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From School to Battle-field: A Story of the War Days

by Charles King · English · Gutenberg #37672 · 450,209 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: From School to Battle-field: A Story of the War Days

Author: Charles King

Illustrator: Violet Oakley
        Charles H. Stephens


        
Release date: October 9, 2011 [eBook #37672]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37672

Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM SCHOOL TO BATTLE-FIELD: A STORY OF THE WAR DAYS ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell, Matthew Wheaton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)







    FROM SCHOOL TO BATTLE-FIELD


    [Illustration: "Come down aff the top o' dthat harrse!"]


    FROM SCHOOL TO BATTLE-FIELD

    A STORY OF THE WAR DAYS

    BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A. AUTHOR OF "TROOPER ROSS," ETC.


    ILLUSTRATED BY VIOLET OAKLEY AND CHARLES H. STEPHENS


    PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1899


    COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.




    ILLUSTRATIONS


    "COME DOWN AFF THE TOP O' DTHAT HARRSE!"

    ALMOST SENSELESS, TILL SHORTY STROVE TO LIFT HIS BLEEDING HEAD UPON
      HIS KNEE

    "I COULDN'T STAND IT. I HAD TO GO"

    SHE WAS PERMITTED TO READ AND TO WEEP OVER SNIPE'S PATHETIC LETTER

    FIRST CAPTURE OF THE ADVANCING ARMS OF THE UNION

    "WHERE'D YOU GET THAT WATCH?"




FROM SCHOOL TO BATTLE-FIELD.




CHAPTER I.


"If there's anything I hate more than a rainy Saturday, call me a
tadpole!" said the taller of two boys who, with their chins on their
arms and their arms on the top of the window-sash, were gazing gloomily
out over a dripping world. It was the second day of an east wind, and
every boy on Manhattan Island knows what an east wind brings to New York
City, or used to in days before the war, and this was one of them.

"And our nine could have lammed that Murray Hill crowd a dozen to
nothing!" moaned the shorter, with disgust in every tone. "Next Saturday
the 'Actives' have that ground, and there'll be no decent place to
play--unless we can trap them over to Hoboken. What shall we do,
anyhow?"

The taller boy, a curly-headed, dark-eyed fellow of sixteen, whose long
legs had led to his school name of Snipe, turned from the contemplation
of an endless vista of roofs, chimneys, skylights, clothes-lines, all
swimming in an atmosphere of mist, smoke, and rain, and glanced back at
the book-laden table.

"There's that Virgil," he began, tentatively.

"Oh, Virgil be blowed!" broke in the other on the instant. "It's bad
enough to have to work week-days. I mean what can we do for--fun?" and
the blue eyes of the youngster looked up into the brown of his taller
chum.

"That's all very well for you, Shorty," said Snipe. "Latin comes easy to
you, but it don't to me. You've got a sure thing on exam., I haven't,
and the pater's been rowing me every week over those blasted reports."

"Well-l, I'm as bad off in algebra or Greek, for that matter. 'Pop' told
me last week I ought to be ashamed of myself," was the junior's answer.

And, lest it be supposed that by "Pop" he referred to the author of his
being, and thereby deserves the disapproval of every right-minded reader
at the start, let it be explained here and now that "Pop" was the
head--the "rector"--of a school famous in the ante-bellum days of
Gotham; famous indeed as was its famous head, and though they called him
nicknames, the boys worshipped him. Older boys, passed on into the cap
and gown of Columbia (items of scholastic attire sported only, however,
at examinations and the semi-annual speech-making), referred to the
revered professor of the Greek language and literature as "Bull," and
were no less fond of him, nor did they hold him less in reverence. Where
are they now, I wonder?--those numerous works bound in calf, embellished
on the back with red leather bands on which were stamped in gold ----'s
Virgil, ----'s Horace, ----'s Sallust, ----'s Homer? Book after book had
he, grammars of both tongues, prosodies likewise, Roman and Greek
antiquities, to say nothing of the huge classical dictionary. One could
cover a long shelf in one's student library without drawing upon the
works of any other authority, and here in this dark little room, on the
topmost floor of a brownstone house in Fourteenth Street, a school-boy
table was laden at its back with at least eight of Pop's ponderous tomes
to the exclusion of other classics.

But on the shelf above were books by no means so scholarly and far more
worn. There they stood in goodly array, Mayne Reid's "Boy Hunters,"
"Scalp Hunters," "The Desert Home," "The White Chief," flanked by a
dusty "Sanford and Merton" that appeared to hold aloof from its
associates. There, dingy with wear though far newer, was Thomas Hughes's
inimitable "Tom Brown's School-Days at Rugby." There was what was then
his latest, "The Scouring of the White Horse," which, somehow, retained
the freshness of the shop. There were a few volumes of Dickens, and
Cooper's Leatherstocking Tales. There on the wall were some vivid battle
pictures, cut from the _London Illustrated News_,--the Scots Grays in
the melee with the Russian cavalry at Balaklava; the Guards, in their
tall bearskins and spike-tail coats, breasting the slopes of the Alma.
There hung a battered set of boxing-gloves, and on the hooks above them
a little brown rifle, muzzle-loading, of course. The white-covered bed
stood against the wall on the east side of the twelve-by-eight
apartment, its head to the north. At its foot were some objects at which
school-boys of to-day would stare in wonderment; a pair of heavy boots
stood on the floor, with a pair of trousers so adjusted to them that, in
putting on the boots, one was already half-way into the trousers, and
had only to pull them up and tightly belt them at the waist. On the post
hung a red flannel shirt, with a black silk neckerchief sewed to the
back of the broad rolling collar. On top of the post was the most
curious object of all,--a ribbed helmet of glistening black leather,
with a broad curving brim that opened out like a shovel at the back,
while a stiff, heavy eagle's neck and head, projecting from the top,
curved over them and held in its beak an emblazoned front of black
patent leather that displayed in big figures of white the number 40, and
in smaller letters, arching over the figures, the name, Lady Washington.
It was the fire-cap of a famous engine company of the old New York
volunteer department,--a curious thing, indeed, to be found in a
school-boy's room.

The desk, littered with its books and papers, stood in the corner
between the window and the east wall. Along the west wall was a
curtained clothes-press. Then came the marble-topped washstand, into
which the water would flow only at night, when the demand for Gotham's
supply of Croton measurably subsided. Beyond that was the door leading
to the open passage toward the stairway to the lower floors. In the
corner of the room were the school-boy paraphernalia of the day,--a
cricket bat, very much battered, two base-ball bats that the boys of
this generation would doubtless scan suspiciously, "heft" cautiously,
then discard disdainfully, for they were of light willow and bigger at
the bulge by full an inch than the present regulation. Beneath them in
the corner lay the ball of the year 1860, very like the article now in
use, but then referred to as a "ten shilling," and invariably made at an
old shoe-shop at the foot of Second Avenue, whose owner, a veteran
cobbler, had wisely quit half-soling and heeling for a sixpence and was
coining dollars at the newly discovered trade. All the leading clubs
were then his patrons,--the Atlantics, the Eckfords, the Mutuals, the
Stars, even the Unions of Morrisania. All the leading junior clubs swore
by him and would use no ball but his,--the champion Actives, the Alerts,
the Uncas. (A "shanghai club" the boys declared the last named to be
when it first appeared at Hamilton Square in its natty uniform of
snow-white flannel shirts and sky-blue trousers.) Base ball was in its
infancy, perhaps, but what a lusty infant and how pervading! Beyond that
corner and hanging midway on the northward wall was a portentous object,
an old-fashioned maple shell snare-drum, with white buff leather sling
and two pairs of ebony sticks, their polished heads and handles
proclaiming constant use, and the marble surface of the washstand top,
both sides, gave proof that when practice on the sheepskin batter head
was tabooed by the household and the neighborhood, the inoffensive stone
received the storm of "drags," and "flams," and "rolls." Lifting the
curtain that overhung the boyish outfit of clothing, there stood
revealed still further evidence of the martial tastes of the occupant,
for the first items in sight were a natty scarlet shell-jacket, a pair
of trim blue trousers, with broad stripe of buff, and a jaunty little
forage-cap, with regimental wreath and number. Underneath the curtain,
but readily hauled into view, were found screwed and bolted to heavy
blocks of wood two strange-looking miniature cannon, made, as one could
soon determine, by sawing off a brace of old-fashioned army muskets
about a foot from the breech. Two powder-flasks and a shot-bag hung on
pegs at the side of the curtained clothes-press. A little mirror was
clamped to the wall above the washstand. Some old fencing foils and a
weather-beaten umbrella stood against the desk. An open paint-box, much
besmeared, lay among the books. Some other pamphlets and magazines were
stacked up on the top of the clothes-press. Two or three colored prints,
one of Columbian Engine, No. 14, a very handsome Philadelphia
"double-decker." Another of Ringgold Hose, No. 7, a really beautiful
four-wheeler of the old, old type, with chocolate-colored running gear
and a dazzling plate-glass reel, completed the ornamentation of this
school-boy den. There was no room for a lounge,--there was room only for
two chairs; but that diminutive apartment was one of the most popular
places of resort Pop's boys seemed to know, and thereby it became the
hot-bed of more mischief, the birthplace of more side-splitting school
pranks than even the staid denizens of that most respectable brownstone
front ever dreamed of, whatever may have been the convictions of the
neighborhood, for Pop's boys, be it known, had no dormitory or
school-house in common. No such luck! They lived all over Manhattan
Island, all over Kings, Queens, and Westchester counties. They came from
the wilds of Hoboken and the heights of Bergen. They dwelt in massive
brownstone fronts on Fifth Avenue and in modest wooden, one-story
cottages at Fort Washington. They wore "swell" garments in some cases
and shabby in others. They were sons of statesmen, capitalists, lawyers,
doctors, and small shopkeepers. They were rich and they were poor; they
were high and they were low, tall and short, skinny and stout, but they
were all pitched, neck and crop, into Pop's hopper, treated share and
share alike, and ground and polished and prodded or praised, and a more
stand-on-your-own-bottom lot of young vessels ("vessels of wrath," said
the congregation of a neighboring tabernacle) never had poured into them
impartially the treasures of the spring of knowledge. They were of four
classes, known as the first, second, third, and fourth Latin,
corresponding to the four classes of Columbia and other colleges, and to
be a first Latin boy at Pop's was second only to being a senior at Yale
or Columbia. As a rule the youngsters "started fair" together at the
bottom, and knew each other to the backbone by the time they reached the
top. Few new boys came in except each September with the fourth Latin.
Pop had his own way of teaching, and the boy that didn't know his
methods and had not mastered his "copious notes" might know anybody
else's Caesar, Sallust, or Cicero by rote, but he couldn't know Latin.
Pop had a pronunciation of the Roman tongue that only a Pop's bred boy
could thoroughly appreciate. Lads who came, as come in some rare cases
they did, from Eton or Harrow, from the Latin schools of Boston or the
manifold academies of the East, read as they had been taught to read,
and were rewarded with a fine sarcasm and the information that they had
much to unlearn. Pop's school was encompassed roundabout by many another
school, whose pupils took their airing under ushers' eyes, to the
howling disdain of Pop's unhampered pupils, who lined the opposite curb
and dealt loudly in satirical comment. There was war to the knife
between Pop's boys and Charlier's around the corner, to the end that the
hours of recess had to be changed or both schools, said the police,
would be forbidden the use of Madison Square. They had many faults, had
Pop's boys, though not all the neighborhood ascribed to them, and they
had at least one virtue,--they pulled well together. By the time it got
to the top of the school each class was like a band of brothers, and
never was there a class of which this could be more confidently asserted
than the array of some twenty-seven youngsters, of whom Snipe and his
smaller chum, Shorty, were prominent members, in the year of our Lord
eighteen hundred and sixty.

