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Bert Lloyd's Boyhood: A Story from Nova Scotia

by J. Macdonald Oxley · English · Gutenberg #25358 · 473,229 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bert Lloyd's Boyhood: A Story from Nova Scotia

Author: J. Macdonald Oxley

Illustrator: Joseph Finnemore


        
Release date: May 6, 2008 [eBook #25358]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25358

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Janet Blenkinship and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
        (This file was produced from images generously made
        available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BERT LLOYD'S BOYHOOD: A STORY FROM NOVA SCOTIA ***




Produced by Charlene Taylor, Janet Blenkinship and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)








BERT LLOYD'S BOYHOOD.

[Illustration: "The whole crowd then precipitated themselves upon him,
and proceeded to pummel any part of his body they could reach."--_Page
165._

_Frontispiece._]

BERT LLOYD'S BOYHOOD

A Story from Nova Scotia

BY

J. MACDONALD OXLEY, LL.D.

_WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. FINNEMORE_

London

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

27, PATERNOSTER ROW

MDCCCXCII.

   EDINBURGH:
   PRINTED BY LORIMER AND GILLIES.
   31 ST. ANDREW SQUARE.




PREFACE.


There is something so pleasing to the author of this volume--the first
of several which have been kindly received by his American cousins--in
the thought of being accorded the privilege of appearing before a new
audience in the "old home," that the impulse to indulge in a foreword or
two cannot be withstood.

And yet, after all, there would seem to be but two things necessary to
be said:--Firstly, that in attempting a picture of boy life in Nova
Scotia a fifth of a century ago, the writer had simply to fall back upon
the recollections of his own school-days, and that in so doing he has
striven to depart as slightly as possible from what came within the
range of personal experience; and, Secondly, while it is no doubt to be
regretted that Canada has not yet attained that stage of development
which would enable her to support a literature of her own, it certainly
is no small consolation for her children, however ardent their
patriotism, who would fain enter the literary arena, that not only
across the Border, but beyond the ocean in the Motherland, there are
doors of opportunity standing open through which they may find their way
before the greatest and kindliest audience in the world.

   J. MACDONALD OXLEY.

   OTTAWA, CANADA,
   _29th August, 1892_.




CONTENTS.


   CHAPTER                                                          PAGE

   I. BERT IS INTRODUCED,                                              5

   II. FIREMAN OR SOLDIER,                                            11

   III. NO. FIVE FORT STREET,                                         17

   IV. OFF TO THE COUNTRY,                                            21

   V. THE RIDE IN THE COACH,                                          29

   VI. AT GRANDFATHER'S,                                              39

   VII. COUNTRY EXPERIENCES,                                          47

   VIII. TEMPTATION AND TRIUMPH,                                      57

   IX. LOST AND FOUND,                                                67

   X. BERT GOES TO SCHOOL,                                            81

   XI. SCHOOL LIFE AT MR. GARRISON'S,                                 93

   XII. A QUESTION OF INFLUENCE,                                     107

   XIII. BERT AT HOME,                                               117

   XIV. AN HONOURABLE SCAR,                                          127

   XV. A CHANGE OF SCHOOL,                                           139

   XVI. THE FIRST DAYS AT DR. JOHNSTON'S,                            151

   XVII. THE HOISTING,                                               163

   XVIII. SCHOOL EXPERIENCES,                                        175

   XIX. VICTORY AND DEFEAT,                                          187

   XX. A NARROW ESCAPE,                                              203

   XXI. LEARNING TO SWIM,                                            217

   XXII. HOW HOISTING WAS ABOLISHED,                                 227

   XXIII. PRIZE WINNING AND LOSING,                                  239

   XXIV. A CHAPTER ON PONIES,                                        253

   XXV. ABOUT TWO KINDS OF PONIES,                                   263

   XXVI. VICTORY WON FROM DEFEAT,                                    273

   XXVII. ABOUT LITERATURE AND LAW,                                  287

   XXVIII. WELL DONE, BOYS!                                          301

   XXIX. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW,                                   315

   XXX. HOME MISSIONARY WORK,                                        325

   XXXI. NOT DEAD, BUT TRANSLATED,                                   335

   XXXII. A BOY NO LONGER,                                           349




CHAPTER I.

BERT IS INTRODUCED.


If Cuthbert Lloyd had been born in the time of our great grandfathers,
instead of a little later than the first half of the present century,
the gossips would assuredly have declared that the good fairies had had
it all their own way at his birth.

To begin with, he was a particularly fine handsome baby; for did not all
the friends of the family say so? In the second place, he was an only
son, which meant that he had no big brothers to bully him. Next, his
birthplace was the stirring seaport of Halifax, where a sturdy,
energetic boy, such as Cuthbert certainly gave good promise of being,
need never lack for fun or adventure. Finally, he had plenty of
relations in the country to whom he might go in the summer time to learn
the secrets and delights of country life.

Now, when to all these advantages are added two fond but sensible
parents in comfortable circumstances, an elder sister who loved little
Cuthbert with the whole strength of her warm unselfish heart, and a
pleasant home in the best part of the city, they surely make us as fine
a list of blessings as the most benevolent fairy godmother could
reasonably have been expected to bestow.

And yet there was nothing about Master Cuthbert's early conduct to
indicate that he properly appreciated his good fortune. He was not half
as well-behaved a baby, for instance, as red-headed little Patsey Shea,
who, a few days after his first appearance, brought another hungry mouth
to the already over-populated cottage of the milkwoman down in
Hardhand's lane. As he grew older, it needed more whippings than the sum
total of his own chubby fingers and toes to instil into him a proper
understanding of parental authority. Sometimes his mother, who was a
slight small woman, stronger of mind than of body, would feel downright
discouraged about her vigorous, wilful boy, and wonder,
half-despairingly, if she were really equal to the task of bringing him
up in the way he should go.

Cuthbert was in many respects an odd mixture. His mother often said that
he seemed more like two boys of opposite natures rolled into one, than
just one ordinary boy. When quite a little chap, he would at one time be
as full of noise, action, and enterprise as the captain of an ocean
steamer in a gale, and at another time be as sedate, thoughtful, and
absentminded as the ancient philosopher who made himself famous by
walking into a well in broad daylight.

Cuthbert, in fact, at the age of three, attracted attention to himself
in a somewhat similar way. His mother had taken him with her in making
some calls, and at Mrs. Allen's, in one of his thoughtful moods, with
his hands clasped behind him, he went wandering off unobserved.
Presently he startled the whole household by tumbling from the top to
the bottom of the kitchen stairs, having calmly walked over the edge in
an absorbed study of his surroundings.

The other side of his nature was brilliantly illustrated a year later.
Being invited to spend the day with a playmate of his own age, he built
a big fire with newspapers in the bath room, turned on all the taps,
pretending that they were the hydrants, and then ran through the hall,
banging a dustpan and shouting "fire" at the top of his voice.

"He is such a perfect 'pickle,' I hardly know what to do with him,
Robert," said Mrs. Lloyd to her husband, with a big sigh, one evening at
dinner.

"Don't worry, my dear, don't worry. He has more than the usual amount of
animal spirits, that is all. Keep a firm hand on him and he'll come out
all right," answered Mr. Lloyd, cheeringly.

"It's easy enough to say, 'Keep a firm hand on him,' Robert, but my hand
gets pretty tired sometimes, I can assure you. I just wish you'd stay at
home for a week and look after Bert, while I go to the office in your
place. You'd get a better idea of what your son is like than you can by
seeing him for a little while in the morning and evening."

"Thank you, Kate, I've no doubt you might manage to do my work at the
office, and that my clients would think your advice very good; but I'm
no less sure that I would be a dismal failure in doing your work at
home," responded Mr. Lloyd, with a smile, adding, more seriously:
"Anyway, I have too much faith in your ability to make the best of Bert
to think of spoiling your good work by clumsy interference."

"It's a great comfort to have you put so much faith in me," said Mrs.
Lloyd, with a grateful look, "for it's more than Bert does sometimes.
Why, he told me only this morning that he thought I wasn't half as good
to him as Frankie Clayton's mother is to him, just because I wouldn't
let him have the garden hose to play fireman with."

"Just wait until he's fifteen, my dear," returned Mr. Lloyd, "and if he
doesn't think then that he has one of the best mothers in the world,
why--I'll never again venture to prophesy, that's all. And here comes my
little man to answer for himself," as the door opened suddenly and Bert
burst in, making straight for his father. "Ha! ha! my boy, so your
mother says you're a perfect pickle. Well, if you're only pickled in a
way that will save you from spoiling, I shall be satisfied, and I think
your mother may be, too."

Mrs. Lloyd laughed heartily at the unexpected turn thus given to her
complaint; and Bert, seeing both his parents in such good humour, added
a beaming face on his own account, although, of course, without having
the slightest idea as to the cause of their merriment.

Climbing up on his father's knee, Bert pressed a plump cheek lovingly
against the lawyer's brown whiskers and looked, what indeed he was, the
picture of happy content.

"What sort of a man are you going to make, Bert?" asked Mr. Lloyd,
quizzingly, the previous conversation being still in his mind.

"I'm going to be a fireman," replied Bert, promptly; "and Frankie's
going to be one too."

"And why do you want to be a fireman, Bert?"

"Oh, because they wear such grand clothes and can make such a noise
without anybody telling them to shut up," answered Bert, whose knowledge
of firemen was based upon a torchlight procession of them he had seen
one night, and their management of a fire that had not long before taken
place in the near neighbourhood, and of which he was a breathless
spectator.

Mr. Lloyd could not resist laughing at his son's naive reply, but there
was no ridicule in his laugh, as Bert saw clearly enough, and he was
encouraged to add:

"Oh, father, please let me be a fireman, won't you?"

"We'll see about it, Bert. If we can't find anything better for you to
do than being a fireman, why we'll try to make a good fireman of you,
that's all. But never mind about that now; tell me what was the best fun
you had to-day." Thus invited, Bert proceeded to tell after his own
fashion the doings of the day, with his father and mother an attentive
audience.

It was their policy to always manifest a deep interest in everything
Bert had to tell, and in this way they made him understand better
perhaps than they could otherwise have done how thoroughly they
sympathised with him in both the joys and sorrows of his little life.
They were determined that the most complete confidence should be
established between them and their only boy at the start, and Bert never
appeared to such advantage as when, with eyes flashing and graphic
gestures, he would tell about something wonderful in his eyes that had
happened to him that afternoon.

By the time Bert had exhausted his budget and been rewarded with a lump
of white sugar, the nurse appeared with the summons to bed, and after
some slight demur he went off in good humour, his father saying, as the
door closed upon him:

"There's not a better youngster of his age in Halifax, Kate, even if he
hasn't at present any higher ambition than to be a fireman."




CHAPTER II.

FIREMAN OR SOLDIER.


Halifax has already been mentioned as a particularly pleasant place for
a boy to be born in; and so indeed it is. Every schoolboy knows, or
ought to know, that it is the capital of Acadia, one of the Maritime
Provinces of the Dominion of Canada. It has a great many advantages,
some of which are not shared by any other city on the continent.
Situated right on the sea coast, it boasts a magnificent harbour, in
which all the war vessels of the world, from the mightiest iron-clad to
the tiniest torpedo boat, might lie at anchor. Beyond the harbour,
separated from it by only a short strait, well-named the "Narrows," is
an immense basin that seems just designed for yachting and excursions;
while branching out from the harbour in different directions are two
lovely fiords, one called the Eastern Passage, leading out to the ocean
again, and the other running away up into the land, so that there is no
lack of salt water from which cool breezes may blow on the torrid days.

The city itself is built upon the peninsula that divides the harbour
from the north-west arm, and beginning about half-a-mile from the point
of the peninsula, runs northward almost to the Narrows, and spreads out
westward until its farthest edge touches the shore of the arm. The
"Point" has been wisely set aside for a public park, and except where a
fort or two, built to command the entrance to the harbour, intrudes upon
it, the forest of spruce and fir with its labyrinth of roads and paths
and frequent glades of soft waving grass, extends from shore to shore,
making a wilderness that a boy's imagination may easily people with
Indians brandishing tomahawk and scalping knife, or bears and wolves
seeking whom they may devour.

Halifax being the chief military and naval station for the British
Colonies in America, its forts and barracks are filled with red-coated
infantry or blue-coated artillery the whole year round. All summer long
great iron-clads bring their imposing bulks to anchor off the Dockyard,
and Jack Tars in foolish, merry, and alas! too often vicious companies,
swagger through the streets in noisy enjoyment of their day on shore.

On either side of the harbour, on the little island which rests like an
emerald brooch upon its bosom, and high above the city on the crown of
the hill up which it wearily climbs, street beyond street, stand
frowning fortresses with mighty guns thrusting their black muzzles
through the granite embrasures. In fact, the whole place is pervaded by
the influences of military life; and Cuthbert, whose home overlooked a
disused fort, now serving the rather ignoble purpose of a dwelling-place
for married soldiers, was at first fully persuaded in his mind that the
desire of his life was to be a soldier; and it was not until he went to
a military review, and realised that the soldiers had to stand up
awfully stiff and straight, and dare not open their mouths for the
world, that he dismissed the idea of being a soldier, and adopted that
of being a fireman.

Yet there were times when he rather regretted his decision, and inclined
to waver in his allegiance. His going to the Sunday school with his
sister had something to do with this. A favourite hymn with the
superintendent--who, by the way, was a retired officer--was--

   "Onward, Christian soldiers."

The bright stirring tune, and the tremendous vigour with which the
scholars sang it, quite took Cuthbert's heart. He listened eagerly, but
the only words he caught were the first, which they repeated so often:

   "Onward, Christian soldiers."

Walking home with his sister, they met a small detachment of soldiers,
looking very fine in their Sunday uniforms:

"Are those Christian soldiers, Mary?" he asked, looking eagerly up into
her face.

"Perhaps so, Bert, I don't know," Mary replied. "What makes you ask?"

"Because we were singing about Christian soldiers, weren't we?" answered
Bert.

"Oh! is that what you mean, Bert? They may be, for all I know. Would you
like to be a Christian soldier?"

"Yes," doubtfully; then, brightening up--"but couldn't I be a Christian
fireman, too?"

"Of course you could, Bert, but I'd much rather see you a Christian
soldier. Mr. Hamilton is a Christian soldier, you know."

This reply of his sister's set Bert's little brain at work. Mr.
Hamilton, the superintendent of the Sunday school, was a tall, erect
handsome man, with fine grey hair and whiskers, altogether an impressive
gentleman; yet he had a most winning manner, and Bert was won to him at
once when he was welcomed by him warmly to the school. Bert could not
imagine anything grander than to be a Christian soldier, if it meant
being like Mr. Hamilton. Still the fireman notion had too many
attractions to be lightly thrown aside, and consequently for some time
to come he could hardly be said to know his own mind as to his future.

The presence of the military in Halifax was far from being an unmixed
good. Of course, it helped business, gave employment to many hands,
imparted peculiar life and colour to society, and added many excellent
citizens to the population. At the same time it had very marked
drawbacks. There was always a great deal of drunkenness and other
dissipation among the soldiers and sailors. The officers were not the
most improving of companions and models for the young men of the place,
and in other ways the city was the worse for their presence.

Mrs. Lloyd presently found the soldiers a source of danger to her boy.
Just around the corner at the entrance to the old fort, already
mentioned, was a guardhouse, and here some half-dozen soldiers were
stationed day and night. They were usually jolly fellows, who were glad
to get hold of little boys to play with, and thereby help to while away
the time in their monotonous life. Cuthbert soon discovered the
attractions of this guardhouse, and, in spite of commands to the
contrary, which he seemed unable to remember, wandered off thither very
often. All the other little boys in the neighbourhood went there
whenever they liked, and he could not understand why he should not do so
too. He did not really mean to defy his parents. He was too young for
that, being only six years old. But the force of the example of his
playmates seemed stronger than the known wishes of his parents, and so
he disobeyed them again and again.

Mrs. Lloyd might, of course, have carried her point by shutting Bert up
in the yard, and not allowing him out at all except in charge of
somebody. But that was precisely what she did not wish to do. She knew
well enough that her son could not have a locked-up world to live in. He
must learn to live in this world, full of temptations as it is, and so
her idea was not so much to put him out of the way of temptation, as to
teach him how to withstand it. Consequently, she was somewhat at a loss
just what to do in the matter of the guardhouse, when a letter that came
from the country offered a very timely and acceptable solution of the
difficulty.




CHAPTER III.

NO. FIVE FORT STREET.


Cuthbert Lloyd's home was a happy one in every way. The house was so
situated that the sunshine might have free play upon it all day, pouring
in at the back windows in the morning and flooding the front ones with
rich and rare splendour at evening. A quiet little street passed by the
door, the gardens opposite being filled with noble trees that cast a
grateful shade during the dog days. At the back of the house was the old
fort, its turfed casemates sloping down to a sandy beach, from whose
centre a stone wharf projected out into the plashing water. Looking over
the casemates, one could see clear out to the lighthouse which kept
watch at the entrance to the harbour, and could follow the ships as they
rose slowly on the horizon or sped away with favouring breeze.

A right pleasant house to live in was No. Five Fort Street, and right
pleasant were the people who lived in it. Cuthbert certainly had no
doubt upon either point, and who had a better opportunity of forming an
opinion? Mr. Lloyd, the head of the household, was also the head of one
of the leading legal firms in Halifax. His son, and perhaps his wife and
daughter, too, thought him the finest-looking man in the city. That was
no doubt an extravagant estimate, yet it was not without excuse; for
tall, erect, and stalwart, with regular features, large brown eyes that
looked straight at you, fine whiskers and moustache, and a kindly
cordial expression, Mr. Lloyd made a very good appearance in the world.
Especially did he, since he never forgot the neatness and good taste in
dress of his bachelor days, as so many married men are apt to do.

Cuthbert's mother was of quite a different type. Her husband used to
joke her about her being good for a standard of measurement because she
stood just five feet in height, and weighed precisely one hundred
pounds. Bert, one day, seemed to realise what a mite of a woman she was;
for, after looking her all over, he said, very gravely:

"What a little mother you are! I will soon be as big as you, won't I?"

Brown of hair and eyes, like Mr. Lloyd, her face was a rare combination
of sweetness and strength. Bert thought it lovelier than any angel's he
had ever seen in a picture. Indeed, there was much of the angelic in his
mother's nature. She had marvellous control over her feelings, and never
by any chance gave way to temper openly, so that in all his young life
her boy had no remembrance of receiving from her a harsh word, or a
hasty, angry blow. Not that she was weak or indulgent. On the contrary,
not only Bert, but Bert's playmates, and some of their mothers, too,
thought her quite too strict at times, for she was a firm believer in
discipline, and Master Bert was taught to abide by rules from the
outset.

The third member of the household was the only daughter, Mary, a tall,
graceful girl, who had inherited many of her father's qualities,
together with her mother's sweetness. In Bert's eyes she was just simply
perfect. She was twice as old as he when he had six years to his credit,
and the difference in age made her seem like a second mother to him,
except that he felt free to take more liberties with her than with his
mother. But she did not mind this much, for she was passionately fond of
her little brother, and was inclined to spoil him, if anything.

As for Bert himself--well, he was just a stout, sturdy, hearty boy, with
nothing very remarkable about him, unless, perhaps, it was his
superabundant health and spirits. Nobody, unless it was that most
partial judge, Mary, thought him handsome, but everybody admitted that
he was good-looking in every sense of the term. He promised to be
neither tall, like his father, nor short, like his mother, but of a
handy, serviceable medium height, with plenty of strength and endurance
in his tough little frame. Not only were both eyes and hair brown, as
might be expected, but his face, too, as might also be expected, seeing
that no bounds were placed upon his being out of doors, so long as the
day was fine, and he himself was keeping out of mischief.

Father, mother, daughter, and son, these four made up a very
affectionate and happy family, pulling well together; and, so far as the
three older ones were concerned, with their faces and hearts set toward
Jerusalem, and of one mind as to taking Bert along with them. Mr. Lloyd
and his wife were thoroughly in accord with Dr. Austin Phelps as to
this:--That the children of Christians should be Christian from the
cradle. They accordingly saw no reason why the only son that God had
given them should ever go out into sin, and then be brought back from a
far off land. Surely, if they did their duty, he need never stray far
away. That was the way they reasoned; and although, of course, little
Bert knew nothing about it, that was the plan upon which they sought to
bring him up. The task was not altogether an easy one, as succeeding
chapters of Bert's history will make plain. But the plan was adhered to,
and the result justified its wisdom.




CHAPTER IV.

OFF TO THE COUNTRY.


The letter which came in such good time to relieve Mrs. Lloyd from the
difficulty about Bert's fondness for the guardroom and its hurtful
influences, was from her father, and contained an invitation so pressing
as to be little short of a demand, for her to pay him a long visit at
the old homestead, bringing Bert with her.

