, little voice. "You'll
take cold in your head." It was little French Fusie, holding up
Jimmie's cap on the end of his shinny club, and smiling with the
utmost good nature, but with infinite impudence, into Jimmie's
face.
At once there was a general laugh at Jimmie Ben's expense, who with
a growl, seized his cap, and putting it on his head, skated off to
his place.
"Now," said Hughie, calling his men together for a moment, "let us
crowd them hard, and let's give the master every chance we can."
"No," said the master, "they are waiting for me. Suppose you leave
Dan to me for a while. You go up and play your forward combination.
They are not paying so much attention to you. Make the attack from
your wing."
At the drop Dan secured the ball, and followed by Fusie, flew up
the center with one of the Reds on either hand. Immediately the
master crossed to meet him, checked him hard, and gave Fusie a
chance, who, seizing the ball, passed far up to Hughie on the
right.
Immediately the Twentieth forward line rushed, and by a beautiful
hit of combined play, brought the ball directly before the Front
goal, when Don, holding it for a moment till Hughie charged in upon
Farquhar Bheg, shot, and scored.
The result of their combination at once inspired the Twentieth team
with fresh confidence, and proved most disconcerting to their
opponents.
"That's the game, boys," said the master, delightedly. "Keep your
heads, and play your positions." And so well did the forward line
respond that for the next ten minutes the game was reduced to a
series of attacks upon the Front goal, and had it not been for the
dashing play of their captain and the heavy checking of the Front
defense, the result would have been most disastrous to them.
Meantime, the Twentieth supporters, lined along either edge, became
more and more vociferous as they began to see that their men were
getting the game well into their own hands. That steady, cool,
systematic play of man to man was something quite new to those
accustomed to the old style of game, and aroused the greatest
enthusiasm.
Gradually the Front were forced to fall back into their territory,
and to play upon the defensive, while the master and Johnnie Big
Duncan, moving up toward the center, kept their forward line so
strongly supported, and checked so effectually any attempts to
break through, that thick and fast the shots fell upon the enemy's
goal.
There remained only fifteen minutes to play. The hard pace was
beginning to tell upon the big men, and the inevitable reaction
following their unwise "celebrating" began to show itself in their
stale and spiritless play. On the other hand, the Twentieth were
as fresh as ever, and pressed the game with greater spirit every
moment.
"Play out toward the side," urged Dan, despairing of victory, but
determined to avert defeat, and at every opportunity the ball was
knocked out of play. But like wolves the Twentieth forwards were
upon the ball, striving to keep it in play, and steadily forcing it
toward the enemy's goal.
Dan became desperate. He was wet with perspiration, and his breath
was coming in hard gasps. He looked at his team. The little Reds
were fit enough, but the others were jaded and pumped out. Behind
him stood Jimmie Ben, savage, wet, and weary.
At one of the pauses, when the ball was out of play, Dan dropped on
his knee.
"Hold on there a minute," he cried; "I want to fix this skate of
mine."
Very deliberately he removed his strap, readjusted his skate, and
began slowly to set the strap in place again.
"They want a rest, I guess. Better take off the time, umpire,"
sang out Fusie, dancing as lively as a cricket round Jimmie Ben,
who looked as if he would like to devour him bodily.
"Shut up, Fusie!" said Hughie. "We've got all the time we need."
"You have, eh?" said Jimmie Ben, savagely.
"Yes," said Hughie, in sudden anger, for he had not forgotten
Jimmie Ben's cruel swipe. "We don't need any more time than we've
got, and we don't need to play any dirty tricks, either. We're
going to beat you. We've got you beaten now."
"Blank your impudent face! Wait you! I'll show you!" said Jimmie
Ben.
"You can't scare me, Jimmie Ben," said Hughie, white with rage.
"You tried your best and you couldn't do it."
"Play the game, Hughie," said the master, in a low tone, skating
round him, while Hec Ross said, good-naturedly, "Shut up Jimmie
Ben. You'll need all your wind for your heels," at which all but
Jimmie Ben laughed.
For a moment Dan drew his men together.
"Our only chance," he said, "is in a rush. Now, I want every man
to make for that goal. Never mind the ball. I'll get the ball
there. And then you, Jimmie Ben, and a couple of you centers, make
right back here on guard."
"They're going to rush," said Hughie to his team. "Don't all go
back. Centers fall back with me. You forwards keep up."