Yet, they had their black sheep, as is to be told, and their
scapegraces, as will not need to be told, and months of the oddest,
maddest, merriest school life in the midst of the most vivid excitement
the great city ever knew, and on the two lads wailing there at the attic
window because their fates had balked the longed-for game at Hamilton
Square, there were dawning days that, rain or shine, would call them
shelterless into constant active, hazardous life, and that, in one at
least, would try and prove and temper a brave, impatient spirit,--that
should be indeed the very turning-point of his career.

Patter, patter, patter! drip, drip, drip! the rain came pelting in
steady shower. The gusty wind blew the chimney smoke down into the
hollow of the long quadrilateral of red brick house backs. Three, four,
and five stories high, they hemmed in, without a break, a "plant" of
rectangular back-yards, each with its flag-stone walk, each with its
square patch of turf, each with its flower-beds at the foot of the high,
spike-topped boundary fence, few with visible shrubs, fewer still
diversified by grape arbors, most of them criss-crossed with
clothes-lines, several ornamented with whirligigs, all on this moist
November afternoon wringing wet from the steady downpour that came on
with the dawn and broke the boys' hearts, for this was to have been the
match day between the Uncas and the Murray Hills, and Pop's school was
backing the Indians to a man. One more week and winter might be upon
them and the ball season at an end. Verily, it was indeed too bad!

With a yawn of disgust, the shorter boy at the open-topped window threw
up his hands and whirled about. There on the bed lay the precious
base-ball uniform in which he was wont to figure as shortstop. There,
too, lay Snipe's, longer in the legs by nearly a foot. "There's nothing
in-doors but books, Snipy. There's only one thing to tempt a fellow out
in the wet,--a fire, and small chance of that on such a day. We might
take the guns up on the roof and shoot a few skylights or something----"

"Shut up!" said Snipe, at this juncture, suddenly, impetuously throwing
up his hand. "Twenty-third Street!"

Shorty sprang to the window and levelled an old opera-glass at the
summit of an odd white tower that loomed, dim and ghost-like, through
the mist above the housetops quarter of a mile away. Both boys' eyes
were kindling, their lips parting in excitement. Both were on tiptoe.

"Right! Down comes the lever!" was the next announcement. "Upper Fifth,
I'll bet a bat! Listen!"

Suddenly there pealed on the heavy air, solemn and slow, the deep,
mellow tones of a great bell. Even as he counted the strokes each boy
reached for his cap. One--two--three--four!

"Fourth!" cried Shorty. "Come on!" And, light as kittens, away scurried
the two, skimming down three flights of stairs, nearly capsizing a
sedate old butler, snatching their top-coats in the hall, letting
themselves out with a bang, leaping down the broad flight of brownstone
steps to the broader walk below, then spurting away for Union Square,
fast as light-heeled, light-hearted lads could run.




CHAPTER II.


A curious thing to look back upon is the old volunteer fire department
of New York as it was forty years ago. No horses, no fire-boats, few
steamers, no telegraph alarm-boxes, only a great array of practically
go-as-you-please companies, averaging forty or fifty men apiece,
scattered all over the inhabited parts of the island from Harlem to the
Battery. Sixty of these organizations, there or thereabouts, were hose
companies, each manning a light, high-wheeled, fancifully painted
carriage with its hose-reel perched gracefully above the running-gear,
decked out with fancy lamps and jangling bells,--a carriage so light
that a boy could start it on the level and a dozen athletic men could
make it fairly spin over the paved streets. Then there were fifty engine
companies, all but two or three specially favored bands "tooling" hand
machines, some of the old "double-deck" Philadelphia pattern, some with
long side levers, "brakes" they called them; others still with strange,
uncouth shapes, built by some local expert with the idea of
out-squirting all competitors. Down in Centre Street was the heavy
apparatus of the Exempt Company, only called upon in case of fires of
unusual magnitude. Near by, too, was stored a brace of what were then
considered powerful steamers, brought out only on such occasions; but
two companies that wielded strong political influence proudly drew at
the end of their ropes light-running and handsome steam fireengines, and
these two companies, Americus 6,--"Big Six" as they called her,--and her
bitter rivals of Manhattan 8, were the envied of all the department. Add
to these some nineteen hook and ladder companies that ran long, light,
prettily ornamented trucks, and you have the New York fire department as
it was just before the war. Famous men were its chiefs in those days,
and the names of Harry Howard and John Decker, of Carson and Cregier,
were household words among the boys at Pop's, most of whom were strong
partisans of some company on whose speed and prowess they pinned their
faith. Strange, indeed, to-day seems the system by which fire alarms
were communicated. There were no electric bells, no gongs, no telephones
in the various engine-houses, which were scattered all over the town,
generally in groups of two, an engine and a hose company being "located"
side by side, though a large number occupied single houses. On the roof
of the old post-office at Nassau Street, in a huge frame-work at the
rear of the City Hall, and in tall observation-towers of iron tubing or
wooden frame, placed at convenient points about the city, were hung big,
heavy, deep-toned bells that struck the hour at noon and nine at night,
but otherwise were used exclusively for the purpose of giving alarms of
fire. The city was divided into eight districts, and the sounding of the
tower bells of any number from one to eight, inclusive, meant that a
fire had been discovered within the limits of that district, and all
companies designated for service therein must hunt it up and put it out.
The seventh and eighth districts divided the lower part of the city, a
little below Canal Street, evenly between them. Then, as the city
broadened there, the great, far-spreading space between the East and
North Rivers, south of Twenty-second Street, was parcelled off into the
third, fourth, fifth, and sixth districts, beginning from the west.
These were quite narrow at the south, but flared out north and eastward.
Above them, on the east and west sides of the city respectively, lay the
first and second districts, the former extending almost to Harlem, which
had on Mount Morris its own bell-tower and at its foot a little
department of its own. Night and day a single watcher was perched in the
glass-enclosed lookout at the summit of each lofty tower, his sole
communication with the world below being a speaking-tube to the
engine-house at the base and a single wire that connected his "circuit"
with the main office at the City Hall, a circuit so limited in its
possibilities that it could only administer a single tap at a time upon
the tiny gong-bell over the watcher's desk, and finally the big, booming
bell that, hanging midway down in the lofty structure, was yet so high
above the neighboring roofs and walls that its sound bellowed forth in
unimpeded volume. It was struck by a massive swinging hammer, worked by
a long steel lever aloft in the watch-tower, the entire apparatus being
the design, as were some of the strange-looking engines, of ex-Chief
Carson, and one of the greatest treats that Pop's boys could possibly
have was to be piloted of a wintry Saturday afternoon or summer evening,
by one of their number who had the _open sesame_, up, up the winding
stairway, up past the huge, silent monster that hung midway. (You may
venture to bet they wasted no time there, but scurried past him, full
tilt, lest an alarm should come at the instant and he should suddenly
boom forth and stun them with his clamor.) Once well past him, they
breathed freer, if harder, for the climb was long, and at last, tapping
on a little trap-door, were admitted to the sanctum at the summit, and
could gaze in delight and wonderment about them and over the busy,
bustling world far, far beneath. Once well above the low ground of Canal
Street, the city rose, and from the Hudson to the East River, along
about the line of Spring Street, the ground was high, and here was
established the inner row of Gotham's picket guards against fire: three
tall towers, one away over at Essex Market, on the far east side,
guarding the sixth district; one on Marion Street, guarding the lower
fourth and fifth; one over at McDougal Street, guarding the lower third.
The next post to the northward was at Jefferson Market, on Sixth Avenue,
a tall white wooden shaft that seemed to pierce the skies, so low were
all the surrounding buildings, and from his eerie at its summit
Jefferson's ringer watched over the upper third and fourth districts.
The next tower was Twenty-third Street, near First Avenue, an open
affair of iron, like that at McDougal, and here the guardian looked out
over all the lower first and upper fifth districts, as well as having an
eye on the northeastern part of the fourth. Then came Thirty-second
Street, far over near Ninth Avenue, another open cage; and in the cozy,
stove-warmed roost at the top of each, snugly closed against wind and
weather, day and night, as has been said, and only one man at a time,
the ringer kept his ceaseless vigil. It was his duty to be ever on the
alert, ever moving about and spying over the city. If an unusual smoke
or blaze manifested itself anywhere, he would at once unsling his
spy-glass and examine it. If it lay long blocks or miles away and closer
to some other tower, the unwritten law or etiquette of the craft
demanded that he should touch the key of his telegraph. This instantly
sounded the little bell in the other towers on his circuit, and called
upon his fellows to look about them. At no time could he sit and read.
He must pace about the narrow confines of his rounded den, or on the
encircling gallery outside, and watch, watch, watch. Whenever he
discovered a fire, the first thing was to let down his lever and strike
one round of the district in which it lay,--fast if the fire was near,
slow if at a distance. This was all the neighboring companies had to
judge by, as the first arrivals at the engine-house, or the loungers
generally sitting about the stove back of the apparatus, or the bunkers
who slept there at night, sprang for their fire-caps, raced for the
trumpet that stood on the floor at the end of the tongue, threw open
their doors, manned the drag-rope, and "rolled" for the street. No
company could speed far on its route before meeting some runner or
partisan who could tell the exact or approximate location of the fire.
The first round from the tower would start every machine in its
neighborhood. Then the ringer would spring to his telegraph and rapidly
signal to the City Hall two rounds of the district, then add the number
of his tower. Then back he would go to his lever and bang another round.
If the fire was trivial four rounds would suffice; if a great
conflagration ensued he would keep on ringing for half an hour, and if
it proved so great that the chief engineer deemed it necessary to call
out his entire force, word would be sent to the nearest tower, and a
general alarm would result,--a continuous tolling until signalled from
the City Hall to cease. Well did Pop's boys remember the one general
alarm of 1859, when the magnificent Crystal Palace at Sixth Avenue and
Forty-second Street went up in smoke; and all in half an hour! And
thrilling and interesting it was to the favored few of their number
permitted sometimes to stand watch of an evening with the ringer, and to
peer down on the gaslights of the bustling streets and over dim roofs
and spires and into many an open window long blocks away! It was joy to
be allowed to man the lever with the silent, mysterious hermit of the
tower and help him bang the big bell when the last click of the
telegraph from the City Hall announced that the second-hand of the
regulator at the main office had just reached the mark at nine o'clock.
It was simply thrilling to sit and watch the keen-eyed sentinel as he
suddenly and intently scanned a growing light about some distant dormer
window, reached for his glass, peered through it one instant, then
clapped it into its frame, sprang for the lever, and in another moment
three or four or five deep, clanging notes boomed out on the night air
from below. It was wild delight to lean from the gallery without and
watch the rush and excitement in the streets,--to hear the jangle of the
bells of the white hose carriage as "she" shot suddenly into view and,
with a dozen active dots on the drag-rope, went spinning down the
street, closely followed by her next-door neighbor, the engine, with a
rapidly growing crew. It was keen excitement to watch the bursting of
the blaze, the roll of the smoke from the upper windows, to see it wax
and spread and light up the neighboring roofs and chimneys with its
glare, to mark from on high the swiftly gathering throngs on the broad
avenue, and under the gaslight to see company after company come
trotting out from the side streets, curving round into the car-tracks,
and the moment the broad tires of their engine, truck, or carriage
struck the flat of the rails, up would rise a yell from every throat and
away they would go at racing speed. It was thrilling, indeed, to see two
rival companies reach the avenue at the same point and turn at once into
the tracks. Then to the stirring peal of the alarm the fiercely
contending bands would seem fairly to spurn the stones beneath their
flying feet, and carts, carriages, "busses," everything except the
railway-cars themselves, would clear the track for the rival racers, and
the air would resound with their rallying-cries. Time and again, it must
be owned, so fierce was the strain for supremacy, that furious rows
broke forth between the contestants, and that between many companies
there were for months and years bitter feuds that often led to war to
the knife, and a fire was sometimes left to look out for itself while
the firemen settled their quarrel with fists, stones, and "spanners." As
a rule, though, there were so many companies at each fire that there
were more than enough to fight the flames, for every company had to run
to two districts as well as cover its own neighborhood. Rowdyism was
rampant in some of the organizations, but then a benignant "Tammany"
guarded the interests of a force so strong in numbers, so potent a
factor in politics, and only when a company had become repeatedly and
notoriously negligent of its proper duties in order to indulge its love
for fight was it actually disbanded. Compared with the system of to-day
it was almost grotesque; but in the years when Pop's boys were in their
glory the old volunteer fire department was on its last legs, yet was as
ignorant of its coming dissolution as of the approach of the great war
that should summon so many of its members to meet a foe far harder to
down than the hottest fire they had ever tackled. They were still
monarchs of all they surveyed, those red-shirted, big-hearted roughs,
and many a company had a jolly word of welcome for Pop's boys, who more
than once had given some favorite company first notice--"a still
alarm"--of a blaze, and thereby enabled the "Zephyrs" of 61 Hose or the
"Pacifics" of 28 Engine to be first at the fire, getting a "scoop" on
their nearest neighbors of the "Lexington" or the "Metamoras," for every
company besides its number had its name, and every company, high or low,
its swarm of boy admirers, adherents, and followers, most of them, it
must be admitted, street _gamins_.