Mrs. Lloyd very readily and gladly accepted the invitation. Midsummer
was near at hand. She had not visited her old home for some years. Her
father and mother were ageing fast; and then, naturally enough, she was
eager to show them what a fine boy Bert was growing to be.

When Bert heard of it he showed the utmost delight. Three years before,
he had spent a summer at grandfather's; but, then, of course, he was too
young to do more than be impressed by the novelty of his surroundings.
The huge oxen, the noisy pigs, the spirited horses, even the clumsy
little calves, bewildered, if they did not alarm him. But now he felt
old enough to enjoy them all; and the very idea of going back to them
filled him with joy, to which he gave expression after his own
boisterous fashion.

"Mother, are we going to grandfather's to-morrow?" he would eagerly ask,
day after day, his little heart throbbing with impatience.

"We're going soon, Bert dear. You must be patient, you know," his mother
would gently reply; and the little fellow would make a very heroic
effort to control himself.

At length the day of departure arrived. Too full of importance and great
expectations to manifest a proper amount of sorrow at leaving his father
and sister, who felt very reluctant, indeed, to part with him, Master
Bert took his place in the cab and drove up to the railway station.
Hardly had he entered it than he made a dash for the train, climbed up
on the rear platform with the agility of a monkey, much to the amusement
of the conductor, whose proffer of assistance he entirely ignored; and
when Mr. Lloyd entered the train a minute later, he found his
enterprising son seated comfortably upon a central seat, and evidently
quite ready for the train to start.

"Would you go away without saying good-bye to your father and to Mary?"
asked Mr. Lloyd, in a deeply reproachful tone.

Bert blushed violently on being thus reminded of his apparent
selfishness and, with the threat of a tear in his eye, was about to
make some sort of a defence, when his father put him all right again by
saying brightly:

"Never mind, my boy. It isn't every day you go off on a
hundred-and-fifty-miles' journey. Mary and I will forgive you for
forgetting us this time, won't we, Mary?"

The lunch basket, the wraps, and their other belongings were placed on
the seat, the engine whistled, "all aboard," the bell rang, the
conductor shouted, affectionate farewells were hastily exchanged, and
presently the train rolled noisily out of the dark station into the
bright sunshine; and Bert, leaning from the window, caught a last
glimpse of his father and sister as they stood waving the handkerchiefs
which one of them, at least, could not refrain from putting to another
use, as the last car swept round the turn and vanished.

But Bert was in no mood for tears. In fact, he never felt less like
anything of the kind. He felt much more disposed to shout aloud for very
joy, and probably would have done so, but for the restraining influence
exercised by the presence of the other passengers, of whom there were a
good many in the carriage. As it was, he gave vent to his excited
feelings by being as restless as a mosquito, and asking his mother as
many questions as his active brain could invent.

"You'll be tired out by mid-day, Bert, if you go on at this rate," said
his mother, in gentle warning.

"Oh, no, I won't, mother; I won't get tired. See! What's that funny big
thing with the long legs in that field?"

"That's a frame for a hay stack, I think. You'll see plenty of those at
grandfather's."

"And what's that queer thing with arms sticking out from that building?"

"That's a wind-mill. When the wind blows hard those arms go round, and
turn machinery inside the barn."

"And has grandpapa got a wind-mill, mother?"

"Yes; he has one on his big barn."

"Oh, I'm so glad; I can watch it going round, and stand quite close,
can't I?"

"Yes, but take care not to go too close to the machinery. It might hurt
you very much, you know."

And so it went on all through the morning. Mrs. Lloyd would have liked
very much to read a little in an interesting book she had brought with
her, but what with watching Bert's restless movements, and answering his
incessant questions, there seemed slight hope of her succeeding in this
until, after they had been a couple of hours on their journey, a
good-natured gentleman on the opposite seat, who had finished his paper,
and had nothing particular to do, took in the situation and came to her
relief.

"Won't you come over and keep me company for a while, my little man?" he
said, pleasantly, leaning across the seat. "I will try and answer all
your questions for you."

Bert looked curiously at the speaker, and then, the inspection proving
satisfactory, inquiringly at his mother. She nodded her assent, so
forthwith he ran over to his new friend, and climbed up beside him. He
was given the corner next the window, and while his bright eyes took in
everything as the train sped on, his tongue wagged no less swiftly as
question followed question in quick succession. Mrs. Lloyd, thoroughly
at ease now, returned to her book with a grateful sigh of relief, and an
hour slipped away, at the end of which Bert's eyes grew heavy with
sleep. He no longer was interested in the scenery; and at last, after a
gallant struggle, his curly head fell over on the cushion, and he went
into a deep sleep, from which he did not waken until at mid-day the
train drew up at the station, beyond which they could not go by rail.

"Come, Bert, wake up! We must get out here," cried his mother, shaking
him vigorously.

Rubbing his eyes hard, yawning as though he would put his jaws out of
joint, and feeling very uncomfortable generally, Bert nevertheless
managed to pull himself together sufficiently to thank the gentleman who
had been so kind to him, before he followed his mother out of the car.

They had dinner at Thurso, and by the time it was ready Bert was ready
too. He had been altogether too much excited at breakfast time to eat
much then, but he made up for it now. Mrs. Lloyd laughed as he asked
again and again for more, but she did not check him. She knew very well
that the contented frame of mind produced by a good dinner was just the
right thing with which to enter upon the second part of their journey.
This was to be by coach, and as even the best of coaches is a pretty
cramped sort of an affair unless you have it all to yourself, the
quieter Bert was disposed to be the better for all concerned.

"What are we to ride in now, mother?" asked Bert, after the vacancy
underneath his blue blouse had been sufficiently filled to dispose him
to conversation.

"In a big red coach, dear, with six fine horses to draw us," answered
Mrs. Lloyd.

"Oh, mother, won't that be splendid? And may I sit up with the driver?"

"Perhaps you may, for a little while, anyway, if he will let you."

"Hooray!" cried Bert, clapping his hands with delight; "I'm sure the
driver will let me, if you'll only ask him. You will, won't you,
mother?"

"Yes, I will, after we get out of the town. But you must wait until I
think it's the right time to ask him."

"I'll wait, mother, but don't you forget."

Forget! There was much likelihood of Mrs. Lloyd forgetting with this
lively young monkey before her as a constant reminder.

They had just finished dinner, when, with clatter of hoofs, rattle of
springs, and crush of gravel under the heavy wheels, the great Concord
coach drew up before the hotel door in dashing style.

Bert was one of the first to greet it. He did not even wait to put on
his hat, and his mother, following with it, found him in the forefront
of the crowd that always gathers about the mail coach in a country town,
gazing up at the driver, who sat in superb dignity upon his lofty seat,
as though he had never beheld so exalted a being in his life before.

There was something so impassive, so indifferent to his surroundings,
about this big, bronzed, black-moustached, and broad-hatted driver, that
poor Bert's heart sank within him. He felt perfectly sure that _he_
could never in the world muster up sufficient courage to beg for the
privilege of a seat beside so impressive a potentate, and he doubted if
his mother could, either.

Among the passengers Bert was glad to see the gentleman who had
befriended him on the train, and when this individual, after having the
audacity to hail the driver familiarly with, "Good-morning, Jack; looks
as if we were going to have a pleasant trip down," sprang up on the
wheel, and thence to the vacant place beside Jack Davis, just as though
it belonged to him of right, a ray of hope stole into Bert's heart. If
his friend of the train, whose name, by the way, he told Bert, was Mr.
Miller, was on such good terms with the driver, perhaps he would ask him
to let a little boy sit up in front for a while.

Taking much comfort from this thought, Bert, at a call from his mother,
who was already seated, climbed up into the coach, and being allowed the
corner next the window, with head thrust forth as far as was safe he
awaited eagerly the signal to start.




CHAPTER V.

THE RIDE IN THE COACH.


The last passenger had taken his seat, the last trunk been strapped on
behind, and the canvas covering drawn tightly over it, the mail bags
safely stowed away in the capacious boot; and then big Jack Davis,
gathering the reins of his six impatient steeds skilfully into one hand,
and grasping the long-lashed whip in the other, sang out to the men who
stood at the leaders' heads:

"Let them go!"

The men dropped the bridles and sprang aside, the long lash cracked like
a pistol shot, the leaders, a beautiful pair of grey ponies, perfectly
matched, reared, curvetted, pranced about, and then would have dashed
off at a wild gallop had not Jack Davis' strong hands, aided by the
steadiness of the staider wheelers, kept them in check: and soon brought
down to a spirited canter, they led the way out of the town.

The coach had a heavy load. It could hold twelve passengers inside, and
every seat was occupied on top. Besides Mr. Miller, who had the coveted
box seat, there were two other men perched upon the coach top, and
making the best of their uncomfortable position; and there was an extra
amount of baggage.

"Plenty of work for my horses to-day, Mr. Miller," said Jack Davis,
looking carefully over the harnessing to make sure that every strap was
securely buckled, and every part in its right place.

"Yes, indeed; you'll need to keep the brake on hard going down the
hills," replied Mr. Miller.

Bending over, so that those behind could not hear him, the driver said,
under his breath:

"Don't say anything; but, to tell the truth, I'm a little shaky about my
brake. It is none too strong, and I won't go out with it again until
it's fixed; but it can't be mended this side of Riverton, and I'm going
to push through as best I can."

"Well, if anything happens, just let us know when to jump," returned Mr.
Miller, with a reassuring smile, for he felt no anxiety, having perfect
confidence in Davis' ability to bring his coach safely to the journey's
end.

It was a lovely summer day, and in the early afternoon the coach bowled
smoothly along over the well-kept road, now rolling over a wooden bridge
on whose timbers the rapid tramp of the horses' feet sounded like
thunder, climbing the slope on the other side, then rattling down into
the valley, and up the opposite hill, almost at full speed, and so on in
rapid succession. Bert, kneeling at the window, with arms resting on
the ledge, and just able to see the three horses on his side, was so
engrossed in watching them, or peering into the forest through which the
road cut its way, that he quite forgot his desire to be up on top of the
coach.

Having gone fifteen miles at a spanking pace, the coach drove into a
long--covered barn for the horses to be changed, and everybody got out
to stretch their legs; while this was being done, Bert's longing came
back in full force. As he stood watching the tired foam-flecked horses
being led away, and others, sleek, shining, and spirited put in their
places, who should pass by but Mr. Miller. Recognising at once his
little acquaintance of the morning, he greeted him with a cheery:

"Hallo! my little man, are we fellow-travellers still? And how do you
like riding in a coach?"

"I think it's just splendid, sir," replied Bert; and then, as a bright
thought flashed into his mind,--"but I do so want to be up where the
driver is."

Mr. Miller looked down at the little face turned up to his, and noting
its eager expression asked, kindly:

"Do you think your mother would let you go up there?"

"Oh, yes; she said I might if I would only wait a little, and it is a
good deal more than a little while now."

"Very well, Bert, you run and ask her if you may get up now, and I'll
try and manage it," said Mr. Miller.

Bert was not long in getting his mother's sanction, and when he returned
with beaming face, Mr. Miller taking him up to Jack Davis, said:

"Jack, this little chap is dying to sit up with us. He wants to see how
the best driver in Acadia handles his horses, I suppose."

There was no resisting such an appeal as this. Tickled with the
compliment, Jack said, graciously:

"All right, Mr. Miller, you can chuck him up, so long as you'll look
after him yourself."

And so when the fresh horses were harnessed, and the passengers back in
their places, behold Cuthbert Lloyd, the proudest, happiest boy in all
the land, perched up between the driver and Mr. Miller, feeling himself
as much monarch of all he surveyed, as ever did Robinson Crusoe in his
island home. It was little wonder if for the first mile or two he was
too happy to ask any questions. It was quite enough from his lofty, but
secure position, to watch the movements of the six handsome horses
beneath him as, tossing their heads, and making feigned nips at one
another, they trotted along with the heavy coach as though it were a
mere trifle. The road ran through a very pretty district;
well-cultivated farms, making frequent gaps in the forest, and many a
brook and river lending variety to the scene. After Bert had grown
accustomed to the novelty of his position, his tongue began to wag
again, and his bright, innocent questions afforded Mr. Miller so much
amusement, that with Jack Davis' full approval, he was invited to remain
during the next stage also. Mrs. Lloyd would rather have had him with
her inside, but he pleaded so earnestly, and Mr. Miller assuring her
that he was not the least trouble, she finally consented to his staying
up until they changed horses again.

When they were changing horses at this post, Mr. Miller drew Bert's
attention to a powerful black horse one of the men was carefully leading
out of the stable. All the other horses came from their stalls fully
harnessed, but this one had on nothing except a bridle.

"See how that horse carries on, Bert," said Mr. Miller.

And, sure enough, the big brute was prancing about with ears bent back
and teeth showing in a most threatening fashion.

"They daren't harness that horse until he is in his place beside the
pole, Bert. See, now, they're going to put the harness on him."

And as he spoke another stable hand came up, deftly threw the heavy
harness over the horse's back, and set to work to buckle it with a speed
that showed it was a job he did not care to dally over. No sooner was it
accomplished than the other horses were hastily put in their places, the
black wheeler in the meantime tramping upon the barn floor in a seeming
frenzy of impatience, although his head was tightly held.

"Now, then, 'all aboard' as quick as you can," shouted Jack Davis,
swinging himself into his seat. Mr. Miller handed up Bert and followed
himself, the inside passengers scrambled hurriedly in, and then with a
sharp whinny the black wheeler, his head being released, started off,
almost pulling the whole load himself.

"Black Rory does not seem to get over his bad habits, Jack," remarked
Mr. Miller.

"No," replied Jack; "quite the other way. He's getting worse, if
anything; but he's too good a horse to chuck over. There's not a better
wheeler on the route than Rory, once he settles down to his work."

After going a couple of miles, during which Rory behaved about as badly
as a wheeler could, he did settle down quietly to his work and all went
smoothly. They were among the hills now, and the steep ascents and
descents, sharp turns, and many bridges over the gullies made it
necessary for Davis to drive with the utmost care. At length they
reached the summit of the long slope, and began the descent into the
valley.

"I'd just as soon I hadn't any doubts about this brake," said Davis to
Mr. Miller, as he put his foot hard down upon it.

"Oh, it'll hold all right enough, Jack," replied Mr. Miller,
reassuringly.

"Hope so," said Davis. "If it doesn't, we'll have to run for it to the
bottom."

The road slanted steadily downward, and with brake held hard and
wheelers spread out from the pole holding back with all their strength,
the heavy coach lumbered cautiously down. Now it was that Black Rory
proved his worth, for, thoroughly understanding what was needed of him,
he threw his whole weight and strength back upon the pole, keeping his
own mate no less than the leaders in check.

"We'll be at Brown's Gully in a couple of minutes," said the driver.
"Once we get past there, all right; the rest won't matter."

Brown's Gully was the ugliest bit of road on the whole route. A steep
hill, along the side of which the road wound at a sharp slant, led down
to a deep, dark gully crossed by a high trestle bridge. Just before the
bridge there was a sudden turn which required no common skill to safely
round when going at speed.

As they reached the beginning of the slant, Jack Davis' face took on an
anxious look, his mouth became firm and set, his hand tightened upon the
reins, and his foot upon the brake, and with constant exclamation to his
horses of "Easy now!--go easy!--hold back, my beauties!" he guided the
great coach in its descent.

Mr. Miller put Bert between his knees, saying:

"Stick right there, my boy; don't budge an inch."

Although the wheelers, and particularly Black Rory, were doing their
best, the coach began to go faster than Davis liked, and with a shout of
"Whoa there! Go easy, will you!" he had just shoved his foot still
harder against the brake, when there was a sharp crack, and the huge
vehicle suddenly sprang forward upon the wheelers' heels.

"God help us!" cried Jack, "the brake's gone. We've got to run for it
now."

And run for it they did.

It was a time of great peril. Mr. Miller clung tightly to the seat, and
Bert shrank back between his knees. Davis, with feet braced against the
dashboard, and reins gathered close in his hands, put forth all his
great strength to control the horses, now flying over the narrow road at
a wild gallop. Brown's Gully, already sombre with the shadows of
evening, showed dark and deep before them. Just around that corner was
the bridge. Were they to meet another carriage there, it would mean
destruction to both. Davis well knew this, and gave a gasp of relief
when they swung round the corner and saw that the road was clear. If
they could only hit the bridge, all right; the danger would be passed.

"Now, Rory, _now_," shouted Davis, giving a tremendous tug at the
horse's left rein, and leaning far over in that direction himself.

[Illustration: "Davis put forth all his strength to control the horses,
now flying over the road at a wild gallop." _Page 36._]

Mr. Miller shut his eyes; the peril seemed too great to be gazed upon.
If they missed the bridge, they must go headlong into the gully. Another
moment and it was all over.

As the coach swung round the corner into the straight road beyond, its
impetus carried it almost over the edge, but not quite. With a splendid
effort, the great black wheeler drew it over to the left. The front
wheels kept the track, and although the hind wheels struck the side rail
of the bridge with a crash and a jerk that well-nigh hurled Bert out
upon the horses' backs, and the big coach leaned far over to the right,
it shot back into the road again, and went thundering over the trembling
bridge uninjured.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Mr. Miller, fervently, when the danger was
passed.

"Amen!" responded Jack Davis.

"I knew He would help us," added Bert.

"Knew who would, Bert?" inquired Mr. Miller, bending over him tenderly,
while something very like a tear glistened in his eye.

"I knew God would take care of us," replied Bert, promptly. "The driver
asked Him to; and didn't you ask Him, too?"

"I did," said Mr. Miller, adding, with a sigh, "but I'm afraid I had not
much right to expect Him to hear me."

They had no further difficulties. The road ran smoothly along the rest
of the way, and shortly after sundown the coach, with great noise and
clatter, drove into the village of Riverton, where grandpapa was to meet
Mrs. Lloyd and Bert, and take them home in his own carriage.




CHAPTER VI.

AT GRANDFATHER'S.


Easily distinguished in the crowd gathered to welcome the coach, whose
arrival was always the event of the evening, was Bert's grandfather,
Squire Stewart, a typical old Scotchman, from every point of view. As
the passengers got out, he stood watching them in silent dignity, until
Mrs. Lloyd, catching sight of him, ran impulsively up, and taking his
face between her two hands, gave him a warm kiss on each cheek, saying:

"Dear father, I'm so glad to see you looking so well."

"And I'm well pleased to see you, Kate," responded the Squire, in a tone
of deep affection, adding: "And is this your boy?" as Bert, who in the
meantime had been lifted down from his place, came to his mother's side.

"He's a fine big boy, and not ill-looking, either. I trust his manners
have not been neglected."

"You'll have to judge of that for yourself, father," replied Mrs. Lloyd.
"He's by no means perfect, but he's pretty good, upon the whole."

"Well, daughter, I'll go and get the carriage, if you'll just wait here
a moment," said Mr. Stewart, going off toward the stables.

Presently he returned, driving an elegant carriage with a fine pair of
well-matched bays, which, old man though he was, he held in complete
control.

"We won't mind the trunks now, Kate; I will send in for them in the
morning," said he, as he helped them into their seats.

Maplebank, Squire Stewart's place, was situated about four miles from
Riverton, and on the way out father and daughter had much to say to one
another. As for Bert, he sat in silence on his seat. He felt very much
awed by his grandfather. There was something so stern and severe about
his time-worn countenance, he seemed so stiff in his bearing, and his
voice had such a deep, rough tone in it, that, to tell the truth, Bert
began to feel half sorry he had come. But this feeling disappeared
entirely when, on arriving at Maplebank, he found himself in the arms of
Aunt Sarah before he had time to jump out of the carriage, and was then
passed over to his grandmother, who nearly smothered him with kisses.

If his grandfather filled him with awe, his grandmother inspired him
with love, from the very start. And no wonder, indeed, for she was the
very poetry of a grandmother. A small woman, with slender frame, already
stooping somewhat beneath the burden of years, her snow-white hair and
spotless cap framed one of the sweetest faces that ever beamed on this
earth. Bert gave her his whole heart at once, and during all the days he
spent at Maplebank she was his best loved friend.

Yet he did not fail to be very fond of his two aunts, likewise. With an
uncle, who remained at home, assisting his father in the management of
the property, they comprised the household, and the three apparently
conspired to do their best to spoil Master Bert during that summer. Bert
took very kindly to the spoiling, too, and under the circumstances it
was a wonder he did not return to Halifax quite demoralised, as regards
domestic discipline. But of this further.

They were a merry party sitting down to tea that evening, and Bert,
having appeased his hunger and found his tongue, amused them all very
much by his account of what he had seen from the coach top. The narrow
escape they had had at Brown's Gully was of course much discussed.
Squire Stewart had nothing but censure for the driver.

"The man had no business to go out with anything likely to break. Better
for you to have waited a day than run any such risks. I shall certainly
bring the matter to the attention of Mr. Lindsay," he said.