At the drop Dan secured the ball, and in a moment the Front rush
came. With a simultaneous yell the whole ten men came roaring down
the ice, waving their clubs and flinging aside their lightweight
opponents. It was a dangerous moment, but with a cry of "All
steady, boys!" Hughie threw himself right into Dan's way. But just
for such a chance Jimmie Ben was watching, and rushing upon Hughie,
caught him fairly with his shoulder and hurled him to the ice,
while the attacking line swept over him.
For a single moment Hughie lay dazed, but before any one could
offer help he rose slowly, and after a few deep breaths, set off
for the scrimmage.
There was a wild five minutes. Eighteen or twenty men were massed
in front of the Twentieth goal, striking, shoving, yelling, the
solid weight of the Front defense forcing the ball ever nearer the
goal. In the center of the mass were Craven, Johnnie Big Duncan,
and Don fighting every inch.
For a few moments Hughie hovered behind his goal, his heart full
of black rage, waiting his chance. At length he saw an opening.
Jimmie Ben, slashing heavily, regardless of injury to himself or
any others, had edged the ball toward the Twentieth left. Taking a
short run, Hughie, reckless of consequences, launched himself head
first into Jimmie Ben's stomach, swiping viciously at the same time
at the ball. For a moment Jimmie Ben was flung back, and but for
Johnnie Big Duncan would have fallen, but before he could regain
his feet, the ball was set free of the scrimmage and away. Fusie,
rushing in, had snapped it up and had gone scuttling down the ice,
followed by Hughie and the master.
Before Fusie had got much past center, Dan, who had been playing in
the rear of the scrimmage, overtook him, and with a fierce body
check upset the little Frenchman and secured the ball. Wheeling,
he saw both Hughie and Craven bearing down swiftly upon him.
"Rush for the goal!" he shouted to Jimmie Ben, who was following
Hughie hard. Jimmie Ben hesitated.
"Back to your defense!" yelled Dan, cutting across and trying to
escape between Hughie and Craven.
It was in vain. Both of the Twentieth men fell upon him, and the
master, snatching the ball, sped like lightning down the ice.
The crowd went wild.
"Get back! Get back there!" screamed Hughie to the mob crowding in
upon the ice. "Give us room! Give us a show!"
At this moment Craven, cornered by Hec Ross and two of the Red
Shirts, with Dan hard upon his heels, passed clear across the ice
to Hughie. With a swift turn Hughie caught the ball, dodged Jimmie
Ben's fierce spring at him, and shot. But even as he shot, Jimmie
Ben, recovering his balance, reached him and struck a hard,
swinging blow upon his ankle. There was a sharp crack, and Hughie
fell to the ice. The ball went wide.
"Time, there, umpire!" cried the master, falling on his knees
beside Hughie. "Are you hurt, Hughie?" he asked, eagerly. "What
is it, my boy?"
"Oh, master, it's broken, but don't stop. Don't let them stop. We
must win this game. We've only a few minutes. Take me back to
goal and send Thomas out."
The eager, hurried whisper, the intense appeal in the white face
and dark eyes, made the master hesitate in his emphatic refusal.
"You can't--"
"Oh, don't stop! Don't stop it for me," cried Hughie, gripping the
master's arm. "Help me up and take me back."
The master swore a fierce oath.
"We'll do it, my boy. You're a trump. Here, Don," he called
aloud, "we'll let Hughie keep goal for a little," and they ran
Hughie back to the goal on one skate.
"You go out, Thomas," gasped Hughie. "Don't talk. We've only five
minutes."
"They have broken his leg," said the master, with a sob in his
voice.
"Nothing wrong, I hope," said Dan, skating up.
"No; play the game," said the master, fiercely. His black eyes
were burning with a deep, red glow.
"Is it hurting much?" asked Thomas, lingering about Hughie.
"Oh, you just bet! But don't wait. Go on! Go on down! You've
got to get this game!"
Thomas glanced at the foot hanging limp, and then at the white but
resolute face. Then saying with slow, savage emphasis, "The brute
beast! As sure as death I'll do for him," he skated off to join
the forward line.
It was the Front knock-off from goal. There was no plan of attack,
but the Twentieth team, looking upon the faces of the master and
Thomas, needed no words of command.
The final round was shot, short, sharp, fierce. A long drive from
Farquhar Bheg sent the ball far up into the Twentieth territory.
It was a bad play, for it gave Craven and Thomas their chance.
"Follow me close, Thomas," cried the master, meeting the ball and
setting off like a whirlwind.
Past the little Reds, through the centers, and into the defense
line he flashed, followed hard by Thomas. In vain Hec Ross tried
to check, Craven was past him like the wind. There remained only
Dan and Jimmie Ben. A few swift strides, and the master was almost
within reach of Dan's club. With a touch of the ball to Thomas he
charged into his waiting foe, flung him aside as he might a child,
and swept on.