And all this explanation as our two youngsters are scooting through the
dripping rain for Union Square.

As they sped across Fifth Avenue a long white seam flashed into view
just beyond the Washington statue, and went like a dim streak sailing
away up Fourth Avenue.

"There goes Twelve Truck!" panted Shorty, already half-winded in the
fierce effort to keep up with Snipe's giant strides. "Seven Hose must be
just ahead. Look out for Twenty-three now!"

Yes, out from Broadway, as he spoke, a little swarm of men and boys on
the drag-ropes, another company came, hauling a bulky little red
hand-engine, and went tugging in chase of the lighter hook and ladder. A
minute's swift run brought the youngsters to the open square, another
around to the broad space in front of the Everett, and there the misty
atmosphere grew heavy and thick, and the swarm of scurrying men and boys
breathed harder as they plunged into a dense drift of smoke. Just as our
youngsters noted that the crowds were running eastward through
Nineteenth Street, the old rallying cry of another company was heard,
and a light hose carriage came bounding across the car-tracks from the
direction of Broadway. Snipe by this time was a dozen yards ahead, and
could not hear or would not heed the half-choking, warning cry of
puffing little Shorty.

"Lay low, Snipe; that's the Metamora. Look out--look out for the----"

Too late! Half a dozen young fellows were sprinting along beside their
pet hose carriage. No more were needed on the ropes, and as Shorty
rounded the corner into Nineteenth Street and saw the flames bursting
from the roof of a stable close to Lexington Avenue, he saw, too, with
bursting heart, three of those young flankers spring up on the sidewalk
in chase of long-limbed Snipe, saw one of them overtake him, lay sudden
hand on his shoulder on one side and hurl him violently to the left,
just in time to be tripped over the tangling foot of another and tumbled
headlong into the reeking gutter, there to lie, stunned and almost
senseless, till Shorty, raging, yet breathless and helpless, strove to
lift his bleeding head upon his knee.

[Illustration: Almost senseless, till Shorty strove to lift his bleeding
head upon his knee.]




CHAPTER III.


Bigger crowds ran to fires, big or little, in those days than now. The
blaze which had well-nigh destroyed an old frame stable in Nineteenth
Street that rainy Saturday afternoon before a single fire company
reached the scene, and that drew to the spot in the course of half an
hour at least twenty companies,--engine, hose, or hook and
ladder,--would be handled now by one compact little battalion with
one-tenth the loss, with no more than forty men, without an unnecessary
sound, and in much less than half the time. Although aided by
sympathizing hands, Shorty had barely time to get Snipe on his shaky
legs and in the lee of a sheltering tree-box when another company came
tearing around from upper Fourth Avenue,--their old friends of Zephyr
Hose,--close followed by Engine 28, and Shorty lifted up his voice in a
yodel that instantly brought two or three panting young fellows to his
side,--big boys who had run with their pet company the half-mile from
Twenty-eighth Street. Instant suspicion, mingled with wrath, gleamed in
their eyes at sight of Snipe's pale face and bleeding temple. "Yes, the
Hulker fellows!" sobbed Shorty, now half mad with indignation and
excitement. "I saw just the two that did it. One of them belongs to the
first nine of the Metamoras,--the juniors,--and had a row with Snipe the
day of the match. Briggs was with them. Wait till we tend to Snipe, then
we can fix him."

The youngster's heart was beating hard and savagely, for the outrage was
brutal. There had been angry words between the rival clubs, the Uncas
and the Metamora, the day of their great game, and hosts of other
juniors had gathered about the wrangling nines, not utterly displeased
at the idea of a falling out between two of the strongest and, as
juniors went in those days, "swellest" organizations on the list. Then,
as luck would have it, several of the older boys of both clubs were
devoted followers, even "runners," of two rival hose companies, the
Uncas almost to a man pinning their fortunes on the white Zephyr, whose
home was but three short blocks above Pop's school, and one of whose
active members, the son of a Fifth Avenue millionaire, was the biggest
and oldest--and stupidest--of Pop's pupils, though not in the classical
department. The Metamoras, in like manner, swore by the swell hose
company of that name, whose carriage was housed on Fifth Avenue itself,
diagonally over across the way from the impressively dignified and
aristocratic brownstone mansion of the Union Club. And what Pop's boys,
the First Latin, at least, were well-nigh a unit in condemning was that
just two of their own number, residents of that immediate neighborhood,
were known to be in league with the Metamora crowd, even to the extent,
it was whispered, of secretly associating with the Hulkers, and by the
Hulkers was meant a little clique led by two brothers of that name, big,
burly young fellows of nineteen and eighteen respectively, sons of a
wealthy widow, who let them run the road to ruin and bountifully paid
their way,--two young scapegraces who were not only vicious and
well-nigh worthless themselves, but were leading astray half a score of
others who were fit for better things. No wonder the hearts of the Uncas
were hot against them.

Into the area doorway of a neighboring dwelling, with faces of gloom,
they had led their wounded comrade. Sympathizing, kind-hearted women
bathed his forehead and smoothly bandaged it, even as the uproar without
increased, and companies from far down-town kept pouring into the
crowded street. By this time half a dozen streams were on the blaze and
the black smoke had turned to white steam, but still they came, Gulick
and Guardian, hose and engine, from under the Jefferson tower, and natty
55 Hose,--the "Harry Howards,"--from away over near the Christopher
ferry, and their swell rivals of 38, from Amity Street, close at the
heels of Niagara 4, with her handsome Philadelphia double-deck engine,
and "3 Truck," from Fireman's Hall, in Mercer Street, and another big
double-decker, 11, from away down below the Metropolitan Hotel, raced
every inch of the mile run up Broadway by her east side rival, Marion 9.
Fancy the hundreds of shouting, struggling, excited men blocking
Lexington Avenue and Eighteenth Street for two hundred yards in every
direction from what we would call to-day a "two-hundred-dollar fire,"
and you can form an idea of the waste of time, money, material, and
energy, the access of uproar, confusion, and, ofttimes, rowdyism, that
accompanied an alarm in the days before the war. Remember that all this,
too, might result from the mere burning out of a chimney or the ignition
of a curtain in a garret window, and you can readily see why tax-payers,
thinking men, and insurance companies finally decided that the old
volunteer department must be abolished.

But until the war came on there was nothing half so full of excitement
in the eyes of young New York, and Pop's boys, many of them at least,
thought it the biggest kind of fun outside of school, where they had fun
of their own such as few other boys saw the like of.

It was inside the school, however, on the following Monday morning, that
the young faces were grave and full of import, for Snipe was there,
still bandaged and a trifle pale, and Shorty, scant of breath but full
of vim and descriptives, and time and again had he to tell the story of
the Hulkers' attack to classmates who listened with puckered brows and
compressed lips, all the while keeping an eye on two black sheep, who
followed with furtive glances Snipe and Shorty wherever they went; and
one of these two was the Pariah of the school.

The only son of a wealthy broker, Leonard Hoover at eighteen years of
age had every advantage that the social position of his parents and a
big allowance could give him, but he stood in Pop's school that saddest
of sights,--a friendless boy. Always immaculately dressed and booted and
gloved, he was a dullard in studies, a braggart in everything, and a
success in nothing. For healthful sports and pastimes he had no use
whatever. Books were his bane, and at eighteen he knew less of Latin
than boys in the fourth form, but Pop had carried him along for years,
dropping him back thrice, it was said in school traditions, until at
last he had to float him with the First Latin, where he sat week after
week at the foot of the class. It was said that between the revered
rector of the school and the astute head of the firm of Hoover, Hope &
Co. a strong friendship existed, but whatever regard "the Doctor"
entertained for the father he denied the son. Long years of observation
of the young fellow's character had convinced this shrewd student of boy
nature that here was a case well-nigh without redeeming feature. Lazy,
shifty, lying, malevolent, without a good word or kind thought for a
human being, without a spark of gratitude to the father who had pulled
him through one disgrace after another, and who strove to buy him a way
through life, young Hoover was, if truth were confessed, about as
abhorrent to the Doctor as he was obnoxious to the school. A plague, a
bully, a tyrant to the little fellows in the lower classes, a cheat and
coward among his fellows, filled with mean jealousy of the lads who year
after year stepped over his head to the upper forms, stingy though his
pockets were lined with silver, sneaking, for he was never known to do
or say a straightforward thing in his life, it had come to pass by the
time he spent his sixth year with Pop that Hoover was the school-boy
synonym for everything disreputable or mean. And, as though the
Providence that had endowed him through his father with everything that
wealth and influence could command was yet determined to strike a
balance somewhere, "Len" Hoover had been given a face almost as
repellent as his nature. His little black eyes were glittering and
beady, which was bad enough, but in addition were so sadly and
singularly crossed that the effect was to distort their true dimensions
and make the right optic appear larger and fuller than the left, which
at times was almost lost sight of,--a strange defect that even Pop had
had the weakness to satirize, and, well knowing that Hoover would never
understand the meaning, had in a moment of unusual exasperation referred
to him as "Cyclops," or Polyphemus, a name that would have held among
the boys had it not been too classical and not sufficiently
contemptuous. An ugly red birth-mark added to his facial deformity, but
what more than anything else gave it its baleful expression was the
sneer that never seemed to leave his mouth. The grin that sometimes,
when tormenting a little boy, distended that feature could never by any
possibility be mistaken for a smile. Hoover's white, slender, shapely
hands were twitching and tremulous. New boys, who perhaps had to shake
hands with him, said they were cold and clammy. He walked in his
high-heeled boots in a rickety way that baffled imitation. He never ran.
He never took part in any sport or game. He never subscribed a cent to
any school enterprise,--base ball, cricket, excursion, or debate. He
never even took part in the customary Christmas gifts to the teachers,
for in the days of this class of Snipe's and Shorty's and others whose
scholarly attainments should have won them first mention, there were
some beloved men whom even mischief-loving lads delighted to remember in
that way. One Christmas-tide Hoover had appeared just before the holiday
break-up, followed by a servant in dark livery, a thing seldom seen
before the war, and that servant solemnly bore half a dozen packages of
which Hoover relieved him one at a time, and personally took to the desk
of the master in each one of the five rooms, left it there without a
word of explanation, but with an indescribable grin, bade the servant
hand the sixth to the open-mouthed janitor, and disappeared. A
perplexed lot were Pop's several assistants when school closed that
afternoon. John, the janitor aforesaid, declared they held an informal
caucus in the senior master's room (Othello was the pet name borne at
the time by this gifted teacher and later distinguished divine), and
that three of the number, who had smilingly and gracefully thanked the
boys for the hearty little tribute of remembrance and good will with
which the spokesman of the class had wished each master a Merry
Christmas, declared they could accept no individual gift from any pupil,
much less Hoover, and that he, John, believed the packages had been
returned unopened.