Nobody ventured to say anything to the contrary; but Bert, who was
sitting by his mother, turned an anxious face up to hers, and whispered:
"Grandpapa won't hurt Mr. Davis, will he? He was so good to me, and he
asked God to save us; and He did."

"It will be all right, dear," his mother whispered back. "Don't worry
yourself about it." And Bert, reassured, said nothing more.

Bedtime for him soon came, and then, to his great delight, he found that
instead of being banished to a room somewhere away upstairs, he was to
be put in a curious bed, that filled a corner of the parlour in which
the family sat. Bert had never seen anything like that bed before. It
looked just like a closet, but when you opened the closet door, behold,
there was a bed, and a very comfortable one, too. Just behind the
parlour, with a door between, was the best bedroom, which his mother
would have, and there Bert undressed, returning in his night-gown to say
goodnight to all before tumbling into bed.

With the closet door wide open, he could see everything that went on in
the room; and it was so delightful to lie there watching the family
reading or talking, until at last, sleep came to claim him.

"Now, if you're a good boy, and don't attempt to talk after your head's
on the pillow, I'll leave the door open, so you can see us all," said
Aunt Sarah, as she tucked Bert snugly in; and he had sense enough to be
a good boy, so that not a sound came from him ere his brown eyes closed
for the night.

Many a night after that did he lie there luxuriously, watching his
grandfather reading the newspaper, with a candle placed between his
face and the paper, in such close proximity to both, that Bert's
constant wonder was that one or the other of them never got burned; his
grandmother, whose eyes no longer permitted her to read at night,
knitting busily in her arm-chair, or nodding over her needles; Aunt
Sarah, reading in the book that always lay at hand for leisure moments;
Aunt Martha, stitching away, perhaps on some of his own torn garments;
his mother writing home to Mr. Lloyd, or to Mary; while from the
kitchen, outside, came the subdued sound of the servants' voices, as
they chattered over their tasks. Bert thought it a lovely way to go to
sleep, and often afterward, when at home, going up alone to bed in his
own room, wished that he was back at grandfather's again.

Bert slept late the next morning, for he was a very tired boy when he
went to bed; and for this once he was indulged. But as he entered the
dining-room, his grandfather, who had finished breakfast a full hour
before, looking at him with that stern expression which was habitual to
him, said:

"City boys must keep country hours when they come to the country. Early
to bed, early to rise, is the rule of this house, my boy."

Poor Bert was rather disconcerted by this reception, but managed to say:

"All right, grandpapa, I'll try," as he took his seat.

The day was full of novelty and delight to the city boy, as, under Uncle
Alec's guidance, he went about the farm, and visited the horses in the
stable, the cattle in the pasture, the pigs in the stye; and then, with
Aunt Martha, inspected the dairy, a big cool room in a small building,
well shaded by trees, where long rows of shallow pans stood filled with
rich milk or golden cream; while just before tea, Aunt Sarah claimed him
for a walk in the garden, where tiger lilies, hollyhocks, mock oranges,
peonies, and other old-fashioned flowers grew in gay profusion.

Grandmother was too much engrossed with her daughter to pay much
attention to Bert that day. Yet he had more than one token of affection
at her hands; and, taken altogether, it was a very happy day.

After tea, Mrs. Lloyd took her son off for a little chat alone, wishing
to draw him out as to his first impressions.

"Have you had a happy day, Bert?" she asked.

"Yes, indeed, mother. It has been just splendid. I think grandmamma and
uncle and my aunties are lovely, but"--and here Bert hesitated as if
afraid to finish his remark.

"But what, Bert?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "What were you going to say when you
stopped?"

"I don't like grandpapa, mother," said Bert, after a little pause,
bringing the words out slowly, and then adding, almost in a whisper,
"I'm afraid of grandpapa, mother."

"Hush, Bert. You shouldn't say that you don't like your grandfather.
But, tell me, why are you afraid of him?"

"Oh, because he seems so cross, and isn't kind to me like the others."

"But he isn't really cross, Bert. He loves you quite as much as the
others do, but then he is an old man and has a great deal to think
about. Now, Bert darling, I want you to learn to love your grandpapa,
and to try and never be any bother to him. You will, won't you?"

"I'll try not to be a bother to him, mother, but I don't think it's much
use my trying to love him unless he stops looking so cross."

"Well, try your best, at all events, Bert," said Mrs. Lloyd, giving her
son a tender kiss. "And now come, let's see if we can find
grandmother."




CHAPTER VII.

COUNTRY EXPERIENCES.


Bert had come to Maplebank just in time for the haying season. The long
slopes of upland and the level stretches of intervale waved before the
breeze their russet and green wealth, awaiting the summons of the scythe
and reaper. A number of extra hands had been hired to help in gathering
the crop, which this year was unusually abundant, and a few days after
Bert's coming the attack was begun.

The mowing machine had not yet reached Maplebank. The papers were
talking about it a good deal, but Squire Stewart was not the man to
quickly adopt new inventions, and nobody else in the neighbourhood could
afford to do so. Consequently, the West River Valley still continued to
witness the good, old-fashioned way of mowing with the scythe; and Bert,
accompanying Uncle Alec to the field, was filled with admiration for the
stalwart "Rorys" and "Donalds" and "Sandys" as they strode along through
the thick grass, cutting a wide swath before them. There was something
in the work that appealed to the boy's bump of destructiveness, and
filled him with eagerness to join in it.

"Oh, Uncle Alec, mayn't I mow?" he asked.

"Certainly, Bert, if you know how; but if you don't, I wouldn't advise
you to try it," was the smiling reply.

Not at all discouraged, Bert waited patiently until one of the mowers
stopped to sharpen his scythe, and then stepping to him, asked, in his
most engaging way:

"Please, sir, won't you let me mow a little?"

The man looked down at him in surprise.

"You couldn't hold a scythe, sonny," he said, with a grin of amusement.

"Oh, yes, I could. Please let me try; won't you?" pleaded Bert.

The man yielded, and placing his scythe in Bert's hands, told him to go
ahead.

With much difficulty Bert succeeded in grasping the two short handles
which projected from the long curved shaft, and, summoning all his
strength, he tried to move the scythe in the way the mowers were doing.
But at the first attempt the sharp point stuck in the turf, and
instantly the long handle flew up, turned over, and hit him a hard
crack, square between the eyes, that felled him to the ground.

The stars were dancing before his eyes, and the next moment the tears
would have been there too, had he not, as he picked himself up, caught
sight of the men laughing heartily over his mishap.

"They shan't see me cry," said he to himself; and, putting forth a
heroic effort, he swallowed his tears, though the gulping them down was
positively painful, and, standing up straight, looked bravely about him.
Uncle Alec saw it all and understood just how Bert felt.

"Well done, my little hero," said he, clapping him on the back. "You
have the right stuff in you."

"That he has, sir," said Big Sandy, with an admiring look. "He would
make a right good laddie for the farm."

Bert's heart was filled with joy at these praises, and he determined
that nobody on the farm should ever see him cry, unless he really
couldn't at all help it.

The scythe handle gave him quite an ugly bruise, which caused many a
question when he went back to the house; and Aunt Sarah, who was as
nervous as she was loving and sympathetic, made much ado over it, and
insisted on a bandage, which made Bert look like a little soldier who
had been in action. Mrs. Lloyd took the matter much more quietly. She
knew her son had to get his share of bumps and bruises, and that each
one would bring wisdom with it; so she contented herself with a kiss of
sympathy, and the hope that he would have better fortune next time.

The succeeding days were full of surprises and enjoyments to Bert.

His mother gave him full liberty to go and come as he pleased, so long
as he did not roam beyond the borders of the homestead, except when
with Uncle Alec. The hay mows, the carriage loft, the sheep pens, the
cattle stalls, were all explored; and ever so many cosy little nooks
discovered, that seemed just made for "hide and seek" or "I spy." Squire
Stewart had three barns on his homestead; one very large double barn,
and two smaller ones. Each of these had its own attractions; but the big
barn, that stood to your left, half way between the red gate and the
house, was the best of all. It contained great hay mows, in which vast
quantities of hay could be stored; a row of stalls where the horses
stood when not out at pasture; queer dark pens, into which the sheep
were gathered at winter time; and then, down underneath, great ranges of
uprights, between which the patient cattle were fastened, and fed with
hay, in the months when the snow lay deep upon their accustomed
pastures. There was an air of shadowy mystery about this huge, rambling
structure, with its lichen-patched roof, that fascinated Bert, and that
even the saucy chirpings of the sparrows, which boldly built their nests
in its dusty corners, could not dispel.

Bert often wished that his city playmates could come and share with him
the enjoyments of "grandfather's." He was not without companions,
however. Cameron, the big blacksmith at the cross-roads, had three
freckle-faced boys that were very glad to play with the little gentleman
at Squire Stewart's, when they could get away from the numerous duties
they were required to do at home; and other playmates soon turned up.
Bert was at first not very much inclined to be sociable with them. Not
only did they seem to have no shoes and stockings, but their entire
clothing was usually limited to a battered straw hat, an unbleached
cotton shirt, and a pair of rough homespun trousers; and the city boy
was inclined to look upon the country lads with some contempt, until his
Aunt Martha cured him effectually one day by a remark made in a quiet
way.

Bert had been making some unflattering comments upon the barefooted
youngsters, when Aunt Martha interrupted him:

"You had better not make fun of those boys, Bert," said she, with a
curious smile. "They may look as though they were poor, but remember
that their fathers have all of them their own carriage and horses, and
your father has not."

Bert saw the point at once, and never again ventured to ridicule boys
who were the sons of "real carriage folk." Not only so, but he began at
once to feel a respect for them, which wrought such a change in his
bearing toward them, that they, who were not at all favourably impressed
at first, changed their minds and decided that he was a "right smart
little fellow."

It was while playing "hide and seek" in the big barn with half-a-dozen
of these youngsters, that Bert had a narrow escape from serious injury,
if not, indeed, from death. The great, gaping mows were being filled
with hay, which was pitched in any way, and not, of course, packed
firmly. Consequently, it was in some places like snow upon the Alpine
slopes--ready to fall in an avalanche, at the slightest temptation.

In endeavouring to reach a far corner of the barn, where he felt sure no
one could possibly find him, Bert tried to cross a hill of hay, that had
piled up in one division of the mow. His hasty movements were just what
was needed to bring the whole mass toppling down in confusion to the
bottom of the mow. Unfortunately for him, he was involved in the
overthrow, and without a moment's warning was buried beneath a huge mass
of hay. As he went sliding helplessly down he uttered a cry of terror,
which startled little Rory Chisholm, who sprang out from his
hiding-place just in time to see poor Bert disappear.

"Hi! Hi! boys--come here; Bert Lloyd's under the hay."

The boys quickly gathered, and with eager hands set to work, to rescue
their imperiled playmate. But, vigorously though they toiled, it was
slow progress they made; and in the meantime the little fellow, pressed
upon by many hundredweight of hay, was fast losing breath and
consciousness. He could hear them very indistinctly, but could not make
a sound himself.

By a fortunate accident, one of the men happened along, just as the
boys were near giving up the task as too great for them.

"Donald! Donald! Quick! Bert Lloyd's under the hay. Dig him out, or
he'll die," cried Rory, at the top of his voice.

Seizing a pitchfork, Donald attacked the hay like a giant, getting more
and more careful as he drew near the bottom of the mow, until at last,
with a shout of "I've got him," he stooped down and dragged the
senseless form of Bert from the very bottom of the pile. Taking him in
his arms, he ran with him to the house, and gave Aunt Sarah a great
fright by suddenly plumping him into her lap, as she sat on the verandah
reading, saying, breathlessly:

"Here, miss, bring him to, and he'll be none the worse for it."

Aunt Sarah screamed for hartshorn, spirits of wine, and the dear knows
what, but Mrs. Lloyd, bringing a glass of water, dashed it freely over
her boy's pale face, and in a minute or two he opened his eyes again. As
Donald said, he was none the worse for his experience, for no bones were
broken, nor muscles strained; yet all felt thankful that he had escaped
so well.

It was not long after this that Bert had another adventure, which also
came near costing him his life. He was not only very fond of water, but
as fearless about it as a Newfoundland puppy. The blue sea, calm as a
mirror or flecked with "white caps," formed part of his earliest
recollections. He would play at its margin all day long, building forts
out of sand for the advancing billows of the tide to storm and
overwhelm. He was never happier than when gliding over it in his
father's skiff. It was the last thing in nature he looked upon before
lying down at night, and the first thing to which he turned on awaking
in the morning. Thus he got so used to the great salt sea, that when he
came to Maplebank and looked at the quiet stream, which glided along so
noiselessly at the bottom of the slope before the house, he thought it a
mere plaything, and could hardly be made to understand that, innocent as
the river appeared, there was water enough in it to drown him ten times
over.

One day some of the village folk came out to spend the day at Maplebank,
and the weather being decidedly warm, Uncle Alec proposed that the men
of the party should go with him for a bathe. They gladly assented, and
Bert having begged to accompany them was given leave to do so. Uncle
Alec took them to a lovely spot for a bath--a tempting nook in which one
might almost have expected to surprise a water nymph or two, if you drew
near quietly enough. On one side, the bank rose high and steep,
affording perfect seclusion; a narrow beach of gravel made a fine place
for undressing. The river rolled gently along with plenty of depth, and
beyond it was another beach, and then the swelling intervale.

Amid much laughter and excitement the men undressed, Uncle Alec allowing
Bert to do the same, as he had promised to carry him across the river on
his back. So soon as they were ready the bathers dived in; and, with
much splashing and noise, swam races to the opposite bank, leaving Bert
alone upon the shore. Skylarking with one another there they quite
forgot their little companion until Uncle Alec looking across, gave a
start, and cried out:

"Hallo! What's become of the boy?"

Not a sign of Bert was to be seen. His little pile of clothes, with hat
placed carefully on top, was plain enough but no Bert. Full of anxiety,
Uncle Alec sprang into the water, and with great sweeping strokes made
for the other side. The water fairly foamed about his broad, white
shoulders as he tore through it. He steered straight for the spot where
he had seen Bert last. Three-fourths of the distance had been covered,
when suddenly he stopped, and reaching down into the water, pulled
up--What do you think? Why, Bert, of course, whose big brown eyes had
startled him as they looked up at him through the clear, cool water. But
how did Bert get there? Well, easily enough. He had got tired waiting
for his uncle to come back for him. He wanted to be over there where the
men were all having such fun. He could not swim across, so he just
coolly accepted the only alternative, and started to walk across! When
Uncle Alec found him there was a clear foot of water over his head. A
step or two more and he would certainly have lost his footing, been
carried away by the current, and drowned perhaps before Uncle Alec could
have found him.

The men all voted him a young hero when they were told of his attempt,
and Uncle Alec vowed he'd teach him to swim the next time he paid a
visit to Maplebank.

Aunt Sarah was greatly excited when she heard of her darling Bert's
second escape, and had Mrs. Lloyd taken her advice the poor boy would
have been tied to somebody's apron strings for the rest of the summer.
But Mrs. Lloyd thought it better to do no more than caution Bert, and
trust to the Providence that protects children to keep him from harm. He
would have to learn to take care of himself sooner or later, and the
sooner the better.




CHAPTER VIII.

TEMPTATION AND TRIUMPH.


The one day in the week that Bert did not like at Maplebank was Sunday;
and, indeed, under the circumstances, he was not without excuse. At
home, the Lord's Day was always made as bright and cheerful as possible.
The toys and playthings of the week-days were of course put aside, and
wading by the seashore or coasting down the lane was not to be thought
of, but in their place Bert had his father's company, of which he never
had enough, and Mr. Lloyd made it a point, whether he really felt in
good spirits himself or not, to appear to be so to Bert; and, in
consequence, the little chap never thought his father quite so
delightful as on the day of rest, that was so welcome to the lawyer,
tired by a week's toil at his profession.

Then mother had more leisure, too; and besides the pleasure of going
with his parents to church, dressed in his best clothes, a privilege
Bert fully appreciated, there was the enjoyment of having her read to
him wonderfully interesting stories from the Bible or Pilgrim's
Progress, and explaining to him whatever puzzled his brain.

If the day was fine, Mary would take him with her to the Sunday school,
where, with a number of youngsters like himself, the hour would pass
quickly enough, as Miss Brightley entertained them with song and story,
and pictures bearing upon the lesson. And then, after Sunday school, in
summer time, his father would lead him off to the old fort, where they
would sit on the grassy ramparts, watching the white sailed ships
cleaving the blue waters, that never seemed more beautiful than on
Sunday afternoon.

But at Maplebank it was all very different. Squire Stewart was a
Presbyterian of the stern old Covenanter stock. To him the Lord's Day
meant a day to be spent in unsmiling strictness of conversation and
demeanour. No laughter, no bright talk, no semblance of joyousness was
sanctioned; nor, indeed, could have existed within the range of his
solemn countenance. He was a grave and silent man at any time, but on
Sunday the gravity of his appearance was little short of appalling. One
meeting him for the first time would certainly have thought that he had
just been visited by some overwhelming affliction. Bert, on the morning
of his first Sunday, coming out of his mother's room, after receiving
the finishing touches to his dress, and dancing along the hall, in
joyous anticipation of the drive in the big carriage to the village, ran
right into his grandfather. Laying a strong hand on the boy's shoulder,
Squire Stewart looked down at him, with disapproval written on every
line of his stern face.

"My boy," said he, in his deepest tones, "know you not that this is the
Sabbath day, and that you are to keep it holy, and not be dancing along
the hall?"

Poor Bert shrank away, with a trembling, "I didn't mean to, sir," and
thenceforth avoided his grandfather as completely as though he were a
criminal and the Squire was a policeman.

Not only at the house, but at the church, did Bert find Sunday a day of
dreariness. And here again, who could blame him? He was only a boy and a
very restless, active boy, at that, to whom one half-hour's sitting
still was about as much as he could endure. How, then, could he be
expected to be equal to four whole hours of stillness? Yet that was what
his grandfather required of him whenever he went to church.

The order of the day was as follows:--Leaving the house about ten
o'clock in the big covered carriage, of which the Squire felt duly
proud, as being the only one in the county, they drove leisurely into
the village, where the horses were put up, and after the ladies had
dropped in at a friend's to make sure their bonnets and dresses were as
they ought to be, they wended their way to the church, which, standing
right in the centre of the village, was noisily summoning its
worshippers to its seats as the big bell swung to and fro high up in the
steeple.

The church service began at eleven o'clock, and was of the most
old-fashioned orthodox type. No organ had yet profaned the sanctity of
that holy place, but instead thereof, a quartette of singers, selected
seemingly more for the strength than the sweetness of their voices,
occupied a large box right under the pulpit, and thence led the
congregation by a whole bar at least, in the rendering of Tate and
Brady's metrical version of the Psalms. Very weird and sorrowful were
many of the tunes. None were bright and inspiring like those Bert was
wont to hear at home, and as choir and congregation vied with one
another in the vigour of their singing, the little fellow was sometimes
half-frightened at the bewildering noise they made.

A saintlier pastor than the Reverend Mr. Goodman, D.D., few
congregations possessed; but only those members of his audience who were
of like age with himself thought him a good preacher. He had, indeed,
some gifts in expounding the Bible, and even Bert would be interested if
the lesson happened to be one of those stirring stories from the Old
Testament which seem so full of life and truth. But when it came to
preaching a sermon--well, it must be confessed there were then few dryer
preachers throughout the whole Province of Acadia. Bending low over his
manuscript, for his eyesight was poor, and lifting his head only now
and then to wipe his brow, or relieve his throat, with a dry, hard
cough, Mr. Goodman pursued his way steadily and monotonously from
"firstly" to "lastly" every Sunday.

And not only once, but twice on every Sunday. For be it understood, that
although many of the congregation lived too far away from the church to
make two trips to it from their homes, they were not thereby going to be
deprived of two services. Accordingly, after the morning service--which
usually lasted until one o'clock--was over, a recess of one hour for
lunch and fresh air followed, and at two o'clock a second service,
precisely similar in character, was entered upon, which occupied two
hours more. And then, having thus laid in a supply of sound theology for
the rest of the week, the good people of Calvin church, after indulging
in a little harmless gossiping at the church door--of which indulgence,
by the way, Squire Stewart strongly disapproved, and would have
prohibited, had he been able--harnessed up their horses and drove away
home.

Four hours of church service of so unattractive a character, and that in
mid-summer! Poor little Bert! He did not want to shock his grandfather,
or bring his mother's discipline into condemnation; but really, how
could he be all that the Squire, who, if he ever had been a boy himself,
must have quite forgotten about it, expected him to be? If he went to
sleep, Aunt Sarah or Aunt Martha, in obedience to signals from
grandfather, shook or pinched him awake again. If he stayed awake, he
felt that he must wriggle or die. Sometimes the temptation to scream out
loud was so strong that it seemed little short of a miracle he did not
yield to it. Mrs. Lloyd fully sympathised with her son's troubles, but
accustomed from infancy to obey her father unquestioningly, she would
not venture to do more than softly plead for Bert, now and then, when he
was more restless than usual. Her pleadings were not altogether vain,
and frequently they had the result of securing for Bert a boon that he
highly appreciated.