"Take the man, Thomas," he cried, and Thomas, gathering himself
up in two short, quick strikes, dashed hard upon Jimmie Ben, and
hurled him crashing to the ice.
"Take that, you brute, you!" he said, and followed after Craven.
Only Farquhar Bheg was left.
"Take no chances," cried Craven again. "Come on!" and both of them
sweeping in upon the goal-keeper, lifted him clear through the goal
and carried the ball with them.
"Time!" called the umpire. The great game was won.
Then, before the crowd had realized what had happened, and before
they could pour in upon the ice, Craven skated back toward Jimmie
Ben.
"The game is over," he said, in a low, fierce tone. "You cowardly
blackguard, you weren't afraid to hit a boy, now stand up to a man,
if you dare."
Jimmie Ben was no coward. Dropping his club he came eagerly
forward, but no sooner had he got well ready than Craven struck him
fair in the face, and before he could fall, caught him with a
straight, swift blow on the chin, and lifting him clear off his
skates, landed him back on his head and shoulders on the ice, where
he lay with his toes quivering.
"Serve him right," said Hec Ross.
There was no more of it. The Twentieth crowds went wild with joy
and rage, for their great game was won, and the news of what had
befallen their captain had got round.
"He took his city, though, Mrs. Murray," said the master, after the
great supper in the manse that evening, as Hughie lay upon the
sofa, pale, suffering, but happy. "And not only one, but a whole
continent of them, and," he added, "the game as well."
With sudden tears and a little break in her voice, the mother said,
looking at her boy, "It was worth while taking the city, but I fear
the game cost too much."
"Oh, pshaw, mother," said Hughie, "it's only one bone, and I tell
you that final round was worth a leg."
CHAPTER XV
THE RESULT
"How many did you say, Craven, of those Glengarry men of yours?"
Professor Gray was catechizing his nephew.
"Ten of them, sir, besides the minister's son, who is going to take
the full university course."
"And all of them bound for the ministry?"
"So they say. And judging by the way they take life, and the way,
for instance, they play shinny, I have a notion they will see it
through."
"They come of a race that sees things through," answered the
professor. "And this is the result of this Zion Hill Academy I
have been hearing so much about?"
"Well, sir, they put in a good year's work, I must say."
"You might have done worse, sir. Indeed, you deserve great credit,
sir."
"I? Not a bit. I simply showed them what to do and how to do it.
But there's a woman up there that the world ought to know about.
For love of her--"
"Oh, the world!" snorted the professor. "The world, sir! The Lord
deliver us! It might do the world some good, I grant."
"It is for love of her these men are in for the ministry."
"You are wrong, sir. That is not their motive."
"No, perhaps it is not. It would be unfair to say so, but yet she--"
"I know, sir. I know, sir. Bless my soul, sir. I know her. I
knew her before you were born. But--yes, yes--" the professor
spoke as if to himself--"for love of her men would attempt great
things. You have these names, Craven? Ah! Alexander Stewart,
Donald Cameron, Thomas Finch--Finch, let me see--ah, yes, Finch.
His mother died after a long illness. Yes, I remember. A very sad
case, a very sad case, indeed."
"And yet not so sad, sir," put in Craven. "At any rate, it did not
seem so at the time. That night it seemed anything but sad. It
was wonderful."
The professor laid down his list and sat back in his chair.
"Go on, sir," he said, gazing curiously at Craven. "I have heard a
little about it. Let me see, it was the night of the great match,
was it not?"
"Did you know about that? Who told you about the match, sir?"
"I hear a great many things, and in curious ways. But go on, sir,
go on."
Craven sat silent, and from the look in his eyes his thoughts were
far away.
"Well, sir, it's a thing I have never spoken about. It seems to
me, if I may say so, something quite too sacred to speak of
lightly."
Again Craven paused, while the professor waited.
"It was Hughie sent me there. There was a jubilation supper at the
manse, you understand. Thomas Finch, the goal-keeper, you know--
magnificent fellow, too--was not at the supper. A messenger had
come for him, saying that his mother had taken a bad turn. Hughie
was much disappointed, and they were all evidently anxious. I
offered to drive over and inquire, and of course the minister's
wife, though she had been on the go all day long, must needs go
with me. I can never forget that night. I suppose you have
noticed, sir, there are times when one is more sensitive to
impressions from one's surroundings than others. There are times
with me, too, when I seem to have a very vital kinship with nature.
At any rate, during that drive nature seemed to get close to me.