And this was the state of feeling at the old school towards its oldest
scholar, in point of years spent beneath its roof, on the bleak November
morning following Snipe's and Shorty's disastrous run to the fire, when
at twelve o'clock the First Latin came tumbling down-stairs for recess.
Ordinarily they went with a rush, bounding and jostling and playing all
manner of pranks on each other and making no end of noise, then racing
for doughnuts at Duncan's, two blocks away. But this time there was
gravity and deliberation, an ominous silence that was sufficient in
itself to tell the head-master, even before he noted the fact that
Hoover was lingering in the school-room instead of sneaking off _solus_
for a smoke at a neighboring stable, that something of an unusual nature
was in the wind.

"Why don't you go out to recess, Hoover?" said he, shortly. "If any lad
needs fresh air, it's you."

No answer for a moment. Hoover stood shuffling uneasily at the long
window looking out on Fourth Avenue, every now and then peering up and
down the street.

Impatiently the master repeated his question, and then, sullen and
scowling, Hoover answered,--

"I can have trouble enough--here."

"What do you mean?" asked Othello.

"They're layin' for me,--at least Snipe is."

"By Snipe you mean Lawton, I suppose. What's the trouble between you?"
and the master sat grimly eying the ill-favored fellow.

"It's not a thing--I want to speak of," was the answer. "He knows that I
know things that he can't afford to have get out,--that's all." Then,
turning suddenly, "Mr. Halsey," said he, "there's things going on in
this school the Doctor ought to know. I can't tell him or tell you, but
you--you ask John where Joy's watch went and how it got there."

The master started, and his dark face grew darker still. That business
of Joy's watch had been the scandal of the school all October. Joy was
one of the leaders of the First Latin, a member of one of the oldest
families of Gotham, and this watch was a beautiful and costly thing that
had been given him on his birthday the year before. One hot Friday noon
when the school went out to recess, Joy came running back up the stairs
from the street below and began searching eagerly about the bookcases at
the back of the long school-room. A pale-faced junior master sat mopping
the sweat from his forehead, for the First Latin had executed its famous
charge but two minutes before, and he had striven in vain to quell the
tumult.

"What's the matter, Joy?" he asked. "I _beg_ pardon. _Mr._ Joy, I should
say. I wonder that I am so forgetful as to speak to a young gentleman in
the First Latin as I would to boys in the other forms in the school."

At other times when the weakling who had so spoken gave voice to this
sentiment it was the conventional thing for the First Latin to gaze
stolidly at him and, by way of acknowledgment of the sentiment, to utter
a low, moaning sound, like that of a beast in pain, gradually rising to
a dull roar, then dying away to a murmur again, accentuated occasionally
here and there by deep gutturals, "Hoi! hoi! hoi!" and in this
inarticulate chorus was Joy ever the fugleman. But now, with troubled
eyes, he stared at the master.

"My watch is gone, sir!"

"Gone, Mr. Joy? You terrify me!" said Mr. Meeker, whose habit it was to
use exaggerated speech. "When--and how?"

"While we were--having that scrimmage just now," answered Joy, searching
about the floor and the benches. "I had it--looked at it--not two
minutes before the bell struck. You may remember, sir, you bade me put
it up."

"I do remember. And when did you first miss it?"

"Before we got across Twenty-fifth Street, sir."

By this time, with sympathetic faces, back came Carey and Doremus and
Bertram and others of the First Latin, and John, the janitor, stood at
the door and looked on with puzzled eyes. It was not good for him that
valuables should be lost at any time about the school. All four young
fellows searched, but there was no sign. From that day to this Joy had
seen no more of his beautiful watch. Detectives had sought in vain.
Pawn-shops were ransacked. The Doctor had offered reward and Mr. Meeker,
the master, his resignation, but neither was accepted.

And now Hoover, the uncanny, had declared he had information. It was
still over an hour before the Doctor could be expected down from his
morning's work at Columbia. The head-master felt his fingers tingling
and his pulses quicken. He himself had had a theory--a most unpleasant
one--with regard to the disappearance of that precious watch. He knew
his face was paling as he rose and backed the downcast, slant-eyed youth
against the window-casing.

"Hoover," said he, "I've known you seven years, and will have no
dodging. Tell me what you know."

"I--I--don't _know_ anything, sir," was the answer, "but you ask John.
He does."

"Stay where you are!" cried the master, as he stepped to his desk and
banged the gong-bell that stood thereon. A lumbering tread was heard on
the stairway, and a red-faced, shock-headed young man came clumsily into
the room. Mr. Halsey collared him without ado and shoved him up
alongside Hoover. He had scant reverence for family rank and name, had
Halsey. In his eyes hulking John and sullen Hoover were about on a par,
with any appreciable odds in favor of the janitor.

"Hoover tells me you know where Joy's watch went and who took it. Out
with the story!" demanded he.

"I d-don't," mumbled John, in alarm and distress. "I--I only said
that--there was more'n one could tell where it went." And then, to Mr.
Halsey's amaze and disgust, the janitor fairly burst into tears. For two
or three minutes his uncouth shape was shaken by sobs of unmistakable
distress. Halsey vainly tried to check him, and angrily demanded
explanation of this womanish conduct. At last John seemed about to
speak, but at that moment Hoover, with shaking hand, grabbed the
master's arm and muttered, "Mr. Halsey,--not now!"

Following the frightened glance of those shifting eyes, Halsey whirled
and looked towards the stairs. Then, with almost indignant question
quivering on his lips, turned angrily on the pair. With a queer
expression on his white and bandaged face, Snipe Lawton stood gazing at
them from the doorway.




CHAPTER IV.


That famous charge of the First Latin is something that must be
explained before this school story can go much further. To begin with,
one has to understand the "lay of the land," or rather the plan of the
school-room. Almost every boy knows how these buildings facing on a
broad business thoroughfare are arranged:--four or five stories high,
thirty or forty or fifty feet front, according to the size of the lot,
perhaps one hundred to two hundred deep, with the rooms from basement to
attic all about of a size unless partitioned off on different lines. In
the days whereof we write Pop had his famous school in the second and
third floors of one of these stereotyped blocks. Two-thirds of the
second floor front was given up to one big room. A high wooden
partition, glazed at the top and pierced with two doors, divided this,
the main school-room, from two smaller ones where the Third and Fourth
Latin wrestled with their verbs and declensions and gazed out through
the long rear windows over a block of back-yards and fences. Aloft on
the third floor were the rooms of the masters of the junior forms in
English, mathematics, writing, etc. But it is with the second, the main
floor and the main room on that floor, that we have to do. This was the
home of the First Latin. It was bare as any school-room seen abroad,
very nearly. Its furniture was inexpensive, but sufficient. A big stove
stood in the centre of the long apartment, and some glazed bookcases
between the west windows and against the south wall at the west end. A
closet, sacred to Pop, was built against the north wall west of the
stairway, which was shut off by a high wooden partition, reaching to the
ceiling. A huge coat-rack stood in the southeast corner. A big open
bookcase, divided off into foot square boxes for each boy's books,
occupied the northeast corner, with its back against the northward wall.
Six or seven benches abutting nearly end to end were strung along the
south side, extending from the west windows almost to the coat-rack, the
farthermost bench being at an obtuse angle. The bookbox, doors, and
partitions were painted a cheerful lead color, the benches a deep dark
green. So much for the accommodation of the lads. Now for their masters.
On a square wooden dais, back to the light, was perched the stained pine
desk at which from one-thirty to three each afternoon sat glorified Pop.
Boy nor man ventured to assume that seat at other time, save when that
front, like Jove, gleamed above the desk to threaten and command, and
the massive proportions, clad in glossy broadcloth of scholarly black,
settled into the capacious depths of that wicker-bottomed chair. In
front of the desk, six feet away, the low stove, so often seasoned with
Cayenne pepper, warmed the apartment, but obstructed not his view. At an
equal distance beyond the stove was the table at which from nine A.M. to
three P.M. sat the master in charge of the room, and thereby hung many
and many a tale. It was a great big, flat-topped table, covered with
shiny black oilcloth, slightly padded, and was so hollowed out on the
master's side that it encompassed him round about like some modern boom
defence against torpedo attack, and many a time that defence was needed.
From the instant of the Doctor's ponderous appearance at the door law
and disciplined order prevailed within this scholastic sanctuary, but of
all the bear-gardens ever celebrated in profane history it was the worst
during the one hour in which, each day from eleven to twelve, Mr. Meeker
imparted to the First Latin his knowledge of the higher mathematics and
endeavored to ascertain what, if any, portion thereof lodged long enough
to make even a passing impression on the minds of that graceless
assembly. There were other hours during which the spirit of mischief had
its sway. There were other masters who found that First Latin an
assemblage of youths who made them wonder why the Doctor had, after
long, long years of observance, finally banished forever the system of
punishment which was of the breech--the _vis a tergo_ order, that was
the mainstay of grammar-school discipline in Columbia's proud past; but
it was left to Mr. Meeker to enjoy as did no other man the full
development of a capacity for devilment, a rapacity for mischief never
equalled in the annals of the school.