Squire Stewart was bothered by a troublesome chronic cough. He did not
mind it very much when at home, but at church he felt it to be a
nuisance both to himself and his neighbours. To ease it somewhat he
always carried to church with him a number of black currant lozenges, a
supply of which he kept in his big mahogany desk at home. Occasionally,
either as encouragement to him to try and be a better boy, or as a token
of relenting for being over severe, he would pass Bert one of these
lozenges, and Bert thought them the most delicious and desirable
sweetmeat ever invented. Not that they were really anything wonderful,
though they were very expensive; but the circumstances under which he
received them gave them a peculiar relish; and it was in regard to them
that Bert fought and won the sharpest battle with the tempter of all his
early boyhood. It happened in this way:

As already mentioned, Squire Stewart kept a supply of these lozenges in
his big mahogany desk, that had a table to itself in the parlour. This
desk was always kept locked, and Bert had many a time, when alone in the
room, gone up to it, and passed his hand over its polished surface,
thinking to himself how nice it would be if the package of lozenges was
in his pocket instead of shut up in there where nobody could get at it.

One morning, as Bert was playing about the house, a message came that
the Squire was wanted at once at the farthest barn, as one of the horses
had been hurt by another. He went out hastily, and shortly after, Bert,
going into the parlour, saw the desk wide open, his grandfather having
been looking for a paper when so suddenly called away. The moment his
eyes fell upon the open desk, a thought flashed into his mind that set
every nerve tingling. As though the old desk exerted some strange and
subtle fascination, he drew near it; slowly, hesitatingly, almost on
tiptoe, yet steadily. His heart beat like a trip-hammer, and his ears
were straining to catch the slightest sound of any one's approach. The
house was wonderfully quiet. He seemed to be quite alone in it; and
presently he found himself close beside the desk. Although open, the
inner lids were still shut, and ere Bert put out his hand to lift the
one under which he thought the package of lozenges lay, the thought of
the wrong he was doing came upon him so strongly as well-nigh to
conquer the temptation. For a moment he stood there irresolute; and then
again the hand that had dropped to his side was stretched forth. As it
touched the desk lid a thrill shot through his heart; and again he
hesitated and drew back.

It was really a tremendous struggle, and one upon which great issues
hung, so far as that boy, alone in that room with the tempter, was
concerned. Bert fully realized how wrong it would be for him to touch
the lozenges; but, oh! what a wonderful fascination they had for him!

Reaching forward again, he lifted up the desk lid, and there, fully
exposed to view, lay the package temptingly wide open, displaying its
toothsome contents. The crisis of the temptation had come. An instant
more, and Bert would have yielded; when suddenly his better nature got
the upper hand, and with a quick resolution, the secret of which he
never fully understood, he cried out:

"No, I won't." And slamming down the desk lid, he tried to run out of
the room, and ran right into the arms of his grandfather, who, unseen
and unsuspected, had witnessed the whole transaction from the door.

Overwhelmed with a sense of guilt and terror at having been detected by
the one person of all others whom he dreaded most, Bert sank down on the
floor, sobbing as though his heart would break. But, strange to say, the
stern old man had no harsh words for him now. On the contrary, he bent
down and lifting the little fellow gently to his feet said, in tones of
deepest tenderness:

"No tears, laddie; no tears. You've fought a grand fight, and glad am I
that I was there to see you win it. God grant you like success to the
end of your days. I'm proud of you, Bert boy; I'm proud of you."

Scarce able to believe his ears, Bert looked up through his tears into
his grandfather's face. But there was no mistaking the expression of
that rugged old countenance. It fairly beamed with love and pride, and
throwing himself into his arms, Bert for the first time realised that
his grandfather loved him.

He never forgot that scene. Many a time after it came back to him, and
helped him to decide for the right. And many a time, too, when
grandfather seemed unduly stern, did the remembrance of his face that
morning in the parlour drive away the hard feelings that had begun to
form against him.




CHAPTER IX.

LOST AND FOUND.


The summer days passed very quickly and happily for Bert at Maplebank,
especially after the surprising revelation of the love and tenderness
that underlay his grandfather's stern exterior. No one did more for his
comfort or happiness than his grandmother, and he loved her accordingly
with the whole strength of his young heart. She was so slight and frail,
and walked with such slow, gentle steps, that the thought of being her
protector and helper often came into his mind and caused him to put on a
more erect, important bearing as he walked beside her in the garden, or
through the orchard where the apples were already beginning to give
promise of the coming ripeness.

Mrs. Stewart manifested her love for her grandson in one way that made a
great impression upon Bert. She would take him over to the dairy, in its
cool place beneath the trees, and, selecting the cooler with the
thickest cream upon it, would skim off a teaspoonful into a large spoon
that was already half filled with new oatmeal, and then pour the
luscious mixture into the open mouth waiting expectantly beside her.

"Is not that fine, Bertie boy?" she would say, patting him
affectionately upon the head; and Bert, his mouth literally too full for
utterance, would try to look the thanks he could not speak.

Maplebank had many strange visitors. It stood a little way back from the
junction of three roads, and the Squire's hospitality to wayfarers being
unbounded, the consequence was that rarely did a night pass without one
or more finding a bed in some corner of the kitchen. Sometimes it would
be a shipwrecked sailor, slowly finding his way on foot to the nearest
shipping port. Sometimes a young lad with pack on back, setting out to
seek his fortune at the capital, or in the States beyond. Again it would
be a travelling tinker, or tailor, or cobbler, plying his trade from
house to house, and thereby making an honest living.

But the most frequent visitors of all--real nuisances, though, they
often made themselves--were the poor, simple folk, of whom a number of
both sexes roamed ceaselessly about. Not far from Maplebank was what the
better class called a "straglash district"--that is, a settlement
composed of a number of people who had by constant intermarriage, and
poor living, caused insanity of a mild type to be woefully common.
Almost every family had its idiot boy or girl, and these poor creatures,
being, as a rule, perfectly harmless, were suffered to go at large, and
were generally well treated by the neighbours, upon whose kindness they
were continually trespassing.

The best known of them at the time of Bert's visit, was one called
"Crazy Colin," a strange being, half wild, half civilised, with the
frame of an athlete, and the mind of a child. Although more than thirty
years of age, he had never shown much more sense than a two-year-old
baby. He even talked in a queer gibberish, such as was suitable to that
stage of childhood. Everybody was kind to him. His clothes and his food
were given him. As for a roof, he needed none in summer save when it
stormed, and in winter he found refuge among his own people. His chief
delight was roaming the woods and fields, talking vigorously to himself
in his own language, and waving a long ash staff that was rarely out of
his hands. He would thus spend whole days in apparent content, returning
only when the pangs of hunger could be borne no longer.

Bert took a great deal of interest in these "straglash" people, and
especially in Crazy Colin, who was a frequent visitor at the Squire's
kitchen, for Mrs. Stewart never refused him a generous bowl of porridge
and milk, or a huge slice of bread and butter. At first he was not a
little afraid of Crazy Colin. But soon he got accustomed to him, and
then, boy-like, presuming upon acquaintance, began to tease him a bit
when he would come in for a "bite and sup." More than once the idiot's
eyes flashed dangerously at Bert's prank; but, fool though he was, he
had sense enough to understand that any outbreak would mean his prompt
expulsion and banishment, and so he would restrain himself. One
memorable day, however, when Bert least expected or invited it, the
demon of insanity broke loose in a manner that might have had serious
consequences.

It was on a Sunday. The whole family had gone off to church, except
Bert, who had been left at home in the charge of the cook. She was a
strapping big Scotch lassie, and very fond of Bert. About an hour after
the family left, Crazy Colin sauntered along and took his seat in the
kitchen. Neither Kitty nor Bert was by any means pleased to see him, but
they thought it better to keep their feelings to themselves. Bert,
indeed, made some effort to be entertaining, but Crazy Colin seemed in
rather a sulky mood, an unusual thing for him, so Bert soon gave it up,
and went off into the garden.

The roses were blooming beautifully there, and he picked several before
returning to the kitchen. When he came back, he found the unwelcome
visitor alone, Kitty having gone into the other part of the house. He
was sitting beside the table with his head bent forward upon his hands,
apparently in deep dejection. Upon the table was a large knife which
Kitty had just been using in preparing the meat for dinner. Thinking it
would please poor Colin, Bert selected the finest rose in his bunch and
handed it to him, moving off toward the door leading into the hall as
he did so. Colin lifted his head and grasped the rose rudely. As his big
hand closed upon it, a thorn that hid under the white petals pierced
deep into the ball of his thumb. In an instant the sleeping demon of
insanity awoke. With eyes blazing and frame trembling with fury, he
sprang to his feet, seized the knife, and with a hoarse, inarticulate
shout, turned upon Bert, who, paralysed with terror, stood rooted to the
spot half-way between the idiot and the door. It was a moment of
imminent peril, but ere Crazy Colin could reach the boy, his hoarse cry
was echoed by a shrill shriek from behind Bert, and two stout arms
encircling him, bore him off through the door and up the stairs, pausing
not until Squire Stewart's bedroom was gained and the door locked fast.
Then depositing her burden upon the floor, brave, big Kitty threw
herself into a chair, exclaiming, breathlessly:

"Thank God, Master Bert, we're safe now. The creature darsen't come up
those stairs."

And Kitty was right; for although Crazy Colin raged and stormed up and
down the hall, striking the wall with the knife, and talking in his
wild, unintelligible way, he did not attempt to set foot upon the
stairs. Presently he became perfectly quiet.

"Has he gone away, Kitty?" asked Bert, eagerly, speaking for the first
time. "He's not making any noise now."

Kitty stepped softly to the door, and putting her ear to the crack,
listened intently for a minute.

"There's not a sound of him, Master Bert. Please God, he's gone, but we
hadn't better go out of the room until the folks come home. He may be
waiting in the kitchen."

And so they stayed, keeping one another company through the long hours
of the morning and afternoon until at last the welcome sound of wheels
crushing the gravel told that the carriage had returned, and they might
leave their refuge.

The indignation of Squire Stewart when he heard what had occurred was a
sight to behold. Sunday though it was, he burst forth into an
unrestrained display of his wrath, and had the cause of it ventured
along at the time, he certainly would have been in danger of bodily
injury.

"The miserable trash!" stormed the Squire. "Not one of them shall ever
darken my threshold again. Hech! that's what comes of being kind to such
objects. They take you to be as big fools as themselves, and act
accordingly. The constable shall lay his grip on that loon so sure as I
am a Stewart."

There were more reasons for the Squire's wrath, too, than the fright
Crazy Colin had given Bert and Kitty, for no dinner awaited the hungry
church-goers, and rejoiced as they all were at the happy escape of the
two who had been left at home, that was in itself an insufficient
substitute for a warm, well-cooked dinner. But Kitty, of course, could
not be blamed, and there was nothing to be done but to make the best of
the situation, and satisfy their hunger upon such odds and ends as the
larder afforded.

As for poor Crazy Colin, whether by some subtle instinct on coming to
himself he realised how gravely he had offended, or whether in some way
or other he got a hint of the Squire's threats, cannot be said. Certain
it was, that he did not present himself at Maplebank for many days
after, and then he came under circumstances, which not only secured him
complete forgiveness, but made him an actual hero, for the time, and won
him a big place in the hearts of both Bert and his mother.

Although Bert had been forbidden to leave the homestead, unless in
company with some grown-up person, he had on several occasions forgotten
this injunction, in the ardour of his play, but never so completely as
on the day that, tempted by Charlie Chisholm, the most reckless, daring
youngster in the neighbourhood, he went away off into the back-lands, as
the woods beyond the hill pasture were called, in search of an eagle's
nest, which the unveracious Charlie assured him was to be seen high up
in a certain dead monarch of the forest.

It was a beautiful afternoon, toward the end of August, when Bert, his
imagination fired by the thought of obtaining a young eagle, Charlie
having assured him that this was entirely possible, broke through all
restraints, and went off with his tempter. Unseen by any of the
household, as it happened, they passed through the milk yard, climbed
the hill, hastened across the pasture, dotted with the feeding cows, and
soon were lost to sight in the woods that fringed the line of settlement
on both sides of the valley, and farther on widened into the great
forest that was traversed only by the woodsman and the hunter.

On and on they went, until at length Bert was tired out. "Aren't we far
enough now, Charlie?" he asked, plaintively, throwing himself down upon
a fallen tree to rest a little.

"Not quite, Bert; but we'll soon be," answered Charlie. "Let's take a
rest, and then go ahead," he added, following Bert's example.

Having rested a few minutes, Charlie sprang up saying:

"Come along, Bert; or we'll never get there." And somewhat reluctantly
the latter obeyed. Deeper and deeper into the forest they made their
way, Charlie going, ahead confidently, and Bert following doubtfully;
for he was already beginning to repent of his rashness, and wish that he
was home again.

Presently Charlie showed signs of being uncertain as to the right route.
He would turn first to the right and then to the left, peering eagerly
ahead, as if hoping to come upon the big dead tree at any moment.
Finally he stopped altogether.

"See here, Bert; I guess we're on the wrong track," said he, coolly.
"I've missed the tree somehow, and it's getting late, so we'd better
make for home. We'll have a try some other day."

Poor little Bert, by this time thoroughly weary, was only too glad to
turn homeward, and the relief at doing this gave him new strength for a
while. But it did not last very long, and soon, footsore and exhausted,
he dropped down upon a bank of moss, and burst into tears.

"Oh, Charlie, I wish we were home," he sobbed. "I'm so tired, and
hungry, too."

Charlie did not know just what to do. It was getting on toward sundown;
he had quite lost his way, and might be a good while finding it again,
and he felt pretty well tired himself. But he put on a brave face and
tried to be very cheerful, as he said:

"Don't cry, Bert. Cheer up, my boy, and we'll soon get home."

It was all very well to say "cheer up," but it was another thing to do
it. As for getting home soon, if there were no other way for Bert to get
home than by walking the whole way, there was little chance of his
sleeping in his own bed that night.

How thoroughly miserable he did feel! His conscience, his legs, and his
stomach, were all paining him at once. He bitterly repented of his
disobedience, and vowed he would never err in the same way again. But
that, while it was all very right and proper, did not help him homeward.

At length Charlie grew desperate. He had no idea of spending the night
in the woods if he could possibly help it, so he proposed a plan to
Bert:

"See here, Bert," said he, "you're too played out to walk any more. Now,
I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll run home as fast as I can, and saddle
the old mare and bring her here, and then we'll ride back again
together. What do you say?"

"Oh, don't leave me here alone?" pleaded Bert. "I'll be awfully
frightened."

"Chut! Bert. There's nothing to frighten you but some old crows. Stay
just where you are, and I'll be back inside of an hour." And without
waiting to argue the point, Charlie dashed off into the woods in the
direction he thought nearest home; while Bert, after crying out in vain
for him to come back, buried his face in the moss and gave himself up to
tears.

One hour, two hours, three hours passed, and still Bert was alone. The
sun had set, the gloaming well-nigh passed, and the shadows of night
drew near. All kinds of queer noises fell upon his ear, filling him with
acute terror. He dared not move from the spot upon which Charlie had
left him, but sat there, crouched up close against a tree, trembling
with fear in every nerve. At intervals he would break out into vehement
crying, and then he would be silent again. Presently the darkness
enveloped him, and still no succour came.

Meantime, there had been much anxiety at Maplebank. On Bert's being
missed, diligent inquiry was made as to his whereabouts, and at length,
after much questioning, some one was found who had seen him, in company
with Charlie Chisholm, going up through the hill pasture toward the
woods. When Mrs. Lloyd heard who his companion was, her anxiety
increased, for she well knew what a reckless, adventurous little fellow
Charlie was, and she determined that search should be made for the boys
at once. But in this she was delayed by Uncle Alec and the men being off
at a distance, and not returning until supper time. So soon as they did
get back, and heard of Bert's disappearance, they swallowed their
supper, and all started without delay to hunt him up.

The dusk had come before the men--headed by Uncle Alec, and followed, as
far as the foot of the hill, by the old Squire--got well started on
their search; but they were half-a-dozen in number, and all knew the
country pretty well, so that the prospect of their finding the lost boy
soon seemed bright enough.

Yet the dusk deepened into darkness, and hour after hour passed--hours
of intense anxiety and earnest prayer on the part of the mother and
others at Maplebank--without any token of success.

Mrs. Lloyd was not naturally a nervous woman, but who could blame her if
her feelings refused control when her darling boy was thus exposed to
dangers, the extent of which none could tell.

The Squire did his best to cheer her in his bluff blunt way:

"Tut! tut! Kate. Don't worry so. The child's just fallen asleep
somewhere. He'll be found as soon as it's light. There's nothing to harm
him in those woods."

Mrs. Lloyd tried hard to persuade herself that there wasn't, but all
kinds of vague terrors filled her mind, and refused to be allayed.

At length, as it drew toward midnight, a step was heard approaching, and
the anxious watchers rushed eagerly to the door, hoping for good news.
But it was only one of the men, returning according to arrangement to
see if Bert had been found, and if not to set forth again along some new
line of search. After a little interval another came, and then another,
until all had returned, Uncle Alec being the last, and still no news of
Bert.

They were bidden to take some rest and refreshment before going back in
to the woods. While they were sitting in the kitchen, Uncle Alec, who
was exceedingly fond of Bert, and felt more concerned about him than he
cared to show, having no appetite for food, went off toward the red gate
with no definite purpose except that he could not keep still.

Presently the still midnight air was startled with a joyful "Hurrah!"
followed close by a shout of "Bert's all right--he's here," that brought
the people in the house tumbling pell-mell against each other in
their haste to reach the door and see what it all meant.

[Illustration: "Crazy Colin strode up the road, bearing Bert high upon
his shoulder."--_Page 79._]

The light from the kitchen streamed out upon the road, making a broad
luminous path, up which the next moment strode Crazy Colin, bearing Bert
high upon his broad shoulders, while his swarthy countenance fairly
shone with a smile of pride and satisfaction that clearly showed he did
not need Uncle Alec's enthusiastic clappings on the back, and hearty
"Well done, Colin! You're a trump!" to make him understand the
importance of what he had done.

The two were at once surrounded by the overjoyed family. After giving
her darling one passionate hug, Mrs. Lloyd took both of Crazy Colin's
hands in hers, and, looking up into his beaming face, said, with a deep
sincerity even his dull brain could not fail to appreciate: "God bless
you, Colin. I cannot thank you enough, but I'll be your friend for
life;" while the Squire, having blown his nose very vigorously on his
red silk handkerchief, grasped Colin by the arm, dragged him into the
house, and ordered that the best the larder could produce should be
placed before him at once. It was a happy scene, and no one enjoyed it
more than did Crazy Colin himself.

The exact details of the rescue of Bert were never fully ascertained;
for, of course, poor Colin could not make them known, his range of
expression being limited to his mere personal wants, and Bert himself
being able to tell no more than that while lying at the foot of the
tree, and crying pretty vigorously, he heard a rustling among the trees
that sent a chill of terror through him, and then the sound of Crazy
Colin's talk with himself, which he recognised instantly. Forgetting all
about the fright Colin had given him a few days before, he shouted out
his name. Colin came to him at once, and seeming to understand the
situation at a glance, picked him up in his strong arms, flung him over
his shoulder, and strode off toward Maplebank with him as though he were
a mere feather-weight and not a sturdy boy. Dark as it was, Colin never
hesitated, nor paused, except now and then to rest a moment, until he
reached the red gate where Uncle Alec met him, and welcomed him so
warmly.

Mrs. Lloyd did not think it wise nor necessary to say very much to Bert
about his disobedience. If ever there was a contrite, humbled boy, it
was he. He had learned a lesson that he would be long in forgetting. As
for his tempter, Charlie Chisholm, he did not turn up until the next
morning, having lost himself completely in his endeavour to get home;
and it was only after many hours of wandering he found his way to an
outlying cabin of the backwoods settlement, where he was given shelter
for the night.




CHAPTER X.

BERT GOES TO SCHOOL.


With the waning of summer came the time for Mrs. Lloyd to return to the
city. Both she and Bert felt very sorry to leave Maplebank, and the
family there was unanimous in seeking to persuade her to allow Bert to
remain for the winter. But this was not practicable, because, in the
first place, Mr. Lloyd had been writing to say that he was quite tired
of being without his boy, and would like to have him back again as soon
as was convenient; and, in the second place, Bert had reached the age
when he ought to begin his schooling, and must return home for that
purpose.