The dark, still forest, the crisp air, the frost sparkling in the
starlight on the trees--it all seemed to be part of me. I fear I
am not explaining myself."
Craven paused again, and his eyes began to glow. The professor
still waited.
"When we reached the house we found them waiting for death. The
minister's wife went in, I waited in the kitchen. By and by Billy
Jack, that's her eldest son, you know, came out. 'She is asking
for you,' he said, and I went in. I had often seen her before, and
I rather think she liked me. You see, I had been able to help
Thomas along pretty well, both in school and with his night work,
and she was grateful for what I had done, absurdly grateful when
one considers how little it was. I had seen death before, and it
had always been ghastly, but there was nothing ghastly in death
that night. The whole scene is before me now, I suppose always
will be."
His dead, black eyes were beginning to show their deep, red fire.
The professor looked at him for a moment or two, and then said,
"Proceed, if you please," and Craven drew a long breath, as if
recalling himself, and went on.
"The old man was there at one side, with his gray head down on the
bed, his little girl kneeling beside him with her arm round his
neck, opposite him the minister's wife, her face calm and steady,
Billy Jack standing at the foot of the bed--he and little Jessac
the only ones in the room who were weeping--and there at the head,
Thomas, supporting his mother, now and then moistening her lips and
giving her sips of stimulant, and so quick and steady, gentle as a
woman, and smiling through it all. I could hardly believe it was
the same big fellow who three hours before had carried the ball
through the Front defense. I tell you, sir, it was wonderful.
"There was no fuss or hysterical nonsense in that room. The mother
lay there quite peaceful, pain all gone--and she had had enough of
it in her day. She was quite a beautiful woman, too, in a way.
Fine eyes, remarkable eyes, splendidly firm mouth, showing great
nerve, I should say. All her life, I understand, she lived for
others, and even now her thought was not of herself. When I came
in she opened her eyes. They were like stars, actually shining,
and her smile was like the sudden breaking of light through a
cloud. She put out her hand for mine, and said--and I value these
words, sir--'Mr. Craven, I give you a mither's thanks and a
mither's blessing for a' you have done for ma laddie.' She was
Lowland Scotch, you know. My voice went all to pieces. I tried to
say it was nothing, but stuck. Thomas helped me out, and without a
shake or quiver in his voice, he answered for me.
"'Yes, indeed, mother, we'll not forget it.'
"'And perhaps you can help him a bit still. He will be needing
it,' she added.
"I assure you, sir, that quiet steadiness of Thomas and herself
braced me up, and I was able to make my promise. And then she
said, with a look that somehow reminded me of the deep, starlit
night outside, through which I had just come, 'And you, Mr. Craven,
you will give your life to God?'
"Again my voice failed me. It was so unexpected, and quite
overwhelming. Once more Thomas answered for me.
"'Yes, mother, he will, sure,' and she seemed to take it as my
promise, for she smiled again at me, and closed her eyes.
"I had read of triumphant death-bed scenes, and all that before,
without taking much stock in them, but believe me, sir, that room
was full of glory. The very faces of those people, it seemed to
me, were alight. It may be imagination, but even now, as I think
of it, it seems real. There were no farewells, no wailing, and at
the very last, not even tears. Thomas, who had nursed her for more
than a year, still supported her, the smile on his face to the end.
And the end--"Craven's voice grew unsteady--"it is difficult to
speak of. The minister's wife repeated the words about the house
with many mansions, and those about the valley of the shadow, and
said a little prayer, and then we all waited for the end--for
myself, I confess with considerable fear and anxiety. I had no
need to fear. After a long silence she sat up straight, and in her
Scotch tongue, she said, with a kind of amazed joy in her tone, 'Ma
fayther! Ma fayther! I am here.' Then she settled herself back
in her son's arms, drew a deep breath, and was still. All through
the night and next day the glory lingered round me. I went about
as in a strange world. I am afraid you will be thinking me
foolish, sir."
The stern old professor was openly wiping his eyes. He seemed
quite unable to find his voice. At length he took up the list
again, and began to read it mechanically.
"What! What's this?" he said, suddenly, pointing to a name on the
list.
"That, sir, is John Craven."
"Do you mean that you, too--"
"Yes, I mean it, if you think I am fit."
"Fit, Jack, my boy! None of us are fit. But what--how did this
come?" The professor blew his nose like a trumpet.
"That I can hardly tell myself," said Craven, with a kind of wonder
in his voice; "but at any rate it is the result of my Glengarry
School Days."
End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Glengarry Schooldays, by Ralph Connor