Whenever the class was formed for recitation it took seats on those
northward-facing benches, the head of the class in a chair, with his
back to the avenue window, close by the westernmost bench. The others of
the "Sacred Band," as that guileful First Latin had once been derisively
named, strung out in the order of their class rank along the benches,
with Hoover, nine times out of ten, alone at the bottom. The system of
recitation was peculiar to the school, and proved that the "copious
notes," so often scornfully, yet enviously, referred to by outsiders,
were only blessings in disguise. It might be that Virgil was the subject
of the hour, the lesson say some fifty lines in the third book, and in
this event Beach, not Meeker, was in the chair, a man of firmer mould,
yet not invulnerable. One after another, haphazard, the youngsters were
called upon to read, scan, translate, and at the very first slip in
quantity, error in scanning, mistake of a word in translation, the
master would cry "Next," and the first boy below who could point out the
error and indicate the correction stepped up and took his place above
the fellow at fault. A perfect recitation was a rarity except among the
keen leaders at the head, for no error, big or little, was ever let
pass. It was no easy thing for the average boy to read three lines of
the resounding dactylic hexameters of "P. Virgilius Maro" according to
the Columbia system of the day without a slip in quantity. Scanning,
too, was an art full of traps for the unwary, but hardest of all for one
of Pop's boys was it to translate. No matter how easy it might be by the
aid of the oft-consulted "pony" to turn the Latin into English, it was
the rule of the school that the Doctor's own beautiful rendition should
be memorized word for word wherever it occurred, and the instances, like
the notes, were all too copious. At the word "Enough" that checked his
scanning the boy began to translate, and having given the poetic and
flowery version of the great translator, then turned to and, word by
word, followed with the literal meaning. Then came the prodding
questions as to root, verb, subject, etc., and lucky was the youngster
who, when he took his seat, found himself no more than half a dozen
places below where he started. At the end of the hour the marks were
totted up, and he who had the highest number marched to the head of the
class, the others being assigned according to their score. It was all
plain sailing when the Doctor himself was in the chair. Few boys
ventured on fun with him. On the other hand, few other masters could
maintain order on a system that gave such illimitable possibilities for
devilment. To illustrate: It is a brisk October morning. School has
"been in" an hour. The First Latin is arrayed for recitation in the
AEneid, and the boys have easily induced an Italian organ-grinder to
come, monkey and all, to serenade them, and to the lively notes of
"Patrick's Day in the Morning" one of the confirmed scamps of the class
is called upon to begin. He himself was the heaviest subscriber to the
fund which secured the services of the dark-eyed exile and his agile
monkey. Bliss knows nothing whatever of the lesson and is praying for
the appearance of the red-capped simian at the window. The janitor has
been sent down to bid the organ-grinder go away, but the boys have
blocked that game by bidding higher, and the Italian is warned to pay no
attention to such orders, but to hold his ground,--the neighborhood
approves of him and he'll be short a quarter if he goes. John comes
panting up-stairs to report his ill success, and meantime the recitation
cannot go on. Bliss is finally told to pay no attention to "Patrick's
Day" and to push ahead on the most beautiful lines in the book,

     "_Non ignara mali, miseris succerere disco_,"

and Bliss slips on the quantity of the first syllable of the third word,
is promptly snapped up by Doremus, next below, who tallies one on his
score and jumps above him. Bliss shuts his book despairingly. "Mr.
Beach," he begins, in tones of deepest injury, "I know that just as well
as anybody else; but I protest, sir, I'm so distracted by that grinding
I can't do myself justice--or the subject either." And if the astute
Beach had any lingering doubt as to whether the boys worked that game
themselves or not the doubt is banished now. Bertram, Doremus, Snipe,
Shorty, all are on their feet and pleading with the master to have that
impudent music stopped. Mr. Beach vainly warns them to their seats and
commands silence.

"Mr. Beach, let me go down and drive him away,--I can do it," implores
Beekman, the pigmy Gothamite. It is three minutes before the master can
compel silence in the class, so great is its sense of the outrage upon
its peace and dignity.

"Mr. Beach, let me fetch a policeman," cries Shorty, who knows there
isn't a blue-coat nearer than the Harlem depot at Twenty-sixth Street,
and is spoiling for a chance to get out-of-doors.

"The next boy who speaks until bidden will have five marks struck off,"
says Beach, and with one accord the First Latin opens its twenty-seven
mouths, even Hoover swelling the chorus, and, as though so many
representatives in Congress assembled were hailing the chair, the
twenty-seven ejaculate, "Mr. Beach, nobody's got five yet." Then little
Post jumps up, in affected horror, and runs from his seat half-way to
the master's table. "Mr. Beach!" he cries, "the monkey!"

"Aw, sit down, Post," protests Joy, in the interest of school discipline
and harmony. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself making such a fuss
about a monkey." Snipe and Carey seize the first weapons
obtainable--the sacred ruler and the Japan tray on the Doctor's
desk--and make a lunge for the windows.

"Lawton--Carey! Back to your seats!" orders Beach.

"We only want to drive the monkey away, sir," protests Snipe, with
imploring eyes. "Post'll have a fit, sir, if you let the monkey stay.
He's subject to 'em. Ain't you, Post?"

"_Yes_, sir," eagerly protests Post, on the swear-to-anything principle
when it's a case of school devilment, and two minutes more are consumed
in getting those scamps back to their places and recording their fines,
"Ten marks apiece," which means that when the day's reckoning is made
ten units will be deducted from their total score. The settlement, too,
is prolonged and complicated through the ingenuity of Snipe and the
connivance of Bagshot and Bertram, who have promptly moved up and
occupied the place vacated by their long-legged, curly-pated, brown-eyed
comrade, and who now sturdily maintain that Snipe doesn't know where he
belongs. As a matter of fact, Snipe doesn't; neither does he greatly
care. He's merely insisting on the customary frolic before the class
settles down to business, but to see the fine indignation in his
handsome face and listen to the volume of protest on his tongue you
would fancy his whole nature was enlisted in the vehement assertion of
his rights.

Mr. Beach fines Snipe another five for losing his place, and then
stultifies himself by ordering Bertram and Bagshot back to their
original station, thus permitting Snipe to resume his seat, whereupon he
promptly claims the remission of the fine on the ground that he himself
had found it, and Bertram, a youth of much dignity of demeanor, gravely
addresses Mr. Beach, and protests that in the interests of decency and
discipline Lawton should forfeit his place, and to prove his entire
innocence of selfish motive offers to leave it to the class, and go to
the foot himself if they decide against him, and the class shouts
approval and urges the distracted Beach to put Snipe out forthwith. Then
somebody signals "Hush!" for Halsey, the head-master, the dark Othello,
has scented mischief from afar, and is heard coming swiftly down from
the floor above, and Halsey is a man who has his own joke but allows no
others. Bliss is the only boy on his feet as the stern first officer
enters and glances quickly and suspiciously about him.

"Go on with the recitation, Mr. Beach," he says. "That Italian was
doubtless hired by these young gentlemen. Let them dance to their own
music now, the eloquent Bliss in the lead. Go on with your lines,
Bliss."

And as this is just what Bliss can't do, Bliss is promptly "flunked" and
sent to the foot, where Hoover grins sardonically. He's ahead of one
fellow anyhow. Just so long now as that organ-grinder does must Halsey
stay--and supervise, and scorch even the best scholars in the class, for
well he knows the First Latin and they him, and their respect for him is
deeper than his for them, despite the known fact that Pop himself looks
upon them with more than partial eyes. The class is getting the worst of
it when in comes an opportune small boy. "Mr. Meeker says will Mr.
Halsey please step into the Fourth Latin room a minute," and Halsey has
to go.

"If those young gentlemen give you any trouble, Mr. Beach, keep the
whole class in at recess," he says, and thereupon, with eyes of saddest
reproach, the class follows him to the door, as though to say, How can
such injustice live in mind so noble? But the moment Halsey vanishes the
gloom goes with him. Beach's eyes are on the boys at the foot of the
class, and with a batter and bang the Japan tray on the Doctor's desk
comes settling to the floor, while Joy, who dislodged it, looks straight
into the master's startled eyes with a gaze in which conscious
innocence, earnest appeal, utter disapprobation of such silly pranks,
all are pictured. Joy can whip the bell out from under the master's nose
and over the master's table and all the time look imploringly into the
master's eyes, as though to say, "Just heaven! do you believe me capable
of such disrespect as that?" Three boys precipitate themselves upon the
precious waiter, eager to restore it to its place, and bang their heads
together in the effort. Five marks off for Shorty, Snipe, and Post.
Bagshot is on the floor, and announces as the sense of the First Latin
that a boy who would do such a thing should be expelled. Mr. Beach says
the First Latin hasn't any sense to speak of, and tells Bagshot to begin
where he left off. Bagshot thereupon declares he can't remember. It's
getting near the "business end" of the hour, and the whole class has to
look to its marks, so it can't all be fun. Thereupon Beach, who is
nothing if not classical, refers to Bagshot's lack of acquaintance with
the Goddess of Memory. "Who was she, Bagshot?" "Mnemosyne." "Very good;
yes, sir." ("Thought it was Bacchante!" shouts little Beekman. "No, sir.
Five marks off, Beekman. No more from you, sir.") "Now, Bagshot, you
should be higher than ten in your class to-day, and would be but for
misbehavior. What was the color of Mnemosyne's hair?" Bagshot glares
about him irresolute, and tries the doctrine of probability.

"Red!"

Beach compresses his lips. "M--n--no. That hardly describes it. Next."

"Carnation," hazards Van Kleeck.

"Next! Next! Next!" says Beach, indicating with his pencil one after
another of the eager rank of boys, and, first one at a time and
distinctly, then in confused tumbling over each other's syllables, the
wiseacres of the class shout their various guesses.

"Vermilion!"

"Scarlet!"

"Carrot color!"

"Solferino!"

"Magenta!"

"Pea-green!"

"Sky-blue!"

"Brick-red!" (This last from Turner, who makes a bolt for a place above
Bagshot, and can only be driven back and convinced of the inadequacy of
his answer by liberal cuttings of ten to twenty marks.) Then, at last,
Beach turns to Carey, at the far head of the class, and that gifted
young gentleman drawls,--

"Fl-a-a-me color."

"Right!" says the master, whereupon half a dozen contestants from below
spring to their feet, with indignation in their eyes:

"Well, what did I say, sir?"

"That's exactly what I meant, sir."

"I'll leave it to Bliss if that wasn't my answer, sir."

And nothing but the reappearance of Othello puts an end to the clamor
and settles the claimants. Shorty submits that his answer covered the
case, that Mnemosyne herself couldn't tell carrot color from flame, and
is sure the Doctor would declare his answer right, but is summarily
squelched by Mr. Halsey, and he has the "_nous_" to make no reference to
the matter when the Doctor comes. The hour is nearly over. Only three
minutes are allowed them in which to stow their Virgils in the big open
bookcase and extract their algebras. Halsey vanishes to see to it that
the Third Latin goes to the writing-room without mobbing the Fourth. The
marks of the First are recorded, not without a volume of comment and
chaff and protest. Then silence settles down as the master begins giving
out the next day's lesson, for the word has been passed along the line
of benches, "Get ready for a charge!" A moment later the janitor sounds
the bell on the landing without, and twenty-six young fellows spring
into air and rush for the bookcase. Not a word is spoken,--Hoover,
alone, holds aloof,--but in less time than it takes to tell it, with
solemnity on every face except one or two that will bubble over in
excess of joy, the First Latin is jammed in a scrimmage such as one sees
nowadays only on the football field. The whole living mass heaves
against those stout partitions till they bend and crack. From the
straining, struggling crew there rises the same moaning sound, swelling
into roar and dying away into murmur, and at last the lustier fight
their way out, algebras in hand, and within another five minutes order
is apparently evolved from chaos.

In such a turmoil and in such a charge Joy's watch disappeared that
October day, and the school had not stopped talking of it yet.

It has been said that two boys were the observed of gloomy eyes the
Monday following Snipe's misfortune. One, Hoover, of course. The other a
fellow who in turn had sought to be everybody's chum and had ended by
being nobody's. His name was Briggs. He was a big, powerful fellow,
freckle-faced, sandy-haired, and gifted with illimitable effrontery. He
was a boy no one liked and no one could snub, for Briggs had a skin as
thick as the sole of a school-boy's boot, and needed it. One
circumstance after another during the previous year had turned one boy
after another from him, but Briggs kept up every appearance of cordial
relations, even with those who cold-shouldered him and would have naught
to do with him. During the previous school-year he had several times
followed Snipe, Shorty, and their particular set, only to find that they
would scatter sooner than have him one of the party. He had been denied
admission to the houses of most of the class. He had been twice
blackballed by the Uncas, and it was said by many of the school when
Briggs began to consort with Hoover that he had at last found his proper
level. One allegation at his expense the previous year had been that he
was frequently seen at billiard-rooms or on the streets with those two
Hulkers, and even Hoover had hitherto eschewed that association. Perhaps
at first the Hulkers would not have Hoover. The class couldn't tell and
really didn't care to know. One thing was certain: within the fortnight
preceding the opening of this story Briggs and Hoover had been together
more than a little and with the Hulkers more than enough.

"Are you sure of what you say?" both Carey and Joy had asked Shorty that
exciting Monday morning, as the eager youngster detailed for the tenth
time the incidents of the assault on Snipe.