So at length, after more than one postponement, the day of departure
arrived. Grandmother and Aunt Martha, and Aunt Sarah, could not restrain
their tears, and big, kind Kitty was among the mourners too, as Bert and
his mother took their seat in the carriage beside the Squire and Uncle
Alec, to drive in to the village where the coach would be met.

With many a promise to come back ere very long, and many a fond
"Good-bye! God bless you, my darling!" the travellers started on their
homeward journey. The village was reached in good time, the coach found
awaiting its passengers, the trunks safely stowed behind, the last
good-bye to grandfather and Uncle Alec said, and then, amid cracking of
whips and waving of handkerchiefs, the big coach rolled grandly off, and
Bert had really parted with dear, delightful Maplebank, where he had
spent such a happy summer.

The homeward journey was a very pleasant one, and marked by no exciting
incidents. Jack Davis was in his place on the box, and, recognising Bert
when the passengers got out at the first change of horses, hailed him
with a hearty: "Holloa, youngster! Are you on board? Would you like to
come up on top with me again?"

It need hardly be said that Bert jumped at the invitation, and, his
mother giving her consent, he rode on the box seat beside Davis the
greater part of the day as happy as a bird. The weather was perfect, it
being a cool, bright day in early September, and Bert enjoyed very much
recognising and recalling the different things that had particularly
interested him on the way down. "Black Rory" was as lively as ever, and
seemed determined to run away and dash everything to pieces as they
started out from his stable, but calmed down again after a mile or two,
as usual, and trotted along amiably enough the rest of his distance.

It happened that Davis had no one on the outside with whom he cared to
talk, so he gave a good deal of attention to Bert, telling him about the
horses and their peculiarities, and how they were in so many ways just
like people, and had to be humoured sometimes, and sometimes punished,
and how it was, upon the whole, so much better to be kind than cruel to
them.

"If your father ever lets you have a pony, Bert," said Davis, "take my
word for it it'll pay you to treat that ere pony like a brother. Just
let him know you're fond of him from the start; give him a lump of sugar
or a crust of bread now and then--it's wonderful how fond horses are of
such things--and he'll follow you about just like a dog. Horses have got
a good deal more human nature in 'em than folks generally give 'em
credit for, I can tell you, and I think I know what I am talking about,
for I've had to do with them ever since I've been as big as you."

Bert listened to this lecture with very lively interest, for his father
had more than once hinted at getting him a pony some day if he were a
good boy, and showed he could be trusted with one. He confided his hopes
to his friend, and received in return for the confidence a lot more of
good advice, which need not be repeated here.

The sun was setting as the coach drove up to the hotel at Thurso, where
Mrs. Lloyd and Bert were to remain for the night, taking the train for
Halifax the next morning. Bert felt quite sorry at parting with his big
friend, the driver, and very gladly promised him that the next time he
was going to Maplebank he would try to manage so as to be going down on
Jack Davis' day that their friendship might be renewed.

Both Bert and his mother were very glad to get to bed that night.
Coaching is fine fun in fine weather, but it is fatiguing, nevertheless.
You cannot ride all day in a coach without more or less backache, and
Bert was so sleepy that, but for his mother preventing him, he would
have flung himself upon his bed without so much as taking off his boots.
He managed to undress all right enough, however, and then slept like a
top until next morning.

Bright and early they took the train, and by mid-day were at Halifax,
where Mr. Lloyd and Mary received them with open arms and many a glad
kiss.

After allowing him a few days to settle down to home life again, the
question of Bert's going to school was raised. He was now full eight
years of age, and quite old enough to make a beginning. His mother and
sister had between them given him a good start in the "three R's" at
home, for he was an apt pupil, and he was quite ready to enter a larger
sphere.

At first his parents were somewhat undecided as to whether they would
send him to a school presided over by a woman or a man. It was usual in
Halifax for those who preferred the private to the public schools to
send their boys for a year or two to a dame's school as a sort of easy
introduction to school life; and in the very same street as that in
which the Lloyds lived there was such a school where two rather gaunt
and grim old-maid sisters aided one another in the application of primer
and taws. To this institution Mrs. Lloyd thought it would be well for
Bert to go. His father had no very decided views to the contrary, but on
Bert himself being consulted, it became very clear that his mind was
quite made up.

"Please don't send me to 'Old Goggles'' school, father," pleaded he,
earnestly.

"'Old Goggles!' Why, Bert, what do you mean by calling Miss Poster by
such a name as that?"

"It's most disrespectful," interrupted his mother, with a very much
shocked expression, while Mr. Lloyd tried hard, but unsuccessfully, to
conceal a smile beneath his moustache.

"Well, mother, that's what they all call her," explained Bert.

"Even though they do, Bert, you should not. Miss Poster is a lady, and
you must act the gentleman toward her," replied Mrs. Lloyd. "But why
don't you want to go to school there? Several boys about your own age
are going."

"Oh, because a lot of girls go there, and I don't want to go to school
with girls," was Master Bert's ungallant reply.

Mr. Lloyd, who had evidently been much amused at the conversation, now
joined in it by drawing Bert toward him and asking, in a half-serious,
half-humorous tone:

"Is my boy Bert afraid of little girls?"

Bert's face flushed till it was crimson, and dropping his head upon his
breast, he muttered:

"I'm not afraid of them, but I don't like 'em, and I don't want to go to
school with 'em."

The fact of the matter was that Bert not only had his full share of the
repugnance to the other sex common to all boys of his age, but he had
besides a strong notion that it was not a manly thing to go to school
with girls, and if there was one thing more than another that he aspired
after, it was manliness.

Mr. Lloyd thoroughly understood his son's feelings, and felt disposed to
humour them. Accordingly, lifting up his head, he gave him a kiss on the
forehead, saying:

"Very well, Bert; we'll see about it. Since you have such decided
objections to Miss Goggles'--I beg her pardon, Miss Poster's--excellent
establishment, I will make inquiry, and see if I cannot find something
that will suit you better. I want you to like your school, and to take
an interest in it."

Bert's face fairly beamed at these words, and he heaved a huge sigh of
relief which brought another smile out on his father's countenance.

"You're such a good father," said Bert, hugging his knees, and there
the matter dropped for a few days.

When it came up again, Mr. Lloyd had a new proposition to make. In the
interval he had been making some inquiries, and had been recommended to
send his boy to a school just lately established by an accomplished
young lawyer, who had adopted that method of earning an honest penny
while waiting for his practice to become more lucrative. It was a good
deal of an experiment, Mr. Lloyd thought but possibly worth trying.

Accordingly, one fine morning in October, behold Master Bert in a rather
perturbed frame of mind trotting along beside his father, who pretended
not to be aware of his son's feelings, although at the same time seeking
in every way to divert him. But it was not with much success. Bert felt
thoroughly nervous over the new experience that awaited him. He had
never seen Mr. Garrison, who was to be his teacher, and imagined him as
a tall, thin man with a long beard, a stern face, a harsh voice, and an
ever-ready "cat-o'-nine tails." As for his future schoolmates, they were
no doubt a lot of rough, noisy chaps, that would be certain to "put him
through a course of sprouts" before they would make friends with him.

If, then, such thoughts as these filled Bert's mind, it must not be
wondered at that he lagged a good deal both as to his talking and
walking, although he was always spry enough with both when out with his
father. Much sooner than he wished they reached the building, a large
rambling stone structure, only one room of which was occupied by the
school; they climbed the broad free-stone staircase to the upper storey,
knocked at a door from behind which came a confused hum of voices, and
being bidden "Come in," entered a big room that at first seemed to Bert
to be completely filled by a misty sea of faces with every eye turned
right upon him. He cowered before this curious scrutiny, and but for his
father's restraining grasp would probably have attempted a wild dash for
the still unclosed door, when he heard his father saying:

"Good-morning, Mr. Garrison; I have brought my boy to place him in your
care for a while, if you will have him as a pupil." Looking up, Bert
beheld a person approaching very different from the schoolmaster of his
gloomy anticipations.

Mr. Garrison was indeed tall, but there the similarity ended. He was
youthful, slight, and very attractive in appearance, his manner being
exceedingly graceful and easy, as he came forward with a winning smile
upon his countenance, and extending his right hand to Mr. Lloyd, placed
the other upon Bert's shoulder, and said, in a mellow, pleasant voice:

"Good-morning, Mr. Lloyd. I shall be very glad indeed to have your boy
in my school, and if he is anything like as good a man as his father,
he will make one of my very best pupils."

Mr. Lloyd laughed heartily at this flattering remark.

"Listen to that, Bert," said he. "When you are in any doubt just how to
behave, you have only to ask yourself what I would do under the same
circumstances, and act accordingly." Then, turning to Mr. Garrison, he
said: "Perhaps you would like me to join your school, too, so as to set
a good example to the other boys."

"Right glad would I be to have you, Mr. Lloyd," answered Mr. Garrison,
with a cordial smile. "Many a time I find my boys almost too much for
one man to handle."

Bert, clinging fast to his father's hand, and half-hoping he was in
earnest, felt a pang of disappointment when he replied:

"I'm afraid it's too late, Mr. Garrison. My school-days are past;
except so far as I may be able to live them over with this little chap
here. I will leave him with you now; do your best with him. He can learn
well enough when he likes, but he is just as fond of fun as any
youngster of his age." Then giving Bert an affectionate pat on the
shoulder, and whispering in his ear, "Now, be a man, Bert," Mr. Lloyd
went away, and Bert followed Mr. Garrison up to the desk, where his
name, age, and address were duly entered in the register book.

The next business was to assign him a seat. A few questions as to what
he knew showed that his proper place was in the junior class of all, and
there accordingly Mr. Garrison led him. A vacancy was found for him in a
long range of seats, extending from the door almost up to the desk, and
he was bidden sit down beside a boy who had been eyeing him with lively
curiosity from the moment of his entrance into the room. So soon as Mr.
Garrison went away, this boy opened fire upon the new-comer.

"Say, sonny, whats yer name?" he asked, with unhesitating abruptness.

Bert looked the questioner all over before replying. He was a short,
stout, stubble-haired chap, evidently a year or two older than himself,
with a broad, good-humoured face, and the inspection being, upon the
whole, satisfactory, Bert replied, very pleasantly:

"Bert Lloyd--and what's yours?"

Ignoring the question put to him, the other boy gave a sort of grunt
that might be taken as an expression of approval of his new schoolmate's
name, and then said:

"Guess you don't live down our way; never seen you before, that I know
of."

"I live in Fort Street. Where do you live?" replied Bert, giving
question for question.

"I'm a West-ender," said the other, meaning that his home was in the
western part of the city.

"But whats your name?" asked Bert again.

"Oh, my name's Frank Bowser," was the careless reply. "But everybody
calls me 'Shorty,' and you may as well, too."

"All right," said Bert. And the two began to feel quite good friends at
once.

As the morning passed, and Bert came to feel more at home, he took in
the details of his surroundings. Mr. Garrison's school consisted of some
fifty boys, ranging in age from sixteen downward, Bert being about the
youngest of them all. They all belonged to the better class, and were,
upon the whole, a very presentable lot of pupils. Scanning their
countenances curiously as they sat at their desks or stood up in rows
before the teacher to recite, Bert noticed more than one face that he
instinctively liked, and, being charmed with Mr. Garrison, and well
pleased with his new friend "Shorty," his first impressions were
decidedly favourable.

He had, of course, nothing to do that morning, save to look about him,
but Mr. Garrison gave him a list of books to be procured, and lessons to
be learned in them before the school broke up for the day; and with this
in his pocket he went home in excellent spirits, to tell them all there,
how well he had got on his first day in school.




CHAPTER XI.

SCHOOL LIFE AT MR. GARRISON'S.


Bert had not been long at Mr. Garrison's school before he discovered
that it was conducted on what might fairly be described as
"go-as-you-please" principles. A sad lack of system was its chief
characteristic. He meant well enough by his pupils, and was constantly
making spurts in the direction of reform and improvement, but as often
falling back into the old irregular ways.

The fact of the matter was that he not only was not a schoolmaster by
instinct, but he had no intention of being one by profession. He had
simply adopted teaching as a temporary expedient to tide over a
financial emergency, and intended to drop it so soon as his object was
accomplished. His heart was in his profession, not in his school, and
the work of teaching was at best an irksome task, to be got through with
each day as quickly as possible. Had Mr. Lloyd fully understood this, he
would never have placed Bert there. But he did not; and, moreover, he
was interested in young Mr. Garrison, who had had many difficulties to
encounter in making his way, and he wished to help him.

In the first place, Mr. Garrison kept no record of attendance, either of
the whole school, or of the different classes into which it was divided.
A boy might come in an hour after the proper time, or be away for a
whole day without either his lateness or his absence being observed. As
a consequence "meeching"--that is, taking a holiday without leave from
either parents or teachers--was shamefully common. Indeed, there was
hardly a day that one or more boys did not "meech." If by any chance
they were missed, it was easy to get out of the difficulty by making
some excuse about having been sick, or mother having kept them at home
to do some work, and so forth. Schoolboys are always fertile in excuses,
and, only too often, indifferent as to the quantity of truth these may
contain.

Another curious feature of Mr. Garrison's system, or rather lack of
system, was that he kept no record of the order of standing in the
classes; and so, when the class in geography, for instance, was called
to recite, the boys would come tumbling pell-mell out of their seats,
and crowd tumultuously to the space in front of the desk, with the
invariable result that the smaller boys would be sent to the bottom of
the class, whether they deserved to be there or not. Then as to the
hearing of the lesson, there was absolutely no rule about it. Sometimes
the questions would be divided impartially among the whole class.
Sometimes they would all be asked of a single boy, and if he happened to
answer correctly,--which, however, was an extremely rare
occurrence,--the class would be dismissed without one of the others
being questioned.

Another peculiarity of Mr. Garrison's was his going out on business for
an hour or more at a time, and leaving the school in charge of one of
the older boys, who would exercise the authority thus conferred upon him
in a lax and kindly, or severe and cruel manner, according to his
disposition. One of the boys generally chosen for this duty was a big,
good-hearted fellow named Munro; another was an equally big, but
sour-dispositioned chap named Siteman; and whenever Mr. Garrison showed
signs of going out, there was always intense excitement among the boys,
to see who would be appointed monitor, and lively satisfaction, or deep
disappointment, according to the choice made.

It was a little while, of course, before Bert found all this out, and in
the meantime he made good headway in the school, because his father took
care that his lessons were well learned every evening before he went to
bed; and Mr. Garrison soon discovered that whoever else might fail,
there was one boy in Bert's classes that could be depended upon for a
right answer, and that was Bert himself.

There was another person who noticed Bert's ready accuracy, and that was
"Shorty" Bowser.

"Say, Bert," said he one day, "how is that you always have your lessons
down so fine? You never seem to trip up at all."

"Because father always sees that I learn 'em," answered Bert. "If I
don't learn 'em in the evening, I've got to do it before breakfast in
the morning."

"I wish my dad 'ud do as much for me; but he don't seem to care a cent
whether I ever learn 'em or not," said poor Shorty, ruefully. For he was
pretty sure to miss two out of every three questions asked him, and Mr.
Garrison thought him one of his worst scholars.

"Won't your mother help you, then?" asked Bert, with interest.

"Got no mother," was the reply, while Shorty's eyes shone suspiciously.
"Mother's been dead this good while."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Bert, in tones of genuine sympathy that went
right to Frank Bowser's heart, and greatly strengthened the liking he
had felt from the first for his new schoolmate.

It was not long before he gave proof of what he thought of Bert in a
very practical way. They were for the most part in the same classes, and
it soon became evident that Shorty felt very proud of his friend's
accuracy at recitation. That he should remain at the foot while Bert
worked his way up steadily toward the head of the class, did not arouse
the slightest feeling of jealousy in his honest heart; but, on the
contrary, a frank admiration that did him infinite credit.

But it was just the other way with Bob Brandon, an overgrown, lanky boy,
who seemed to have taken a dislike to Bert from the first, and seized
every opportunity of acting disagreeably toward him. Being so much
smaller, Bert had to endure his slights as best he could, but he found
it very hard, and particularly so that Bob should prevent him from
getting his proper place in his class. Again and again would Bert pass
Bob, who, indeed, rarely knew his lessons; but so sure as the class
reassembled, Bob would roughly shoulder his way toward the top and Bert
would have to take a lower position, unless Mr. Garrison happened to
notice what was taking place and readjusted matters, which, however, did
not often occur.

This sort of thing had been going on for some time, until at last one
day Bert felt so badly over it that when he went back to his seat he
buried his head in his hands and burst out crying, much to the surprise
of Shorty, who at once leaned over and asked, with much concern:

"What's the matter, Bert? Missed your lesson?"

Bert checked his tears and told his trouble.

"Sho! that's what's the matter, hey? I guess I'll fix Bob as sure as my
name's Bowser."

"What'll you do?" asked Bert. "Tell the master?"

"No, sir. No tattling for me," replied Shorty, vigorously. "I'll just
punch his head for him, see if I don't."

And he was as good as his word. Immediately after the dismissal of the
school, while the boys still lingered on the playground, Shorty stalked
up to Bob Brandon, and told him if he didn't stop shoving Bert Lloyd out
of his proper place in the classes he would punch his head. Whereat Bob
Brandon laughed contemptuously, and was rewarded with a blow on the face
that fairly made him stagger. Then, of course, there was a fight, the
boys forming a ring around the combatants, and Bert holding his
champion's coat and hat, and hardly knowing whether to cry or to cheer.
The fight did not last long. Bob was the taller, but Frank the stouter
of the two. Bob, like most bullies, was a coward, but Frank was as
plucky as he was strong. Burning with righteous wrath, Frank went at his
opponent hammer and tongs, and after a few minutes' ineffective parrying
and dodging, the latter actually ran out of the ring, thoroughly beaten,
leaving Frank in possession of the field, to receive the applause of his
companions, and particularly of Bert, who gave him a warm hug, saying
gratefully:

"Dear, good Shorty. I'm so glad you beat him."

That fight united the two boys in firmer bonds of friendship than ever,
especially as it proved quite effective so far as Bob Brandon was
concerned, as he needed no other lesson. It was curious how Bert and
Frank reacted upon one another. At first the influence proceeded mainly
from Bert to Frank, the latter being much impressed by his friend's
attention to his lessons and good behaviour in school, and somewhat
stirred up to emulate these virtues. But after Bert had been going to
the school for some little time, and the novelty had all worn off, he
began to lose some of his ardour and to imitate Frank's happy-go-lucky
carelessness. Instead of being one of the first boys in the school of a
morning, he would linger and loiter on the playground until he would be
among those who were the last to take their places. He also began to
take less interest in his lessons, and in his standing in the classes,
and but for the care exercised at home would have gone to school very
ill prepared.

Frank Bowser was not by any means a bad boy. He had been carelessly
brought up, and was by nature of rather a reckless disposition, but he
generally preferred right to wrong, and could, upon the whole, be
trusted to behave himself under ordinary circumstances, at all events.
His influence upon Bert, while it certainly would not help him much,
would not harm him seriously. He did get him into trouble one day,
however, in a way that Bert was long in forgetting.

The winter had come, and over in one corner of the playground was a
slide of unusual length and excellence, upon which the Garrison boys had
fine times every day before and after school. Coming up one morning
early, on purpose to enjoy this slide, Bert was greatly disappointed to
find it in possession of a crowd of roughs from the upper streets, who
clearly intended to keep it all to themselves so long as they pleased.
While Bert, standing at a safe distance, was watching the usurpers with
longing eyes, Shorty came up, and, taking in the situation, said:

"Let 'em alone, Bert; I know of another slide just as good, a couple of
squares off. Let's go over there."

"But, isn't it most school time?" objected Bert.

"Why, no," replied Shorty. "There's ten minutes yet. Come along." And
thus assured, Bert complied.

The slide was farther away than Shorty had said, but proved to be very
good when they did reach it, and they enjoyed it so much that the time
slipped away unheeded, until presently the town clock on the hill above
them boomed out ten, in notes of solemn warning.

"My sakes!" exclaimed Bert, in alarm. "There's ten o'clock. What will we
do?"

"Guess we'd better not go to school at all. Mr. Garrison will never miss
us," suggested Shorty.

"Do you mean to meech?" asked Bert, with some indignation.

"That's about it," was the reply. "What's the harm?"

"Why, you know it ain't right; I'm not going to do it if you are." And
Bert really meant what he said.

But, as luck would have it, on their way back to the school, what should
they meet but that spectacle, one of the most attractive of the winter's
sights in the eyes of a Halifax schoolboy, a fireman's sleigh drive.
Driving gaily along the street, between lines of spectators, came sleigh
after sleigh, drawn by four, six, or even eight carefully matched and
brightly decked horses, and filled to overflowing with the firemen and
their fair friends, while bands of music played merry tunes, to which
the horses seemed to step in time.