"I'm as sure of it as I am of the fire," said Shorty, positively. "Jim
Briggs was with the Metamora crowd, running in the street. He looked
back and laughed after he saw Snipe down."

But when confronted with this statement by the elders of the "Sacred
Band" Briggs promptly and indignantly denied it.

"I never heard of it till to-day!" said he. "'Spose I'd stand by and see
one of my class knocked endwise by a lot of roughs? _No_, sir!"

It was a question of veracity, then, between Briggs and Shorty, the
class believing the latter, but being unable to prove the case. Snipe
himself could say nothing. Being in the lead, he had seen none of the
runners of the Metamora except the heels of a few as they bounded over
him when he rolled into the street. There was an intense feeling
smouldering in the class. They were indeed "laying" for Hoover as they
had been for Briggs when they tumbled out for recess. The latter, with
his characteristic vim and effrontery, denied all knowledge of the
affair, as has been said, and challenged the class to prove a thing
against him. The former, as has been told, lurked within-doors. What had
he to fear? He was not at the scene of the fire and the assault. He
never had energy enough to run. There was some reason why he shrank from
meeting or being questioned by the boys. There was some reason why Snipe
Lawton should have left them and returned to the school, and was
discovered standing there at the doorway, looking fixedly at the
head-master's angered face as it glowered on Hoover and the tearful
John. Whatever the reason, it could not well be divulged in the presence
of Mr. Halsey. Hoover stood off another proposed demonstration in his
honor after school at three o'clock by remaining behind, and only coming
forth when he could do so under the majestic wing of the Doctor himself.
Pop looked curiously at the knots of lingering First Latins, and raised
his high-top hat in response to their salutations. Hoover huddled close
to his side until several blocks were traversed and pursuit was
abandoned. Then he shot into a street-car, leaving the Doctor to ponder
on the unusual attention. And so it happened that while the class was
balked for the time of its purpose, and the victim of Saturday's assault
was debarred from making the queries he had planned, Mr. Halsey was
enabled to pursue his bent. Just as the little group of five, gazing in
disappointment up the avenue after the vanishing forms of the Doctor and
Hoover, was breaking up with the consolatory promise that they'd
confront Hoover with their charges first thing in the morning, the
open-mouthed janitor came running.

"Oh, Lawton!" he panted, "Mr. Halsey says he wishes to speak with you,
and to please come right back."

"I'll wait for you, Snipe," said Shorty. "Day-day, you other fellows."
And wait he did, ten, twenty minutes, and no Snipe came, and, wondering
much, the smaller lad went whistling down the avenue, forgetful, in the
fact that he still wore the jacket, of the dignity demanded of a lad of
the First Latin and full sixteen. He wondered more when eight o'clock
came that evening and without Snipe's ring at the door-bell. He wondered
most when he saw Snipe's pallid, sad-eyed face on the morrow.




CHAPTER V.


There was something in the friendship between those two members of the
First Latin not entirely easy for the school to understand. In many ways
they were antitheses,--Snipe, over-long; Shorty, under-sized; Snipe,
brown-eyed and taciturn, as a rule; Shorty, blue-eyed and talkative
(Loquax was Pop's pet name for him); Snipe was studious; Shorty quick to
learn, but intolerant of drudgery. Both loved play, active exercise, and
adventure. Both took naturally to everything connected with the fire
department, but in addition the smaller boy had a decided love for the
military, and was a member of the drum corps of a famous organization of
the old State militia, and vastly proud of it. Snipe loved the
fishing-rod, and Shorty had no use for one. Shorty loved drill, Snipe
couldn't bear it. Take it all in all, they were an oddly assorted pair,
but when forty-eight hours passed without their being in close
communion something had gone sadly amiss; and that was the case now.

Everybody knew that Snipe Lawton had little or no money of any kind, but
few knew why. His own father had been dead many years. His mother had
remarried when he was twelve years old, and between the boy and his
step-father there was no love whatever. Nor was this the boy's fault.
Open-hearted, affectionate, and of gentle nature, he had really tried to
like and to win the regard of the man who had won his mother's heart and
had given her an attractive, even a beautiful, home. But there are men
who have no sympathy whatever with boys. Mr. Park was one of these, and,
after two years of experiment, gave up trying to understand his
step-son, and declared that the boy must be sent away to school. It is
needless to describe what those two years were to the mother or to the
son. Both welcomed the decision, though it cost the former many tears. A
younger sister was married and living in New York City. Mr. Park was a
Columbiad and a fervent admirer of the great Doctor. It was arranged
that the boy should have his home under the roof of his aunt, Mrs.
Lawrence, and his lessons under Pop. He grew rapidly, and his clothes
were generally short for him. He was shy, sensitive, and hated to ask
for money from home, because it had to come from his step-father. Time
and again he could not go to the little social gatherings of his
schoolmates, with whom he became popular almost from the start, solely
because of his outgrown coat and trousers. His aunt had a houseful of
company much of the time; her husband's kindred were numerous and
prevalent, and, to tell the truth, she was a little ashamed of the tall,
shy, sometimes awkward, if not gawky, boy, whose wrists were always in
evidence and whose trousers were so short and shabby. And so it resulted
that poor Snipe had his little bedroom in her garret, which the servants
soon learned they could neglect with impunity, and a place at her table
when they were not entertaining company; but home, he really had none.
Breakfast was served at the Lawrences' at nine o'clock, but before that
time Snipe was expected to come down to forage for himself and be off to
school and out of the way. Luncheon he could take with him, if he chose
to put it up and carry it, but as none of the other boys did this Snipe
soon ceased, and one of Duncan's doughnuts was the mid-day sustenance,
washed down by a glass of what the Doctor referred to as "copious cold
Croton" (the Doctor loved that word copious), and on this rather meagre
diet Snipe worried through the day till dinner-time, which with Uncle
and Aunt Lawrence was half-after six, and a very hungry boy was he who
silently, even humbly, took his seat among the lively, chattering party
(there were always six or eight in the family circle), and, as soon as
his appetite was appeased, was permitted to withdraw, presumably, to his
studies, though the fact that he was at Shorty's home was always
comforting to Aunt Lawrence, for she had great regard for certain
feminine relatives of the smaller boy, and believed that wherever they
presided her nephew could not possibly get into mischief. It is not that
Aunt Lawrence was either knowingly neglectful or actively unkind. She
was a busy woman, a fashionable woman, a woman full of pleasant impulse.
She had told George to be sure and come to her whenever anything went
wrong, when he needed advice or aid, or--rather vaguely--anything else.
She had told the butler to be sure to see that Master George had coffee
ready every morning at quarter-past eight, and the seamstress was
ordered to keep his wardrobe in repair, and for a month or so both did
as they were bid, and then let Master George look out for himself. Mr.
Park had requested Mr. Lawrence to see that George was given fifty cents
each Saturday for his spending money, out of which he was to provide his
own shoes and gloves. This was Park's own allowance in the old days when
he was a boy at the grammar school and Columbia was away down-town,
about on line with the City Hall, and the boys lunched sumptuously at
Shaddle's for thrippence; but Park had not to buy his shoes in those
days, though he said he bought his gloves out of his little sum. He
simply argued that it would be good discipline for his step-son to learn
to economize. Gloves and shoes cost much less in the ante-bellum days
than now, and less in Park's school-days than in those of his step-son.
George took what was given him silently and without appeal, and during
his three years at Pop's that was every cent of money he received from
home. But gloves, he said, he had no use for, and boots were far beyond
him. Furthermore, low shoes, summer and winter both, were best to run
in, and not another boy at the Doctor's dreamed of the true state of the
case, unless it was little Shorty, for to that boy the hungry heart of
the lonely fellow seemed to go out from the start. He, too, was an
alien; he, too, had left the mother wing to find a nest in the great,
thronging city; he, too, was probably not a little in the way, but for
him at least there was warmth and interest and sympathy and kindliness,
and many a time and oft did Snipe roost all night long in that snug
white bed of Shorty's, with no one "at home" the wiser. And many and
many a time had he been made welcome at the bountiful board where Shorty
sat among an affectionate kindred, and the tall boy's soft brown eyes
seemed mutely to thank each member of the big family circle for every
pleasant word. They had grown to like him, despite his silence, or
perhaps because of it and its contrast with Shorty's chatter. They took
no note of his short-sleeved, skimpy sack-coat or the low shoes at which
Briggs had sneered and other fellows at school had levelled their
witticisms until they saw it hurt, and then, wonder of wonders, the
latter quit it. With all their impulse for fun and frolic and mischief,
Pop's boys had the leaven of gentlemen. Even Hoover had never twitted
Lawton on the evidences of his poverty, and there were others of that
immortal twenty-seven little better off than he. In all the First Latin,
Briggs had been the only one to continue the torment after the discovery
that it brought pain and distress, and even Briggs no longer dare
attempt it when certain of the class were near, for Julian, overhearing
him one day, had called him aside at recess and told him that only a
mean-spirited whelp would be guilty of such a thing, slapped his face,
and invited him into a neighboring stable to fight it out, which
invitation Briggs declined. Even little Shorty, overhearing Briggs one
day, had flown at him like a young bull-terrier and drawn blood from
Briggs's nose before they could be separated. The class stood up for
Snipe most loyally in these days of his early tribulations, and by the
time Second Latin year was over no one seemed to think of his worn and
undeniably shabby garb. Snipe himself was "all right," said they. But
there was lingering venom in the soul of Briggs, and as for Hoover, his
soul was that of Ishmael and his hand against everybody, and when these
two crabbed natures drifted together in alliance, offensive and
defensive, it meant trouble for somebody, and there was no fun in the
First Latin when Tuesday came, for to one and all it was plain that
Snipe Lawton's heart was heavy, and his big brown eyes were full of
nameless misery.

Twice that morning had Shorty tried to get him aside with sympathetic
question, but the elder shook his head. There was no time. At recess,
when Shorty counted on seeing his chum and hearing the whole story,
Lawton never came out at all. John, the janitor, said he was having a
talk with Mr. Halsey, trying to get him not to report something to the
Doctor, but John himself seemed ill at ease and anxious to avoid
question. The class communed together and instinctively connected Briggs
and Hoover with the mystery, but Hoover had disappointed everybody by
remaining away from school that day, and as for Briggs, he was in
everybody's way. Wherever he saw a group in low-toned conference he
would make for it, and by his very presence and loud-voiced questions
and conjectures put an end to their confidences. Everybody seemed to
feel that when the Doctor came down that afternoon there would be a
sensation of some kind, and school reassembled after recess and the
First Latin went to its benches without even accidentally upsetting one
of them. Snipe was sitting at the end of the upper bench looking
drearily out on the avenue, and Mr. Halsey, with darker face than usual,
had taken his accustomed place.

A spiritless recitation was begun, Snipe losing his head and memory and
place after place. There were boys who knew the answers to questions at
which he only shook his head and who presently refused to speak and go
above him. Halsey's face grew darker and darker at these evidences of
sympathy. The "next! next! next!" became incessant. Up even towards the
head of the class, above the seat to which the sad-eyed fellow had
drifted, there was no animation. The leaders gave their answers in low
tones, as though to say, "We've got to go through with this, but we've
no heart in it. Snipe's proper place is up here among us." It was
actually a relief to everybody when at last, towards the close of the
hour, the Doctor's heavy tread was heard, slow and majestic, ascending
the wooden stairs.

It was his custom to halt at the doorway, and from that point of view
survey his waiting scholars, the foot of the class coming in for
invariable comment. I can see him now, portly, erect, scrupulously neat
and exact in dress from the crown of his deeply weeded high top hat to
the tip of his polished shoes. Clean shaved, the wide upper lip, the
broad massive chin, the great sweep of jaw. Collar, cuffs, and
shirt-front immaculate; coat, waistcoat, and trousers, and the broad
stock of flawless black. The gold seal dangling from his watch ribbon
the only speck of color, the gold top of his stout, straight, black cane
concealed in his hand. Under their shaggy brows the deep-set gray eyes
twinkle, as slowly he lifts the long ferule and points it at the
luckless wight on the lowermost bench; then with inquiring gaze sweeps
the line of intent young faces, looking for some one.

"What!" he says. "Another occupant! Where, then, is the

     '_Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum_'?"

And at any other day the class, barring Hoover, would have shouted with
appreciative joy; but not to-day. Despite Hoover's absence a cloud has
lowered over their house. They cannot laugh, even in counterfeited glee,
and the Doctor's face changes on the instant as he steps within. He has
noted Lawton's unusual position and his strange, white face.

"Anything wrong, Mr. Halsey?"

The head-master rises and turns to his revered senior. In low tone he
says, so that only one or two can catch the words, "A matter I'll have
to tell you after school, sir." And school must last over an hour
longer. Silently the class exchanges the text-book for Xenophon. The
Doctor's own hour has come, sacred to Greek, and silently the boys
retake their places. But the occasion weighs upon the Doctor's mind.
Something tells him there is worry ahead, and the sooner it is met the
better. One expedient never fails him. "How have they done to-day, Mr.
Halsey?"

The head-master purses up his lip. He knows that since recess at least,
so far as recitation is concerned, they have done unusually ill; but he
knows what the Doctor desires.

"_Behaved_ rather better than usual, sir."

"One good turn deserves another," says Pop. "How many young gentlemen of
the First Latin deserve half holiday? All hands up!" And up go the
hands, but with only half the usual alacrity.

"The ayes have it. The class may retire."

And slowly the First Latin finds its legs and lingers, for Halsey
whispers to Pop, and the latter, with somewhat grayer shade to his face,
says, "Lawton will remain."

The boys dawdle unaccountably about the big bookcase, glancing over
their shoulders at Lawton, who sits with drooping head and downcast eyes
opposite Halsey's table. Briggs, panting a little, slinks through the
silent group to the doorway, and scuttles quickly down the stairs. When
Joy and Beekman reach the street he is peering round the stable at the
corner, but slips out of sight an instant later. Three or four of the
class, Shorty among them, still hover about the coat-rack. Shorty says
he can't find his overshoes, which is not remarkable, as he did not wear
them. Halsey is nervously tapping his desk with the butt of his pencil
and glancing at the dawdlers with ominous eyes. At last the Doctor
uplifts his head and voice. He has been looking over some papers on his
desk.

"Those young gentlemen at the coat-rack seem reluctant to leave school,
Mr. Halsey. Hah! Julian, cestus bearing! Dix, ecclesiasticus! Et tu,
puer parvule, lingua longissima!" He pauses impressively, and, raising
hand and pencil, points to the door. "If one of 'em comes back before
to-morrow, Mr. Halsey, set him to work on Sallust."

And then the three know enough to stand no longer on the order of their
going. Their faces are full of sympathy as they take a farewell peep at
Snipe, and Shorty signals to unseeing eyes "I'll wait." And wait the
little fellow does, a long hour, kicking his heels about the cold
pavement without, and then the Second Latin comes tumbling down-stairs,
scattering with noisy glee, and marvelling much to see Shorty looking
blue and cold and mournful. He will not answer their questions; he's
only waiting for Snipe. And another quarter-hour passes, and then for an
instant the boy's eyes brighten, and he springs forward as his tall chum
appears at the doorway, cap downpulled over his eyes, coat-collar
hunched up to his ears, a glimpse of stocking between the hem of his
scant trousers and those inadequate shoes. But the light goes out as
quickly as it came, for with Lawton, similarly bundled up and well-nigh
as shabby, is the head-master, who silently uplifts his hand and warns
Shorty back; then, linking an arm in one of Lawton's, leads him away
around the corner of Twenty-fifth Street.

It is more than the youngster can stand. Long-legged Damon, short-legged
Pythias, the two have been friends since Third Latin days and chums for
over a year. Shorty springs after the retreating forms, but halts short
at sound of his name, called in imperative tone from above. At the open
window stands the Doctor gazing out. He uses no further words. His right
hand is occupied with his snowy cambric handkerchief. With his left he
makes two motions. He curves his finger inward, indicating plainly
"Come back!" and then with the index points down the avenue, meaning as
plainly "Go!" and there is no cheery, undignified whistle as Shorty
hastens to tell his tale of sorrow to sympathetic ears at home.




CHAPTER VI.


There were three more school-days that week, and they were the quietest
of the year. On the principle that it was an ill wind that blew nobody
good, there was one instructor to whom such unusual decorum was welcome,
and that was poor Meeker, who noted the gloom in the eyes of most of the
First Latin, and responsively lengthened his face, yet at bottom was
conscious of something akin to rejoicing. His had been a hapless lot. He
had entered upon his duties the first week in September, and the class
had taken his measure the first day. A better-meaning fellow than Meeker
probably never lived, but he was handicapped by a soft, appealing manner
and a theory that to get the most out of boys he must have their
good-will, and to get their good-will he must load them with what the
class promptly derided as "blarney." He was poor and struggling, was
graduated high in his class at college, was eager to prepare himself for
the ministry, and took to teaching in the mean time to provide the
necessary means. The First Latin would have it that Pop didn't want him
at all, but that Meeker gave him no rest until promised employment, for
Meeker had well known that there was to be a vacancy, and was first to
apply for it. But what made it more than a luckless move for him was
that he had applied for the position vacated by a man Pop's boys adored,
"a man from the ground up," as they expressed it, a splendid,
deep-voiced, deep-chested, long-limbed athlete, with a soul as big as
his massive frame and an energy as boundless as the skies. He, too, had
worked his way to the priesthood, teaching long hours at Pop's each day,
tutoring college weaklings or would-be freshmen in the evenings,
studying when and where he could, but wasting never a minute. Never was
there a tutor who preached less or practised more. His life was a lesson
of self-denial, of study, of purpose. Work hard, play hard, pray hard,
might have been his motto, for whatsoever that hand of his found to do
that did he with all his might. Truth, manliness, magnetism, were in
every glance of his clear eyes, every tone of his deep voice. Boys
shrank from boys' subterfuges and turned in unaccustomed disgust from
school-boy lies before they had been a month in Tuttle's presence; he
seemed to feel such infinite pity for a coward. Never using a harsh
word, never an unjust one, never losing faith or temper, his was yet so
commanding a nature that by sheer force of his personality and example
his pupils followed unquestioning. With the strength of a Hercules, he
could not harm an inferior creature. With the courage of a lion, he had
only sorrow for the faint-hearted. With a gift and faculty for
leadership that would have made him a general-in-chief, he was humble as
a child in the sight of his Maker, and in all the long years of his
great, brave life, only once, that his boys ever heard of, did he use
that rugged strength to discipline or punish a human being, and that
only when courtesy and persuasion had failed to stop a ruffian tongue in
its foul abuse of that Maker's name. It was a solemn day for the school,
a glad one for the church militant, when he took leave of the one to
take his vows in the other. There wasn't a boy among all his pupils that
would have been surprised at his becoming a bishop inside of five
years,--as, indeed, he did inside of ten,--and the class had not ceased
mourning their loss when Meeker came to take his place. "Fill Tut's
shoes!" said Snipe, with fine derision. "Why, he'll rattle around in 'em
like shot in a drum." No wonder Meeker failed to fill the bill.

And yet he tried hard. Something told him the First Latin would decide
whether he should go or stay. Halsey had not been consulted in his
selection, or Halsey would have told the Doctor in so many words that it
took a man of bigger calibre to handle that class. Beach had not been
consulted. He had known Meeker in undergraduate days and thought him
lacking in backbone. Pop had "sprung" him, so to speak, upon the
school, as though he really felt he owed his boys an apology, and, with
the ingenuity of so many unregenerate young imps, the First Latin set to
work to make Meeker's life a burden to him.

It was one of the fads of the school that the individual slate should be
used in mathematical hour instead of a wall slate or blackboard. It was
one of the practices to give out examples in higher arithmetic or
equations in algebra and have the pupils work them out then and there,
each boy, presumably, working for himself. Meeker introduced a
refinement of the system. He announced one example at a time, and
directed that as soon as a pupil had finished the work he should step
forward and deposit his slate, face downward, on the corner of the
master's table. The next boy to finish should place his slate on top of
that of the first, and at the end of five minutes the pile of slates
thus formed was turned bottom side up. All boys who had not finished
their work in the given time--four, five, six, or eight minutes,
according to the difficulty of the problem--were counted out. All whose
work proved to be incorrect were similarly scored, while those who had
obtained by proper methods the right result were credited with a mark of
three, with an additional premium for the quickest, the first boy
counting six, the second five, the third four. Meeker introduced the
system with a fine flourish of trumpets and marvelled at its prompt
success. Even boys known to be lamentably backward in the
multiplication-table were found to present slates full of apparently
unimpeachable figures in cube root or equations of the second degree,
and the whole twenty-seven would have their slates on the pile within
the allotted time. "Of course," said Meeker, "it is beyond belief that
young gentlemen of the First Latin would be guilty of accepting
assistance or copying from a competitor's work," whereat there would be
heard the low murmur, as of far-distant, but rapidly approaching,
tornado, and the moan would swell unaccountably, even while every pencil
was flying, every eye fixed upon the slate. This thing went along for
two or three days with no more serious mishap than that twice, without
an apparent exciting cause, while Meeker would be elaborately explaining
some alleged knotty point to Joy or Lawton, the half-completed stack
would edge slowly off the slippery table and topple with prodigious
crash and clatter to the floor. Then Meeker bethought himself of a
stopper to these seismic developments, and directed that henceforth,
instead of being deposited at the corner, the slates should be laid
directly in front of him on the middle of the desk. This was most
decorously done as much as twice, and then an extraordinary thing
occurred. It had occasionally happened that two or even three of the
boys would finish their work at the same moment, and in their eagerness
to get their slates foremost on the stack a race, a rush, a collision,
had resulted. Then these became surprisingly frequent, as many as four
boys finishing together and coming like quarter horses to the goal, but
the day that Meeker hit on the expedient of piling the slates up
directly in front of him, and at the third essay, there was witnessed
the most astonishing thing of all. Snipe was always a leader in
mathematics, as he was in mischief, and he, Carey, Satterlee, and Joy
were sure to be of the first four, but now, for a wonder, four, even
five, minutes passed and not a slate was in. "Come, come, gentlemen,"
said Meeker, "there's nothing remarkable in this example. I obtained the
result with the utmost ease in three minutes." And still the heads bent
lower over the slates and the pencils whizzed more furiously. Five
minutes went by. "Most astonishing!" said Meeker, and began going over
his own work to see if there could be any mistake, and no sooner was he
seen to be absorbed thereat than quick glances shot up and down the long
bench-line and slates were deftly passed from hand to hand. The laggards
got those of the quicker. The experts swiftly straightened out the
errors of the slow, and some mysterious message went down from hand to
hand in Snipe's well-known chirography, and then, just as Meeker would
have raised his head to glance at the time and warn them there was but
half a minute more, as one boy up rose the twenty-seven and charged upon
him with uplifted slates. Batter, clatter, rattle, bang! they came
crashing down upon the desk, while in one mighty, struggling upheaval
the class surged about him and that unstable table.