Bert and Shorty had of course to stop and see this fine sight, and it
chanced that when it was about one-half passed, one of the big eight
horse teams got tangled up with a passing sleigh, and a scene of
confusion ensued that took a good while to set right. When at length all
was straightened out, and the procession of sleighs had passed, Shorty
asked a gentleman to tell him the time.

"Five minutes to eleven, my lad," was the startling reply.

Shorty looked significantly at Bert. "Most too late now, don't you
think?"

Bert hesitated. He shrank from the ordeal of entering the crowded
schoolroom, and being detected and punished by Mr. Garrison, in the
presence of all the others. Yet he felt that it would be better to do
that than not go to school at all--in other words, meech.

"Oh, come along, Bert," said Shorty; "old Garrison can do without us
to-day."

Still Bert stood irresolute.

"Let's go down and see the big steamer that came in last night,"
persisted Shorty, who was determined not to go to school, and to keep
Bert from going too.

Yielding more to Shorty's influence than to the attraction of the
steamer, Bert gave way, and spent the rest of the morning playing about,
until it was the usual time for going home.

He said nothing at home about what he had done, and the next morning
went back to school, hoping, with all his heart, that his absence had
not been noted, and that no questions would be asked.

But it was not to be.

Soon after the opening of the school when all were assembled and quiet
obtained, Mr. Garrison sent a thrill of expectation through the boys by
calling out, in severe tones, while his face was clouded with anger:

"Frank Bowser and Cuthbert Lloyd come to the desk."

With pale faces and drooping heads the boys obeyed, Frank whispering in
Bert's ear as they went up:

"Tell him you were kept at home."

Trembling in every nerve, the two culprits stood before their teacher.
Mr. Garrison was evidently much incensed. A spasm of reform had seized
him. His eyes had been opened to the prevalence of "meeching," and he
determined to put a stop to it by making an example of the present
offenders. He had missed them both from school the day before, and
suspected the cause.

"Young gentlemen," said he, in his most chilling tones, "you were absent
yesterday. Have you any reason to give?"

Frank without answering looked at Bert, while the whole school held
their breath in suspense. Bert remained silent. It was evident that a
sharp struggle was going on within. Becoming impatient, Mr. Garrison
struck the desk with his hands, and said, sternly:

"Answer me this moment. Have you any excuse?"

With a quick, decided movement, Bert lifted his head, and looking
straight into Mr. Garrison's face with his big brown eyes, said,
clearly:

"No, sir. I meeched."

Quite taken aback by this frank confession, Mr. Garrison paused a
moment, and then, turning to Frank, asked:

"And how about you, sir?"

Without lifting his head, Frank muttered, "I meeched, too," in tones
audible only to his questioner.

So pleased was Mr. Garrison with Bert's honesty, that he would have been
glad to let him off with a reprimand; but the interests of good
discipline demanded sterner measures. Accordingly, he called to one of
his monitors:

"Munro, will you please go over to the Acadian School and get the
strap?"

For be it known that Mr. Garrison shared the ownership of a strap with
his brother, who taught a school in an adjoining block, and had to send
for it when a boy was to be punished.

While Munro was gone, Bert and Frank stood before the desk, both feeling
deeply their position, and dreading what was yet to come. When Munro
returned, bearing the strap--a business-like looking affair, about two
feet in length--Mr. Garrison laid it on the desk, and seemed very
reluctant to put it in use. At length, overcoming his disinclination, he
rose to his feet, and, taking it up, said:

"Cuthbert Lloyd, come forward!"

Bert, his head drooping upon his breast, and his face flushed and pale
by turns, moved slowly forward. Grasping the strap, Mr. Garrison raised
it to bring it down upon Bert's outstretched hand, when suddenly a
thought struck him that brought a look of immense relief to his
countenance, and he arrested the movement. Turning to the boys, who were
watching him with wondering eyes, he said:

"Boys, I ask for your judgment. If Bert and Frank say, before you all,
that they are sorry for what they have done, and will promise never to
do it again, may I not relieve them of the whipping?"

A hearty and unanimous chorus of "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir," came from the
school at once.

"Now, my lads, do you hear that?" continued Mr. Garrison in a kindly
tone, turning to the two offenders. "Will you not say you are sorry, and
will never meech again."

"I am sorry, and promise never to do so again," said Bert, in a clear
distinct voice, as the tears gathered in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, and won't do it again," echoed Frank, in a lower tone.

"That's right, boys," said Mr. Garrison, his face full of pleasure. "I
am sure you mean every word of it. Go to your seats now, and we will
resume work."

It took the school some little time to settle down again after this
unusual and moving episode, the effect of which was to raise both Mr.
Garrison and Bert a good deal higher in the estimation of every one
present, and to put a check upon the practice of "meeching" that went
far toward effecting a complete cure.

Although the result had been so much better than he expected, Bert felt
his disgrace keenly, and so soon as he got home from school he told the
whole story from the start to his mother, making no excuses for himself,
but simply telling the truth.

His mother, of course, was very much surprised and pained, but knew well
that her boy needed no further reproaches or censure to realise the full
extent of his wrong-doing. Bidding him, therefore, seek forgiveness of
God as well as of her, she said that she would tell his father all about
it, which was a great relief to Bert, who dreaded lest he should have to
perform this trying task himself; and so the matter rested for the
time.




CHAPTER XII.

A QUESTION OF INFLUENCE.


When Mr. Lloyd heard the story of Bert's "meeching," it was evident that
it hurt him sorely. He was quite prepared for a reasonable amount of
waywardness in his boy, but this seriously exceeded his expectations. He
could not, of course, put himself exactly in Bert's place, and he was
inclined to think him guilty of far more deliberate wrong than poor Bert
had for a moment contemplated.

Then, again, he was much puzzled as to what should be done with
reference to Frank Bowser. He had evidently been Bert's tempter, and
Bert ought, perhaps, to be forbidden to have any more to do with him
than he could possibly help. On the other hand, if Bert were to be
interdicted from the companionship of his schoolmates, how would he ever
learn to take care of himself among other dangerous associations? This
was a lesson he must learn some day. Should he not begin now?

So Mr. Lloyd was not a little bewildered, and his talk with Bert did
not give him much light; for while Bert, of course, was thoroughly
penitent and ready to promise anything, what he had to tell about Frank
was simply how good-natured and generous and plucky he was, and so
forth.

The three of them, father, mother, and sister, held a consultation over
the matter that night after Bert had gone to bed.

"I wish I felt more sure as to what is the wisest thing to do," said Mr.
Lloyd. "We can't keep Bert in a glass case, and yet it seems as if we
should do our best to protect him from every evil influence. I would
like to know more about that Bowser boy."

"Bert tells me he has no mother," said Mrs. Lloyd, in sympathetic tones,
"and from what he says himself, his father does not seem to take much
interest in him. Poor boy! he cannot have much to help him at that
rate."

"He's a good, sturdy little chap," put in Mary. "He came down from
school with Bert one day. He seems very fond of him."

"Well, what had we better do?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "Forbid Bert to make a
companion of him, or say nothing about it, and trust Bert to come out
all right?"

"I feel as though we ought to forbid Bert," answered Mrs. Lloyd. "Frank
Bowser's influence cannot help him much, and it may harm him a good
deal."

"Suppose you put that the other way, mother," spoke up Mary, her face
flushing under the inspiration of the thought that had just occurred to
her. "Frank Bowser has no help at home, and Bert has. Why, then, not say
that Bert's influence cannot harm Frank, and it may help him a good
deal?"

"Mary, my dear," exclaimed Mr. Lloyd, bending over to pat her
affectionately on the shoulder, "that's a brilliant idea of yours.
You're right. Bert should help Frank, and not let Frank harm him. We
must make Bert understand that clearly, and then there will be nothing
to fear."

And so the consultation closed, with Mary bearing off the honours of
having made the best suggestion.

It was acted upon without delay. Calling Bert to him next morning while
they were awaiting breakfast, Mr. Lloyd laid the matter before him:

"Bert," said he, kindly, "we were talking about you last night, and
wondering whether we ought to forbid your making a companion of Frank
Bowser. What do you think?"

"Oh, father, don't do that," answered Bert, looking up with a startled
expression. "He's been so good to me. You remember how he served Bob
Brandon for shoving me down in class?"

"Yes, Bert; but I'm afraid he's leading you into mischief, and that is
not the sort of companion I want for you."

Bert dropped his head again. He had no answer ready this time.

"But then there are always two sides to a question, Bert," continued Mr.
Lloyd, while Bert pricked up his ears hopefully. "Why should you not
help Frank to keep out of mischief, instead of his leading you into it?
What do you say to that?"

Bert did not seem quite to understand, so his father went on:

"Don't you see, Bert? You must either help Frank to be better, or he
will cause you to be worse. Now, which is it to be?"

Bert saw it clearly now.

"Why, father," he cried, his face beaming with gladness at this new turn
to the situation, "I'll do my best to be a good boy, and I know Shorty
will, too, for he always likes to do what I do."

"Very well then, Bert," said Mr. Lloyd, "that's a bargain. And now,
suppose you invite Frank, or 'Shorty,' as you call him, to spend next
Saturday afternoon with you, and take tea with us."

"Oh, father, that will be splendid," cried Bert, delightedly. "We can
coast in the fort all the afternoon and have fun in the evening. I'm
sure Shorty will be so glad to come."

The question thus satisfactorily settled, Bert took his breakfast, and
went off to school in high glee and great impatience to see Frank, for
the invitation he bore for him fairly burned in his mouth, so to speak.

As he expected, Frank needed no pressing to accept it. He did not get
many invitations, poor chap! and the prospect of an afternoon at Bert's
home seemed very attractive to him. He did enjoy himself thoroughly,
too, even if he was so shy and awkward that Mrs. Lloyd and Mary were
afraid to say very much to him; he seemed to find it so hard to answer
them.

But Mr. Lloyd got on much better with him. Although his boyhood was a
good way in the past, he kept its memories fresh, and could enter
heartily into the discussion of any of the sports the younger generation
delighted in. He knew all the phrases peculiar to baseball, cricket,
marbles, and so forth, and fairly astonished Frank by his intimate
knowledge of those amusements, so that ere long Frank, without knowing
just how it happened, was chatting away as freely as though he were out
on the Garrison playground instead of being in Mr. Lloyd's parlour.

Having once got him well started, Mr. Lloyd led him on to talk about
himself and his home, and his way of spending his time, and thus learned
a great deal more about him than he had yet known. One fact that he
learned pointed out a way in which Bert's influence could be exerted for
good at once. Frank attended no Sunday school. He went to church
sometimes, but not very often, as his father took little interest in
church-going, but he never went to Sunday school; in fact, he had not
been there for years. Mr. Lloyd said nothing himself on the subject to
Frank. He thought it better to leave it all to Bert.

After Frank had gone, leaving behind him a very good impression upon the
whole, Mr. Lloyd told Bert of the opportunity awaiting him.

"Wouldn't you like to ask Frank to go with you to Sunday school, Bert?"
he inquired.

"Of course, I would, father," replied Bert, promptly; "and I'm sure he'd
go, too, and that Mr. Silver would be very glad to have him in our
class."

When Bert, however, came to talk to Frank about it, he found him not
quite so willing to go as he had been to accept the invitation for
Saturday.

"I'm not anxious to go to Sunday school, Bert," said he. "I shan't know
anybody there but you, and it'll be awfully slow."

"But you'll soon get to know plenty of people," urged Bert; "and Mr.
Silver is so nice."

And so they argued, Frank holding back, partly because his shyness made
him shrink from going into a strange place, and partly because, having
been accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons pretty much as he
pleased, he did not like the idea of giving up his liberty. But Bert was
too much in earnest to be put off. The suggestion of his father that he
should try to do Frank some good had taken strong hold upon his mind,
and he urged, and pleaded, and argued until, at last, Frank gave way,
and promised to try the Sunday school for a while, at any rate.

Bert reported the decision at home with much pride and satisfaction. He
had no doubt that when once Frank found out what a pleasant place the
Sunday school was, and how kind and nice Mr. Silver--his teacher
there--was, he would want to go every Sunday.

The Sunday school of Calvary Baptist Church certainly had about as
pleasant and cheery quarters as could be desired. For one thing, it was
not held in a damp, dark, unventilated basement as so many Sunday
schools are.

And, oh, what a shame--what an extraordinary perversion of sense this
condemning of the children to the cellars of the churches is! Just as
though anything were good enough for them, when in them lies the hope of
the Church, and every possible means should be employed to twine their
young affections about it! But these words do not apply to the Calvary
Sunday School, for it was not held in a dingy basement, but in a
separate building that united in itself nearly every good quality such
an edifice should possess. It was of ample size, full of light and air,
had free exposure to the sunshine, and was so arranged that every
convenience was offered for the work of the school. Around the central
hall were arranged rooms for the Bible classes, the infant class, and
the library, so planned that by throwing up sliding doors they became
part of the large room. The walls were hung with pictures illustrating
Bible scenes, and with mottoes founded upon Bible texts; and finally,
the benches were of a special make that was particularly comfortable.

All this was quite a revelation to Frank when, after some little
coaxing, Bert brought him to the school. His conception of a Sunday
school was of going down into a gloomy basement, and being lectured
about the Bible by a severe old man with a long grey beard. Instead of
that, he found himself in one of the brightest rooms he had ever seen,
and receiving a cordial welcome from a handsome young gentleman, to whom
Bert had just said:

"This is my friend Frank, Mr. Silver. He's going to come to school with
me after this."

"Very glad indeed to have you, Frank," said Mr. Silver, giving him a
warm grasp of the hand. "Sit right down with Bert, and make yourself at
home."

And Frank sat down, so surprised and pleased with everything as to be
half inclined to wonder if he was not dreaming. Then the fine singing,
as the whole school, led by an organ and choir, burst forth into song,
the bright pleasant remarks of the superintendent, Mr. Hamilton, Bert's
ideal of a "Christian soldier," and the simple earnest prayer
offered,--all impressed Frank deeply.

No less interesting did he find Mr. Silver's teaching of the lesson. Mr.
Silver attached great importance to his work in the Sunday school.
Nothing was permitted to interfere with thorough preparation for it, and
he always met his class brimful of information, illustration, and
application, bearing upon the passage appointed for the day. And not
only so, but by shrewd questioning and personal appeal he sent the
precious words home to his young hearers and fixed them deep in their
memories. He was a rare teacher in many respects, and Bert was very fond
of him. Frank did not fail to be attracted by him. As he and Bert left
the school together, Bert asked:

"Well, Frank, how do you like my Sunday school?"

"First rate," replied Frank, heartily. "Say, but isn't Mr. Silver nice?
Seems as though I'd known him for ever so long instead of just to-day."

"Guess he is nice," said Bert. "He's just the best teacher in the
school. You'll come every Sunday now, won't you, Frank?"

"I think so," answered Frank; "I might just as well be going there as
loafing about on Sunday afternoon doing nothing."

Mr. Lloyd was very much pleased when he heard of Bert's success in
getting Frank to the Sunday school. He recognised in Bert many of those
qualities which make a boy a leader among his companions, and his desire
was that his son's influence should always tell for that which was
manly, pure, and upright. To get him interested in recruiting for the
Sunday school was a very good beginning in church work, and Mr. Lloyd
felt thankful accordingly.

Neither was he alone in feeling pleased and thankful. Mr. John Bowser,
Frank's father, although he showed great indifference to both the
intellectual and moral welfare of his boy, was, nevertheless, not
opposed to others taking an interest in him. He cared too little about
either church or Sunday school to see that Frank was a regular
attendant. But he was very willing that somebody else should take an
interest in the matter. Moreover, he felt not a little complacency over
the fact that his son was chosen as a companion by Lawyer Lloyd's son.
Engrossed as he was in the making of money, a big, burly, gruff,
uncultured contractor, he found time somehow to acquire a great respect
for Mr. Lloyd. He thought him rather too scrupulous and straightforward
a man to be _his_ lawyer, but he admired him greatly, nevertheless; and,
although he said nothing about it, secretly congratulated himself upon
the way things were going. He had little idea that the circle of
influence Bert had unconsciously started would come to include him
before its force would be spent.




CHAPTER XIII.

BERT AT HOME.


It was an article of faith in the Lloyd family that there was not a
house in Halifax having a pleasanter situation than theirs, and they
certainly had very good grounds for their belief. Something has already
been told about its splendid view of the broad harbour, furrowed with
white-capped waves, when of an afternoon the breeze blew in smartly from
the great ocean beyond; of its snug security from northern blasts; of
the cosy nook it had to itself in a quiet street; and of its ample
exposure to the sunshine. But, perhaps, the chief charm of all was the
old fort whose grass-grown casemates came so close to the foot of the
garden, that ever since Bert was big enough to jump, he had cherished a
wild ambition to leap from the top of the garden fence to the level top
of the nearest casemate.

This old fort, with its long, obsolete, muzzle-loading thirty-two
pounders, was associated with Bert's earliest recollection. His nurse
had carried him there to play about in the long, rank grass underneath
the shade of the wide-spreading willows that crested the seaward slope
before he was able to walk; and ever since, summer and winter, he had
found it his favourite playground.

The cannons were an unfailing source of delight to him. Mounted high
upon their cumbrous carriages, with little pyramids of round iron balls
that would never have any other use than that of ornament lying beside
them, they made famous playthings. He delighted in clambering up and
sitting astride their smooth, round bodies as though they were horses;
or in peering into the mysterious depths of their muzzles. Indeed, once
when he was about five years old he did more than peer in. He tried to
crawl in, and thereby ran some risk of injury.

He had been playing ball with some of the soldier's children, and seemed
so engrossed in the amusement that his mother, who had taken him into
the fort, thought he might very well be left for a while, and so she
went off some little distance to rest in quiet, in a shady corner. She
had not been there more than a quarter of an hour, when she was startled
by the cries of the children, who seemed much alarmed over something;
and hastening back to where she had left Bert, she beheld a sight that
would have been most ludicrous if it had not been so terrifying.

Protruding from the mouth of one of the cannons, and kicking very
vigorously, were two sturdy, mottled legs that she instantly recognised
as belonging to her son, while from the interior came strange muffled
sounds that showed the poor little fellow was screaming in dire
affright, as well he might in so distressing a situation. Too young to
be of any help, Bert's playmates were gathered about him crying lustily,
only one of them having had the sense to run off to the carpenter's shop
near by to secure assistance.

[Illustration: "Fortunately, a big soldier came along, and, slipping
both hands as far up on Bert's body as he could reach, with a strong,
steady pull drew him out of the cannon."--_Page_ 119.]

Mrs. Lloyd at once grasped Bert's feet and strove to pull him out, but
found it no easy matter. In his efforts to free himself he had only
stuck the more firmly, and was now too securely fastened for Mrs. Lloyd
to extricate him. Fortunately, however, a big soldier came along at this
juncture, and, slipping both hands as far up on Bert's body as he could
reach, grasped him firmly, and with one strong, steady pull, drew him
out of the cannon.

When he got him out, Bert presented so comical a spectacle that his
stalwart rescuer had to lay him down and laugh until the tears rolled
down his cheeks. Mrs. Lloyd, too, relieved from all anxiety, and feeling
a reaction from her first fright, could not help following his example.
His face, black with grime, which was furrowed with tears, his hands
even blacker, his nice clothes smutched and soiled, and indeed, his
whole appearance suggested a little chimney-sweep that had forgotten to
put on his working clothes before going to business. Bert certainly was
enough to make even the gravest laugh.

Beyond a bruise or two, he was, however, not a whit the worse for his
curious experience, which had come about in this way:--While they were
playing with the ball, one of the children had, out of mischief, picked
it up and thrown it into the cannon, where it had stayed. They tried to
get it out by means of sticks, but could not reach it. Then Bert, always
plucky and enterprising to the verge of rashness, undertook to go after
the ball himself. The other boys at once joined forces to lift him up
and push him into the dark cavern, and then alarmed by his cries and
unavailing struggles to get out again, began to cry themselves, and thus
brought Mrs. Lloyd to the scene.

Mr. Lloyd was very much amused when he heard about Bert's adventure.

"You've beaten Shakespeare, Bert," said he, after a hearty laugh, as
Mrs. Lloyd graphically described the occurrence. "For Shakespeare says a
man does not seek the bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth, until he
becomes a soldier, but you have found it, unless I am much mistaken,
before you have fairly begun being a schoolboy."

Bert did not understand the reference to Shakespeare, but he did
understand that his father was not displeased with him, and that was a
much more important matter. The next Sunday afternoon, when they went
for their accustomed stroll in the fort, Bert showed his father the big
gun whose dark interior he had attempted to explore.

"Oh, but father, wasn't I frightened when I got in there and couldn't
get out again!" said he earnestly, clasping his father's hand tightly,
as the horror of the situation came back to him.

"You were certainly in a tight place, little man," answered Mr. Lloyd,
"and the next time your ball gets into one of the cannons you had better
ask one of the artillerymen to get it out for you. He will find it a
much easier job than getting you out."

Bert loved the old fort and its cannons none the less because of his
adventure, and as he grew older he learned to drop down into it from the
garden fence, and climb back again, with the agility of a monkey. The
garden itself was not very extensive, but Bert took a great deal of
pleasure in it, too, for he was fond of flowers--what true boy, indeed,
is not?--and it contained a large number within its narrow limits, there
being no less than two score rose bushes of different varieties, for
instance. The roses were very plenteous and beautiful when in their
prime, but at opposite corners of the little garden stood two trees that
had far more interest for Bert than all the rose trees put together.
These were two apple trees, planted, no one knew just how or when, which
had been allowed to grow up at their own will, without pruning or
grafting, and, as a consequence, were never known to produce fruit that
was worth eating. Every spring they put forth a brave show of pink and
white blossoms, as though this year, at all events, they were going to
do themselves credit, and every autumn the result appeared in
half-a-dozen hard, small, sour, withered-up apples that hardly deserved
the name. And yet, although these trees showed no signs of repentance
and amendment, Bert, with the quenchless hopefulness of boyhood, never
quite despaired of their bringing forth an apple that he could eat
without having his mouth drawn up into one tight pucker. Autumn after
autumn he would watch the slowly developing fruit, trusting for the
best. It always abused his confidence, however, but it was a long time
before he finally gave it up in despair.

At one side of the garden stood a neat little barn that was also of
special interest to Bert, for, besides the stall for the cow, there was
another, still vacant, which Mr. Lloyd had promised should have a pony
for its tenant so soon as Bert was old enough to be trusted with such a
playmate.

Hardly a day passed that Bert did not go into the stable, and, standing
by the little stall, wonder to himself how it would look with a pretty
pony in it. Of course, he felt very impatient to have the pony, but Mr.
Lloyd had his own ideas upon that point, and was not to be moved from
them. He thought that when Bert was ten years old would be quite time
enough, and so there was nothing to do but to wait, which Bert did, with
as much fortitude as he could command.

Whatever might be the weather outside, it seemed always warm and sunny
indoors at Bert's home. The Lloyds lived in an atmosphere of love, both
human and Divine. They loved one another dearly, but they loved God
still more, and lived close to Him. Religion was not so much expressed
as implied in their life. It was not in the least obtrusive, yet one
could never mistake their point of view. Next to its sincerity, the
strongest characteristic of their religion was its cheeriness. They saw
no reason why the children of the King should go mourning all their
days; on the contrary, was it not rather their duty, as well as their
privilege, to establish the joy of service?

Brought up amid such influences, Bert was, as a natural consequence,
entirely free from those strange misconceptions of the true character of
religion which keep so many of the young out of the kingdom. He saw
nothing gloomy or repellent in religion. That he should love and serve
God seemed as natural to him as that he should love and serve his
parents. Of their love and care he had a thousand tokens daily. Of the
Divine love and care he learned from them, and that they should believe
in it was all the reason he required for his doing the same. He asked no
further evidence.

There were, of course, times when the spirit of evil stirred within him,
and moved him to rebel against authority, and to wish, as he put it
himself one day when reminded of the text, "Thou God seest me," that
"God would let him alone for a while, and not be always looking at him."
But then he wasn't an angel by any means, but simply a hearty, healthy,
happy boy, with a fair share of temper, and as much fondness for having
his own way as the average boy of his age.

His parents were very proud of him. They would have been queer parents
if they were not. Yet they were careful to disguise it from him as far
as possible. If there was one thing more than another that Mr. Lloyd
disliked in children, and, therefore, dreaded for his boy, it was that
forward, conscious air which comes of too much attention being paid them
in the presence of their elders. "Little folks should be seen and not
heard," he would say kindly but firmly to Bert, when that young person
was disposed to unduly assert himself, and Bert rarely failed to take
the hint.

One trait of Bert's nature which gave his father great gratification was
his fondness for reading. He never had to be taught to read. He learned,
himself. That is, he was so eager to learn that so soon as he had
mastered the alphabet, he was always taking his picture books to his
mother or sister, and getting them to spell the words for him. In this
way he got over all his difficulties with surprising rapidity, and at
five years of age could read quite easily. As he grew older, he showed
rather an odd taste in his choice of books. One volume that he read from
cover to cover before he was eight years old was Layard's "Nineveh."
Just why this portly sombre-hued volume, with its winged lion stamped in
gold upon its back, attracted him so strongly, it would not be easy to
say. The illustrations, of course, had something to do with it, and then
the fascination of digging down deep into the earth and bringing forth
all sorts of strange things no doubt influenced him.

Another book that held a wonderful charm for him was the Book of
Revelation. So carefully did he con this, which he thought the most
glorious of all writings, that at one time he could recite many chapters
of it word for word. Its marvellous imagery appealed to his imagination
if it did nothing more, and took such hold upon his mind that no part of
the Bible, not even the stories that shine like stars through the first
books of the Old Testament, was more interesting to him.

Not only was Bert's imagination vivid, but his sympathies were also very
quick and easily aroused. It was scarcely safe to read to him a pathetic
tale, his tears were so certain to flow. The story of Gellert's hound,
faithful unto death, well-nigh broke his heart, and that perfect pearl,
"Rab and His Friends," bedewed his cheeks, although he read it again and
again until he knew it almost by heart.

No one ever laughed at his tenderness of heart. He was not taught that
it was unmanly for a boy to weep. It is an easy thing to chill and
harden an impressionable nature. It is not so easy to soften it again,
or to bring softness to one that is too hard for its own good.

With such a home, Bert Lloyd could hardly fail to be a happy boy, and no
one that knew him would ever have thought of him as being anything else.
He had his dull times, of course. What boy with all his faculties has
not? And he had his cranky spells, too. But neither the one nor the
other lasted very long, and the sunshine soon not only broke through the
clouds, but scattered them altogether. Happy are those natures not given
to brooding over real or fancied troubles. Gloom never mends matters: it
can only make them worse.




CHAPTER XIV.

AN HONOURABLE SCAR.


Bert was not learning very much at Mr. Garrison's school. He had some
glimmering of this himself, for he said to Frank one day, after they had
returned to their seats from having gone through the form--for really it
was nothing more--of saying one of their lessons:

"It's mighty easy work getting through lessons at this school, isn't it,
Shorty?" And Shorty, being of the same opinion, as he had happened not
to be asked any questions, and, therefore, had not made any mistakes,
promptly assented.

"That's so, Bert," said he, "and the oftener he asks Munro and you to
say the whole lesson, and just gives me the go-by, the better I like
it."

But Bert was not the only one who noticed that his education was not
making due progress. His father observed it too, and, after some
thinking on the subject, made up his mind that he would allow Bert to
finish the spring term at Mr. Garrison's, and then, after the summer
holidays, send him to some other school.

The winter passed away and spring drew near. Spring is the most dilatory
and provoking of all the seasons at Halifax. It advances and retreats,
pauses and progresses, promises and fails to perform, until it really
seems, sometimes, as though mid-summer would be at hand and no spring at
all. With the boys it is a particularly trying time of the year. The
daily increasing heat of the sun has played havoc with the snow and ice,
and winter sports are out of the question. Yet the snow and ice--or
rather the slush they make--still lingers on, and renders any kind of
summer sport impossible. For nearly a month this unsatisfactory state of
affairs continues, and then, at length, the wet dries up, the frost
comes out of the ground, the chill leaves the air, and marbles,
rounders, baseball, and, later on, cricket make glad the hearts and tire
the legs of the eager boys.

This spring was made memorable for Bert by an occurrence that left its
mark upon him, lest, perhaps, he might be in danger of forgetting it. In
front of the large building, in one room of which Mr. Garrison's school
was held, there was a large open square, known as the Parade. It was a
bare, stony place kept in order by nobody, and a great resort for the
roughs of the city, who could there do pretty much what they pleased
without fear of interruption from the police. On the upper side of this
square, and over toward the opposite end from Mr. Garrison's, was
another school, called the National, and having a large number of
scholars, of a somewhat commoner class than those which attended Mr.
Garrison's. It need hardly be said that the relations between the two
schools were, to use a diplomatic phrase, "chronically strained." They
were always at loggerheads. A Garrison boy could hardly encounter a
National boy without giving or getting a cuff, a matter determined by
his size, and riots, on a more or less extensive scale, were continually
taking place when groups of boys representing the two schools would
happen to meet.

Bert was neither quarrelsome nor pugnacious by nature. He disliked very
much being on bad terms with anyone, and could not understand why he
should regard another boy as his natural enemy simply because he
happened to go to a different school. More than once he had quite an
argument with Frank Bowser about it. Frank was always full of fight. He
hated every National boy as vigorously as though each one had
individually done him some cruel injury. As sure as a collision took
place, and Frank was present, he was in the thick of it at once, dealing
blows right and left with all his might.

In obedience to the dictation of his own nature, strengthened by his
father's advice, Bert kept out of these squabbles so far as he possibly
could, and as a natural consequence fell under suspicion of being a
coward. Even Frank began to wonder if he were not afraid, and if it were
not this which kept him back from active participation in the rows. He
said something about it to Bert one day, and it hurt Bert very much.

"I'm not afraid, Shorty; you know well enough I'm not," said he,
indignantly. "But I'm not going to fight with fellows who never did me
any harm. It's wrong, that's what it is, and I'm not going to do it. I
don't care what you say."

"But you ought to chip in sometimes, Bert, or the boys will think that
you're a coward," urged Frank.

"I can't help it if they do, Shorty," was Bert's unshaken reply. "I
don't feel like it myself, and, what's more, father doesn't want me to."

The very next day there was a row of unusual dimensions, brought about
by one of the Garrison boys at the noon recess having started a fight
with one of the National boys, which almost in a twinkling of an eye
involved all the boys belonging to both schools then in the Parade. It
was a lively scene, that would have gladdened the heart of an Irishman
homesick for the excitement of Donnybrook Fair. There were at least one
hundred boys engaged, the sides being pretty evenly matched, and the
battle ground was the centre of the Parade. To drive the other school in
ignominious flight from this spot was the object of each boyish
regiment, and locked in hostile embrace, like the players in a football
match when a "maul" has been formed, they swayed to and fro, now one
side gaining, now the other, while shouts of "Go in, Nationals!" "Give
it to them, Garrisons!" mingling with exclamations of anger or pain,
filled the air.

Bert was not present when the struggle began. In fact, it was well under
way before he knew anything about it, as he had lingered in the
schoolroom to ask Mr. Garrison some question after the other boys had
run out. On going out upon the Parade, he was at first startled by the
uproar, and then filled with an intense desire to be in the midst of the
battle. But, remembering his father's injunctions, he paused for a
moment irresolute. Then he noticed that the National boys were gaining
the advantage, and the Garrison boys retreating before them. The next
instant he caught sight of Frank Bowser, who had, of course, been in the
forefront of the fight, left unsupported by his comrades, and surrounded
by a circle of threatening opponents. Bert hesitated no longer. With a
shout of "Come on, boys!" he sprang down the steps, rushed across the
intervening space, and flung himself into the group around Frank with
such force that two of the Nationals were hurled to the ground, and
Frank set at liberty. Inspirited by Bert's gallant onset, the Garrisons
returned to the charge, the Nationals gave way before them, and Bert was
just about to raise the shout of victory when a big hulk of a boy who
had been hovering on the outskirts of the Nationals, too cowardly to
come to any closer quarter, picked up a stone and threw it with wicked
force straight at Bert's face. His aim was only too good. With a sharp
thud, the stone struck Bert on his left temple, just behind the eye, and
the poor boy fell to the ground insensible.

Instantly the struggle and confusion ceased, but not before Frank, in a
passion of fury, had dealt Bert's cowardly assailant a blow that sent
him reeling to the ground, and had then sprung to his friend's side.

"Get a doctor, some fellow," he shouted, holding up the pale, calm face,
down which the blood was trickling from an ugly wound. "Let's carry him
into the school!"

A dozen eager volunteers came forward. Carefully and tenderly Bert was
lifted up, and carried into the schoolroom, which, fortunately, Mr.
Garrison had not yet left. Placed upon one of the benches, with Frank's
coat for a pillow, his head was bathed with cold water, and presently he
revived, much to the relief and delight of the anxious boys standing
round. A few minutes later the doctor arrived. With quick, deft fingers
he stanched the wound, covered it with plaster, enveloped it with
bandages, and then gave directions that Bert should be sent home in a
cab without delay.

"Why, Bert darling, what does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd, as she
opened the door for him.

"Ask Frank, mother; my head's aching too bad to tell you," replied
Bert, putting up his hand with a gesture of pain. And so, while Bert lay
on the sofa, with his mother close beside him, and Mary preparing him a
refreshing drink, Frank told the story in his own, rough,
straightforward fashion, making it all so clear, with the help of a word
now and then from Bert, that when he ended, Mrs. Lloyd, bending over her
son, kissed him tenderly on the forehead, saying:

"You know, Bert, how I dislike fighting, but I cannot find it in my
heart to blame you this time. You acted like a hero."

In this opinion Mr. Lloyd, when he came home, fully concurred. He had
not a word of blame for Bert, but made the boy's heart glad by telling
him to always stand by his friends when they were in trouble, and then
he would never be without friends who would stand by him.

Bert's wound took some time to heal, and when it did heal, a scar
remained that kept its place for many years after. But he did not suffer
for nought. The incident was productive of good in two directions. It
established Bert's character for courage beyond all cavil, and it put an
end to the unseemly rows between the schools. The two masters held a
consultation, as a result of which they announced to their schools that
any boys found taking part in such disturbances in future would be first
publicly whipped, and then expelled; and this threat put an effectual
stop to the practice.

The days and weeks slipped by, and the summer vacation, so eagerly
looked forward to by all schoolboys, arrived. None were more delighted
at its arrival than Bert and Frank. Their friendship had grown steadily
stronger from the day of their first acquaintance. They had few
disagreements. Frank, although the older and larger of the two, let Bert
take the lead in almost all cases, for Bert had the more active mind,
and his plans were generally the better. Happily for the serenity of
their relations, Bert, while he was fond enough of being the leader,
never undertook to "boss" his companions. If they did not readily fall
into line with him, why he simply fell into line with them, and that was
an end of it. His idea of fun did not consist in being an autocrat, and
ordering others about. He very much preferred that all should work
together for whatever common purpose happened to be in their minds at
the time; and thus it was, that of the boys who played together in the
old fort, and waded in the shallow water that rippled along the sand
beach at its foot, no one was more popular than Bert Lloyd.

They had fine fun during this summer vacation. Neither Frank nor Bert
went out of the city, and they played together every day, generally in
the fort; but sometimes Bert would go with Frank to the Horticultural
Gardens, where a number of swings made a great attraction for the young
folk, or down to the point where they would ramble through the woods,
imagining themselves brave hunters in search of bears, and carrying bows
and arrows to help out the illusion.

The greatest enjoyment of all, however, was to go out upon the water. Of
course, they were not allowed to do this by themselves. They were too
young for that yet, but very often Mr. Lloyd would leave his office
early in the afternoon in order to take them out in the pretty skiff he
kept at the fort, or the whole family would spend the long summer
evenings together on the water.

Bert was at his happiest then. Under his father's directions he was
vigorously learning to row, and it was very stimulating to have his
mother and sister as spectators. They took such a lively interest in his
progress, that he did not mind if they did laugh heartily, but of course
not unkindly, when sometimes in his eagerness to take an extra big
stroke he would "catch a crab," and roll over on his back in the bottom
of the boat, with his feet stuck up like two signals of distress. Bert
accomplished this a good many times, but it did not discourage him. He
was up and at it again immediately.

"Don't look at your oar, boys! Don't look at your oar! Keep your faces
toward the stern," Mr. Lloyd would call out as Bert and Frank tugged
away manfully, and they, who had been watching their oars to make sure
that they went into the water just right, would answer "Ay, ay, sir!"
in true sailor fashion; and then for the next few moments they would
keep their eyes fixed straight astern, only to bring them back again
soon to those dripping blades that had such a saucy way of getting
crooked unless they were well watched.

A more delightful place than Halifax harbour of a fine summer evening
could hardly be desired. The wind, which had been busy making "white
caps" all the afternoon, went to rest at sundown. The ruffled waters
sank into a glassy calm, the broad harbour becoming one vast mirror in
which the rich hues of the sunset, the long dark lines of the wharves,
and the tall masts of the ships sleeping at their moorings were
reflected with many a quaint curve and curious involution. Boats of
every kind, the broad-bottomed dory, the sharp-bowed flat, the trim
keel-boat, the long low whaler, with their jolly companies, dotted the
placid surface, while here and there a noisy steam launch saucily puffed
its way along, the incessant throb of its engine giving warning of its
approach. Far up the harbour at their moorings off the dockyard, the
huge men-of-war formed centres around which the boats gathered in
numerous squads, for every evening the band would play on board these
floating castles, and the music never seemed more sweet than when it
floated out over the still waters. Sometimes, too, after the band had
ceased, the sailors would gather on the forecastle and sing their songs,
as only sailors can sing, winning round after round of applause from
their appreciative audience in the boats.

All of this was very delightful to Bert. So, too, was the paddling about
on the beach that fringed the bottom of the fort's grassy slope, and the
making of miniature forts out of the warm, dry sand, only to have them
dissolve again before the advancing tide. Just as delightful, too, was
the clambering over the boulders that marked the ruins of an old pier,
searching for periwinkles, star-fish, and limpets, with never-ceasing
wonder at the tenacity with which they held on to the rocks. Playing
thus in the sunshine almost from dawn to dark, Bert grew visibly bigger
and browner and sturdier, as the days slipped swiftly by.




CHAPTER XV.

A CHANGE OF SCHOOLS.


With the coming of September the holidays ended, and the question of
schools once more was earnestly discussed in the Lloyd household.

"I have quite made up my mind not to send Bert back to Mr. Garrison,"
said Mr. Lloyd. "He seems to be learning little or nothing there. The
fact of the matter is, what he does learn, he learns at home, and Mr.
Garrison simply hears him recite his lessons."

"That's very true," assented Mrs. Lloyd. "I am only too glad to help
Bert all I can in his studies, but I do not see the propriety of our
having the greater part of the work of teaching him ourselves when we
are at the same time paying some one else to do it. Do you, Mary?" she
added, turning to her daughter.

"No, mother," replied Mary. "I suppose it is not quite fair. Yet I would
feel sorry if Bert went to a school where everything was done for him,
and nothing left for us to do. I like to help him. He gets hold of an
idea so quickly; it is a pleasure to explain anything to him."

"It seems to me that a school where there is a good deal of healthful
rivalry among the boys would be the best place for Bert. He is very
ambitious, and eager to be at the top, and in a school of that kind his
energies would be constantly stimulated," said Mr. Lloyd. "What do you
think, Kate?" addressing his wife.

"I think that would be very good, indeed," answered Mrs. Lloyd. "But do
you know of any such school?"

"I have been hearing good accounts of Dr. Johnston's school, and he
certainly seems to have a great deal of system in his methods, so that I
am inclined to give him a trial."

"Oh, Dr. Johnston's is a splendid school," spoke up Mary, with
enthusiasm. "Both of Edie Strong's brothers go there, and I have often
heard them tell about it. But isn't Bert too young for it yet? He's only
nine, you know, and they are mostly big boys who go to Dr. Johnston's."

"Not a bit!" said Mr. Lloyd, emphatically. "Not a bit! True, Bert is
only nine, but he looks more like twelve, and thinks and acts like it,
too. It will be all the better for him to be with boys a little older
than himself. He will find it hard to hold his own among them, and that
will serve to strengthen and develop him."

"Poor little chap!" said Mrs. Lloyd, tenderly. "I expect he will have a
pretty hard time of it at first. I wish Frank were going with him, for
he thinks all the world of Bert, and is so much older and bigger that he
could be a sort of protector for him."

"I'm glad you mentioned Frank, Kate," exclaimed Mr. Lloyd. "You've given
me an idea. If I decide to send Bert to Dr. Johnston's, I will make a
point of seeing Mr. Bowser, to ask him if he will not consent to send
Frank, too. I hardly expect he will make any objection, as it is not
likely there will be any difference in the expense."

"Oh, I do hope Frank will go, too," cried Mary, clapping her hands. "If
he does, I shall feel ever so much easier about Bert. Frank is so fond
of him that he won't let him be abused, if he can help it."

"Very well, then," said Mr. Lloyd, bringing the conversation to a close.
"I will make some further inquiries about Dr. Johnston's, and if the
results are satisfactory I will see Mr. Bowser, and do what I can to
persuade him to let Frank accompany Bert."

A few days after, Mr. Lloyd called Bert to him, while they were all
sitting in the parlour, just after dinner.

"Come here, Bert," said he. "I want to have a talk with you about going
to school. You know I don't intend you to go back to Mr. Garrison's.
Now, where would you like to go yourself?"

"Oh, I don't know, father," replied Bert. "I don't want to go to the
Acadian or National school anyway."

"You need not feel troubled on that score. So far as I can learn, they
are no better than the one you have been going to. But what do you think
of Dr. Johnston's school? How would you like to become a pupil there?"

"Oh, father," exclaimed Bert, looking up, with a face expressive of both
surprise and concern, "I'm not big enough for that school. They're all
big boys that go there."

"But you're a big boy,--for your age, at all events,--Bert," returned
Mr. Lloyd, with a reassuring smile, "and you'll soon grow to be as big
as any of them."

"But, father," objected Bert, "they're awfully rough there, and so hard
on the new fellows. They always hoist them."

"Hoist them?" inquired Mr. Lloyd. "What do you mean?"

"Why, they hang them up on the fence, and then pound them. It hurts
awfully. Robbie Simpson told me about it. They hoisted him the first
day."

"Humph!" said Mr. Lloyd. "I must say I don't like that, but at the worst
I suppose you can survive it, just as the others have done. Is there any
other reason why you wouldn't like to go to Dr. Johnston's?"

"Well, father, you know he has a dreadful strap, most a yard long, and
he gives the boys dreadful whippings with it."

"Suppose he has, Bert; does he whip the boys who know their lessons, and
behave properly in school?" asked Mr. Lloyd, with a quizzical glance at
his son.

Bert laughed. "Of course not, father," said he. "He only whips the bad
boys."

"Then why should his long strap be an objection, Bert? You don't propose
to be one of the bad boys, do you?"

"Of course not, father; but I might get a whipping, all the same."

"We'll hope not, Bert; we'll hope not. And now, look here. Would you
like it any better going to Dr. Johnston's if Frank were to go with
you?"

"Oh, yes indeed, father," exclaimed Bert, his face lighting up. "If
Frank goes too, I won't mind it."

"All right then, Bert; I am glad to say that Frank is going, too. I went
to see his father to-day, and he agreed to let him go, so I suppose we
may consider the matter settled, and next Monday you two boys will go
with me to the school." And Mr. Lloyd, evidently well-pleased at having
reconciled Bert to the idea of the new school, took up his paper, while
Bert went over to his mother's side to have a talk with her about it.

Mrs. Lloyd felt all a mother's anxiety regarding this new phase of life
upon which her boy was about to enter. Dr. Johnston's was the largest
and most renowned school in the city. It was also in a certain sense the
most aristocratic. Its master charged high rates, which only well-to-do
people could afford, and as a consequence the sons of the wealthiest
citizens attended his school. Because of this, it was what would be
called select; and just in that very fact lay one of the dangers Mrs.
Lloyd most dreaded. Rich men's sons may be select from a social point of
view, but they are apt to be quite the reverse from the moral
standpoint. Frank Bowser, with all his clumsiness and lack of good
manners, would be a far safer companion than Dick Wilding, the graceful,
easy-mannered heir of the prosperous bank president.

On the other hand, the school was undoubtedly the best in the city. A
long line of masters had handed down from one to the other its fame as a
home of the classics and mathematics with unimpaired lustre. At no other
school could such excellent preparation for the university be obtained,
and Bert in due time was to go to the university. Many a long and
serious talk had Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd over the matter. True, they had
great confidence in their boy, and in the principles according to which
they had sought to bring him up. But then he was their only boy, and if
their confidence should perchance be found to have been misplaced, how
could the damage be repaired? Ah! well, they could, after all, only do
their best, and leave the issue with God. They could not always be
Bert's shields. He must learn to fight his own battles, and it was as
well for him to begin now, and at Dr. Johnston's school.

Bert himself took quite a serious view of the matter, too. He was a more
than ordinarily thoughtful boy, and the prospect of going to Dr.
Johnston's made his brain very busy. While the school was not without
its attractions for him, there were many reasons why he shrank from
going to it. The most of the boys were, as he knew from often seeing
them when on his way to and from Mr. Garrison's, older and bigger than
himself, and, still worse, they were strangers to him with one or two
exceptions. Of course, since Frank was to go with him, he would not mind
that so much, but it counted for a good deal, notwithstanding.

Then he had heard startling stories of Dr. Johnston's severity; of his
keeping boys in after school for a whole afternoon; of the tremendous
whippings he gave with that terrible strap of his, the tails of which
had, according to popular rumour, been first soaked in vinegar, and then
studded with small shot; of the rigorous care with which the lessons
were heard, every boy in the class having to show that he was well
prepared, or to take the consequences. These, and other stories which
had reached Bert's ears, now perturbed him greatly.

At the same time, he had no idea of drawing back, and pleading with his
father to send him somewhere else. He saw clearly enough that both his
father and mother had quite made up their minds that it would be the
best thing for him, and he knew better than to trouble them with vain
protests. He found his sister an inexpressible comfort at this time. He
confided in her unreservedly, and her sweet, serene, trustful way of
looking at things cleared away many a difficulty for him. It was easy to
look at the bright side of affairs with Mary as an adviser, and the more
Bert talked with her, the more encouraged he became. It was a happy
coincidence, that on the Sunday preceding Bert's entrance into Dr.
Johnston's school, the lesson for the Sabbath school should contain
these ringing words: "Quit you like men; be strong." Mr. Silver had much
to say about them to his class:

"Only six simple words of one syllable each, boys," said he, as he
gathered his scholars close about his chair, "but they mean a great
deal. And yet, we do not need to look into some wise old commentator to
tell us just what they do mean, for we can all understand them
ourselves. They are not intended solely for grown-up people, either.
They are for boys just like you. Now, let us look into them a bit. 'Quit
you like men.' What kind of men, Bert? Any kind at all, or some
particular kind?"

"Like good men, of course," replied Bert, promptly.

"Yes, Bert, that's right. And what does it mean to quit yourself like a
good man?" asked Mr. Silver, again.

"To be always manly, and not be a baby," answered Walter Thomson, with a
vigour that brought a smile to Mr. Silver's face.

"Right you are, Walter; but is that all?"

"No," said Will Murray, "it means to do only what is right."

"That's it, Will. To be always manly, and to do only what is right. Now,
boys, do you know that you are very apt to confuse these two things, and
by forming mistaken notions as to what constitutes the first, you fail
to do the second? Many boys think that it is manly to swear, to use
tobacco, to be out late at night hanging round the street corners, and
so they do all these things, although they are not right things to do.
Have they the right ideas of manliness, boys?"

"No, sir; no, sir," answered the thoroughly interested class, in full
chorus.

"No, indeed, boys, they have not," continued Mr. Silver. "There is over
a hundred times more manliness in refusing to form those bad habits than
in yielding to them. And that is just the kind of manliness I want all
the boys of my class to have. 'Quit you like men,' boys, and then, 'be
strong.' What does that mean?"

"To keep up your muscle," spoke out Frank, much to the surprise of
everybody, for, although he listened attentively enough, he very rarely
opened his mouth in the class.

Mr. Silver smiled. It was not just the answer he wanted, but he would
not discourage Frank by saying so.

"That's part of the answer, but not quite the whole of it," he said,
after a pause. "It's a good thing for boys to keep up their muscle. God
wants what is best in this world, and we can often serve Him with our
muscle as well as with our minds. If Samson and Gideon and David had not
been men of muscle, they could not have done such grand work for God as
they did. I like to see a boy with legs and arms 'as hard as nails,' as
they say. But the words 'be strong' here mean more than that, don't
they, Bert?"

"They mean to be strong in resisting temptation, don't they, Mr.
Silver?" replied Bert.

"Yes; that's just it. Quit you like men--be manly, and be strong to
resist temptation. Now, boys, some people think that young chaps like
you don't have many temptations. That you have to wait until you grow up
for that. But it's a tremendous mistake, isn't it? You all have your
temptations, and lots of them, too. And they are not all alike, by any
means, either. Every boy has his own peculiar difficulties, and finds
his own obstacles in the way of right doing. But the cure is the same in
all cases. It is to be strong in the Lord, and in the power of His
might. That is the best way of all in which to be strong, boys. When the
Philistines were hard pressed by the Israelites, they said one to
another, 'Be strong and quit yourselves like men ... quit yourselves
like men, and fight.' And they fought so well that Israel was smitten
before them, and the ark of God was taken. And so, boys, whenever, at
home, at school, or at play, you feel tempted to do what is wrong, I ask
you to remember these words, 'Quit yourselves like men, be strong, and
fight.' If you do, so sure as there is a God in heaven who loves you
all, you will come off conquerors."

Mr. Silver's words made a deep impression upon Bert. The great ambition
of his boyish heart was to be esteemed manly. Nor was he entirely free
from the mistaken notions about manliness to which his teacher had
referred. He had more than once been sneered at, by some of the boys at
Mr. Garrison's, for refusing to do what seemed to him wrong. They had
called him "Softy," and hinted at his being tied to his mother's
apron-strings. Then, big, coarse Bob Brandon, always on the look-out to
vent his spite, had nicknamed him "Sugar-mouth" one day, because he had
exclaimed to one of the boys who was pouring out oaths:

"Oh, Tom! how can you swear so? Don't you know how wicked it is to take
God's name in vain?"

These and other incidents like them had troubled Bert a good deal. He
dreaded being thought a "softy," and had even at times felt a kind of
envy of the boys whose consciences did not trouble them if they swore,
or indulged in sly smokes, or defiled their mouths with filthy quids.
Mr. Silver's words now came in good time to give a changed current to
these thoughts. They presented to his mind a very different idea of
manliness from the confused conception which had been his hitherto.

"That's a good motto for a fellow, Shorty," said he, as the two friends
walked home together from the school. "Mother asked me the other day to
take a text for a motto. I think I'll take 'Quit you like men, be
strong.'"

"I think I will, too, Bert," said Frank. "It's no harm if we have the
same one, is it?"

"Why no, of course not," answered Bert. "We'll both have the same, and
then we'll help one another all we can to do what it says."




CHAPTER XVI.

THE FIRST DAYS AT DR. JOHNSTON'S.


It was a fine, bright September morning when Mr. Lloyd, with Bert on one
side of him and Frank on the other--for Frank had come down, so that he
might go with Bert--made his way to Dr. Johnston's school. The school
occupied a historic old building, whose weather-beaten front faced one
of the principal streets of the city. This building had in times long
past been the abode of the governor of the province, and sadly as it had
degenerated in appearance, it still retained a certain dignity, and air
of faded grandeur, that strongly suggested its having once been applied
to a more exalted use than the housing of a hundred boys for certain
hours of the day. So spacious was it, that Dr. Johnston found ample room
for his family in one half, while the other half was devoted to the
purposes of the school. At the rear, a cluster of shabby outbuildings
led to a long narrow yard where tufts of rank, coarse grass, and bunches
of burdocks struggled hard to maintain their existence in spite of
fearful odds.

The boys' hearts were throbbing violently as Mr. Lloyd rang the bell.
The door was opened readily by a boy, who was glad of the excuse to
leave his seat, and he entered the schoolroom, followed by his charges.
The room was long, narrow, and low-ceilinged, and was divided into two
unequal portions by a great chimney, on either side of which a passage
had been left. At the farther end, occupying the central space between
two windows, was the doctor's desk, or throne it might more properly be
called; for never did autocrat wield more unquestioned authority over
his subjects than did Dr. Johnston over the hundred and odd scholars who
composed his school. In front of him, running down the centre of the
room, and on either hand, following the walls, were long lines of desks,
at which sat boys of all sorts, and of all ages, from ten to eighteen.
As Mr. Lloyd entered, those nearest the door looked up, and seeing the
new-comers, proceeded to stare at them with a frank curiosity that made
Bert feel as though he would like to hide in one of his father's
coat-tail pockets.

They turned away pretty quickly, however, when Dr. Johnston, leaving his
desk, came down to meet Mr. Lloyd, and as he passed between the lines,
every head was bent as busily over the book or slate before it, as
though its attention had never been distracted.

Considering that Dr. Johnston was really a small, slight man, it was
surprising what an idea of stately dignity his appearance conveyed. He
could hardly have impressed Bert with a deeper feeling of respect from
the outset, if he had been seven feet high, instead of only a little
more than five. He was a clergyman of the Episcopal Church, and wore at
all times a long black gown, reaching nearly to his ankles, which set
off to the best advantage the spare, straight figure, and strong dark
face. The habitual expression of that face when in repose was of
thoughtful severity, and yet if one did but scan it closely enough, the
stern mouth was seen to have a downward turn at its corners that hinted
at a vein of humour lying hid somewhere. The hint was well-sustained,
for underneath all his sternness and severity the doctor concealed a
playful humour, that at times came to the surface, and gratefully
relieved his ordinary grimness.

As he walked down from his desk to meet Mr. Lloyd, he looked very
pleasant indeed; and Bert felt his nervousness a little calmed as,
holding out his thin, white and yet muscular hand, Dr. Johnston said,
cordially:

"Good-morning, Mr. Lloyd. I presume these are the two boys you spoke to
me about."

"They are, Dr. Johnston," Mr. Lloyd replied. "I brought them in good
time so that they might learn as much as possible about the ways of the
school the first day."

"You did well, Mr. Lloyd. It is important to have a good beginning in
everything that is worth doing," said the doctor; then, turning to
Bert, he slipped his hand under his chin, and lifting his head so that
he might look him full in the face, added, with a smile, "I need hardly
ask which of these boys is yours, for this one betrays his paternity in
every feature."

"You have hit the mark, doctor," said Mr. Lloyd, smiling in his turn.
"This is my son Cuthbert, at your service, and this is Frank Bowser, his
inseparable companion."

"Quite a case of Damon and Pythias, eh?" said the doctor, whose devotion
to the classics was such that his one great regret was that he had not
lived in the time of Horace.

"Yes, something of the kind," rejoined Mr. Lloyd; "and I would be very
glad if you could manage to let them sit together so long as they behave
themselves."

"We'll see, we'll see," was the doctor's non-committal response.

"Very well, then, doctor," said Mr. Lloyd, turning to leave. "I'll hand
them over to you now. I am sure you will make the best of them, and that
I am leaving them in very good hands. Good-bye, boys." And then, bending
down, he whispered in Bert's ear, "Remember--quit you like men--be
strong," and then left them.

As Mr. Lloyd disappeared through the door, the air of geniality the
doctor had been wearing during the brief interview vanished from his
countenance, and it relapsed into its wonted look of resigned severity.

"Lloyd and Bowser, come with me to my desk," said he, turning his back
upon them, and walking down the room. The boys followed very meekly, and
on arriving at the desk the doctor entered their names in a huge book
that lay open before him, using an old-fashioned quill pen that
scratched so harshly as to send a shudder through Bert, who was very
sensitive to such things.

"We will now see about seats for you both," continued the doctor. Then,
raising his voice, he called out, "Mr. Snelling, will you please come
here," and from the far end of the room a respectful voice responded
"Yes, sir."

Looking in the direction whence the voice came, Bert saw an odd-looking
man approaching, who, of course, was Mr. Snelling. He was of medium
height, but quite as slight as the doctor himself. Many years at the
schoolmaster's desk had given a stoop to his shoulders and a pallor to
his face, that were in marked contrast to his chief's erect figure and
swarthy countenance. But if his face was pale, his hair made a brave
attempt to atone for this lack of colour, for it was the richest, most
uncompromising red; and as though he delighted in its warm tints, Mr.
Snelling allowed it to grow in uncropped abundance, and his favourite
gesture was to thrust his fingers through its tangled mass. Beneath a
white and narrow forehead were two small sharp eyes, that peered out
keenly through a pair of gold-bowed spectacles, and were ever on the
watch to detect the slightest misbehaviour among the urchins gathered
around him.

Bert's first impression of Mr. Snelling was not a favourable one, and as
he stood by and heard Dr. Johnston say: "Mr. Snelling, here are two more
pupils. This is Lloyd, and this is Bowser. They will go into your room
for the present. Will you please see that desks are assigned them?"--he
thought to himself that in spite of the doctor's grim appearance he
would rather stay in his room than be handed over to Mr. Snelling.

However, he was not to be consulted in the matter, so he followed in the
wake of Mr. Snelling, who, by the way, it should be explained, was the
assistant master, having special charge of all the younger scholars, and
the drilling of them in the English branches of learning. The classics
and mathematics the doctor reserved for himself, and a better teacher of
the former particularly there was not in all Halifax.

Mr. Snelling's portion of the room differed from the doctor's only in
that it was not so well lighted and the seats were not quite so
comfortable. The school being pretty full at the time, the securing of
seats for the two new-comers required some rearranging, in the course of
which changes had to be made that evidently did not by any means meet
with the approbation of those who were immediately concerned; and
Bert's spirits, already at a low ebb, were not much elevated by sundry
scowling looks directed at him, and by one red-faced, irritable-looking
chap seizing the opportunity when Mr. Snelling's back was turned to
shake his fist at Bert and Frank, and mutter loudly enough for them to
hear:

"I'll punch the heads of you both at recess, see if I don't."

At length, with some little difficulty, Mr. Snelling got matters
arranged, and the two boys were placed in the farthest corner of the
room, and, to their profound delight, side by side. Their accommodations
were the reverse of luxurious. A wooden bench, destitute of back, and
shiny from the friction of dear knows how many restless sitters; a
sloping desk, cut and carved by careless knives, and having underneath
an open shelf upon which the books, slate, cap, and lunch might be
put--that was the sum total. Yet, after all, what more do schoolboys
really need, or can be safely intrusted with?

Feeling very strange and nervous, Bert and Frank took their seats, and
slipping their caps under the desk--they were both wearing that
serviceable form of headgear known as the Glengarry--they did their best
to seem composed, and to take in their surroundings. The gaunt, unlovely
room was soon inspected, and from it they turned their attention to its
occupants. Mr. Snelling has already been described. To the left of his
desk, and extending row upon row, one behind the other, were desks
filled with boys of different ages and sizes. In front of him was an
open space, in which the classes stood when reciting lessons to him, and
across this space was another line of desks placed close to the wall,
which were assigned to the oldest boys in the room.

Not a familiar or friendly face could the new-comers find, but instead,
they saw many that seemed to take pleasure in making them feel, if
possible, still more ill at ease, by fixing upon them a cold,
indifferent stare, or even an ugly grimace. The only ray of light was
that which came from the sweet countenance of a blue-eyed, fair-haired
boy, who, catching Bert's eye, nodded pleasantly at him, as though to
say, "I'm glad you've come; make yourself at home." And Bert resolved
that he would make his acquaintance at the very first opportunity.

Having nothing to do but watch the other boys as they studied and
recited, the morning dragged along very slowly for Bert and Frank, and
they were immensely relieved when the noon recess was announced, and the
whole school poured tumultuously out into either the yard or the street,
according to their preference. The majority of the boys went into the
street, and the two friends followed them, feeling not a little anxious
as to what sort of treatment they might expect at the hands of their new
companions. As it proved, however, they had nothing to fear, for it was
an unwritten law of the Johnston school, that new boys should be left
in peace for the first day; and accordingly Frank and Bert were
permitted to stand about and watch the others enjoying themselves
without interruption. No one asked them to join in the games, although,
no doubt, had they done so of their own accord, no one would have
objected. After they had been there a few minutes, Bert heard a soft
voice behind him saying:

"It's horrid to be a new boy, isn't it? When I was a new boy I felt so
frightened. Do you feel frightened?" And turning round he saw beside him
the blue-eyed, fair-haired boy whose pleasant face had attracted his
attention in the school.

"I don't think I feel just frightened," he answered, with a smile. "But
I can't say I feel very much at home yet."

"Oh, my! But it will be very much worse to-morrow," said the new
acquaintance.

"And why will it be worse?" inquired Bert, eagerly.

"Because they'll hoist you," said the other, with a nervous glance
around, as though he feared being overheard.

"Does it hurt dreadfully to be hoisted?" asked Bert, while Frank drew
near, awaiting the reply with intense interest.

"Oh, yes; it does hurt dreadfully! But"--with a more cheerful air--"you
get over it after a little while, you know."

"Well, then, I guess I can stand it. If you got over it all right, so
can I," spoke up Bert, manfully; then, turning to Frank, "And you can,
too, can't you, Shorty?"

Frank shook his head doubtfully. "I _can_ all right enough, but I don't
know that I _will_. I've a mind to give them a fight for it, anyhow."

"Not a bit of use," said the blue-eyed boy, whose name, by the way, as
he presently told the others, was Ernest Linton. "Not a bit of use.
They'll only beat you the harder if you fight."

"We'll see," said Frank, with a determined air. "We'll see when the time
comes."

Bert and Frank found Ernest a very bright and useful friend, and they
had so many questions to ask him that they were very sorry when the
ringing of a bell summoned them back t

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