    "But those behind cried 'Forward!'
    And those before cried 'Back!'"

Turner, Beekman, Snipe, and Shorty vigorously expostulating against such
riotous performances and appealing to their classmates not to upset Mr.
Meeker, who had tilted back out of his chair only in the nick of time,
for the table followed, skating across the floor, and it was "really
verging on the miraculous," said he, "that these gentlemen should all
finish at the same instant." But that was the last of the slate-pile
business. "Hereafter, young gentlemen," said Meeker, on the morrow, "you
will retain your seats and slates, but as soon as you have obtained the
result hold up your hand. I will record the name and the order and then
call you forward, as I may wish to see your slates." This worked
beautifully just once, then the hands would go up in blocks of five, and
the class as one boy would exclaim "Astonishing! Miraculous!" Then
Meeker abandoned the speed system and tried the plan of calling up at
thirty-second intervals by the watch as many boys as he thought should
have finished, beginning at the head of the class. And then the First
Latin gave him an exhibition of the peculiar properties of those
benches. They were about eight or nine feet long, supported on two
stoutly braced "legs," with the seat projecting some eighteen inches
beyond each support. Put one hundred and forty pounds on one end of an
eight-foot plank, with a fulcrum a foot away, and the long end will tilt
up and point to the roof in the twinkling of an eye. Meeker called his
lads up three at a time, at the beginning of the next new system, and
smiled to see how smoothly it worked and how uncommonly still the lads
were. Then came exhibit number two, and in the most innocent way in the
world Doremus and Ballou--the heavy weights of the class--took seats at
the extreme lower end of their respective benches. The sudden rising of
the three other occupants when called forward resulted in instant
gymnastics. The long bench suddenly tilted skyward, a fat young
gentleman was spilled off the shorter end, vehemently struggling and
sorely bruised, and then back the bench would come with a bang that
shook the premises, while half the class would rush in apparent
consternation to raise their prostrate and aggrieved comrade. Hoover's
bench was never known to misbehave in this way, for he had it usually
all to himself, except when some brighter lad was sent to the foot in
temporary punishment. But no matter how absurd the incident, how
palpable the mischief, it was apparently a point of honor with the class
to see nothing funny in it, to maintain an expression of severe
disapproval, if not of righteous indignation, and invariably to denounce
the perpetrators of such indignity as unworthy to longer remain in a
school whose boast it was that the scholars loved their masters and
would never do aught to annoy them. The most amazing things were
perpetually happening. Meeker's eyes were no sharper than his wits, and
he could not understand how it was that Snipe and Joy, two of the
keenest mathematicians in the class, should so frequently require
assistance at the desk, and when they returned to their seats, such
objects on his table as the hand-bell, the pen-rack, or even the
ink-stand, would be gifted with invisible wings and whisk off after
them. Nothing could exceed Snipe's astonishment and just abhorrence when
it was finally discovered that a long loop of tough but almost invisible
horse-hair was attached to the back of his sack-coat, or the
condemnation in the expressed disapprobation of the class when Joy was
found to be similarly equipped. Then Meeker's high silk hat, hung on a
peg outside Pop's particular closet, began to develop astonishing powers
of procreation, bringing forth one day a litter of mice, on another a
pair of frolicsome kittens. Meeker abandoned the hat for a billycock as
the autumn wore on, and the class appeared content; only the Doctor was
allowed a high hat. But Meeker was of nervous temperament, and started
at sudden sounds and squirmed under the influence of certain others,
noting which the class sympathetically sprinkled the floor with
torpedoes and jumped liked electrified frogs when they exploded under
some crunching heel, and the fuel for the big stove presently became
gifted with explosive tendencies that filled Meeker's soul with dread,
and the room with smoke, and the breasts of the First Latin with amaze
that the janitor could be so careless. Then there was a strolling
German band, with clarinets of appalling squeak, that became speedily
possessed of the devil and a desire to "spiel" under the school windows
just after the mathematical hour began, and Meeker's voice was uplifted
from the windows in vain protest. The band was well paid to come and the
policeman to keep away. I fear me that many a dime of poor Snipe's
little stipend went into that unhallowed contribution rather than into
his boots. All this and more was Meeker accepting with indomitable
smiles day after day until the sudden withdrawal of George Lawton from
the school,--no boy knew why, and all the fun went out of the hearts of
the First Latin when they heard the rumor going round that Pop himself
had written to his old pupil, Mr. Park, suggesting that his step-son
would better be recalled from a city which seemed so full of dangerous
temptation to one of George's temperament, and yet Pop had really seemed
fond of him.

The whole thing was unaccountable. The most miserable lad in school,
apparently, was Shorty. He had gone to the Lawrences to inquire for his
chum right after dinner that Tuesday evening, and the servant checked
him when he would have bolted, as usual, up the stairs to George's room.
Mrs. Lawrence was entertaining friends at dinner, but had left word that
if Master Reggie came he was to be told that George could see no one
that evening, that Mrs. Lawrence would explain it all later. Shorty
went there Wednesday on his way to school, and the butler said Master
George was still in his room, and that he was not to be disturbed.
Wednesday at recess the leaders of the class held a council and
determined to appoint a committee to ask an explanation of the Doctor,
since not a word could be extracted from Halsey or Beach, and the
committee called right after recitation and "rose and reported" within
two minutes. Pop silently pointed to the door. Then seeing that Shorty
and Joy still lingered, half determined, supplemented the gesture by
"Young gentlemen, pack yourselves off! When I am ready to tell you,
you'll hear it and not before."

But the woe in Shorty's face was too much for him, after all. He knew
the lads and the friendship they bore each other.

"Here you, sir!" he cried, with affected sternness, "sit there till I
want you," and he pointed to a bench, even while frowning at the others
of the disheartened delegation, who scuttled away down-stairs in dread
of the Doctor's rising wrath. When all were gone and the big, bare
school-rooms were still, Pop looked up from a letter he was writing,
beckoned with his long forefinger, then reversing the hand, pointed
downward at the floor beside his desk, and Shorty, recognizing the
signal, with leaping heart and twitching lips, marched up and took his
stand, looking dumbly into the Doctor's pallid face. The great man
shoved his gold-rimmed spectacles half-way up across the expanse of
forehead the lads had likened to "a ten-acre lot," folded his hands
across the voluminous waistcoat, and leaned back in his chair. Then his
eyes swept downward.

"Has our friend Snipe often been in need of money?" he asked.

"He had hardly any at all, sir," blurted Shorty, with something like a
sob. "There are holes in the soles of his shoes and corresponding holes
worn in his stockings, and the skin of the soles of his feet'll go next.
He never had enough to get a decent lunch with, and couldn't join our
first nine last year because he hadn't the uniform and wouldn't ask for
one. The Club subscribed and bought it,--he was so bully a player. All
the----"

The Doctor knows that Shorty is not named because of brevity in speech,
and upraises a white hand. "Did he owe any of the boys,--Hoover, for
instance?"

"He wouldn't borrow," said Shorty, indignantly; "last of all from
Hoover. None of us ever owe _him_ anything except----" And Shorty gulps,
and the tears that were starting to his eyes burn out before the sudden
fire of his wrath.

"Except what?" asks Pop, deliberately.

"A lickin'," says Shorty, with reddening face, whereat the Doctor's head
tilts back and the great stomach heaves spasmodically. The grim lines
about the wide mouth relax. It is his way of laughing and he enjoys it,
but Shorty doesn't.

"I wish you'd tell me what's the trouble with--with Lawton, sir," he
almost sobs again. "They won't let me see him, and the boys say it's all
a----" But here Shorty breaks off, which is unlike him.

"Yes," suggested Pop, "they say it's all a--what?"

"Shame," said Shorty, well knowing that that shame is mentally qualified
by a most unqualified adjective.

Pop ponders a moment. "Has none of the boys missed anything besides
Joy,--no trinkets, rings, anything?"

"Hoover and Briggs are always missing something, sir, and Seymour lost a
gold pencil."

"But Lawton never borrowed and didn't owe anybody,--in school, I mean?"
asks Pop.

"Didn't owe anybody _anywhere_ that I know of!" protests Shorty. "He
says it makes him sick to owe anything. If Hoover says anything
different, he's lying. That's all."

"What's the reason Hoover isn't at school?" asks Pop, and while his face
does not change the eyes study closely.

"He's afraid of trouble because some of that Metamora set tripped and
hurt Snipe, running to a fire last Saturday."

"That's what you get for running to fires, sir. Young gentlemen have no
business mingling with crowds and rowdies. That's why you lost the head
of the class in Latin three weeks ago. You spent hours at that big fire
down-town when you should have been at your Virgil."

Shorty reddens, but attempts no defence. He knows it is so. He knows,
furthermore, that if the bell were to strike the next minute he'd be off
like the wind,--Latin, and even Snipe, to the contrary notwithstanding.
What he doesn't understand is how the Doctor knows all about it.

"Youngster," says the Doctor, after a moment's reflection, "I want
Hoover back at school at once, and there must be no harming him in any
way. What's more, I have told Lawton to stay away until I send for him.
There are reasons for this, and you can say so to the class. To-night
you will see him yourself, and he will tell you the whole story. Now, I
must write to Hoover _paterfamilias_. Run along!"

But Pop is mistaken in one matter. Shorty does not see Snipe that night,
nor the next day, nor the next. He waits vainly until late in the
evening, then goes to the Lawrences', and Mrs. Lawrence, with scared
face, comes down to ask what he means. George had asked permission soon
after dark to go and spend one hour with his friend and chum and tell
him his troubles. It is now ten o'clock. He has not been there, and he
has not returned.




CHAPTER VII.


Forty-eight hours passed without a trace of George Lawton, and they were
the saddest two days the First Latin ever knew. "All the life went out
of the school with Snipe," was the way Joy expressed it, though no
fellow in the whole establishment was credited with more mischief than
the speaker. Lessons and recitations, despite the best efforts of Halsey
and Beach and the lamb-like bleatings of Meeker, seemed to fall flat.
Even the leaders went through with them in a style more dead than alive,
and at every sound upon the stairs all eyes would be fixed on the
doorway and matters would come to a stand-still in the class. It was
plain that every boy was thinking only of the missing comrade and
praying for tidings of him. The masters, too, were weighed down with
apprehension--or something. Othello's dark face wore a yellowish hue,
and Meeker looked the picture of nervous woe. His complexion, always
pallid, now seemed ashen, and he started at every sudden sound. Thursday
went by without a word of any kind of news. The class huddled together
at recess, taking no notice whatever of Hoover, who skulked away for his
smoke, followed by many unloving eyes but without audible comment, for
Shorty had conveyed Pop's dictum to the class, and when Pop took his
boys into his confidence, as, through some one or two of their number he
sometimes did, and told them thus and so, there was no question. That
class at least observed his wishes to the letter. Hoover had been told
to return to school and no questions asked, and the First Latin was
virtually pledged to the arrangement.

     "_Aut impendere viam, aut poscere causas._"

But a wretched-looking Hoover it was that emerged from the Doctor's
closet at two that afternoon and slunk back to the accustomed place at
the foot of the room. Even Briggs had steered clear of him, and every
one noted how Briggs flitted about from group to group during recess,
his old-time "cheek" apparently vanished, his effrontery replaced by
nervous appeal. He had seized on Shorty, as the boys turned out for
recess, with eager question about Snipe, but the youngster impatiently
shook him off and shot away, light of foot as he was heavy of heart, and
the eyes of the others followed him as he turned into Twenty-fourth
Street, for all seemed to know he was using his half-hour to speed to
the Lawrences' for news of Snipe. Before the bell recalled them he was
back, mournfully shaking his head, and they trooped up-stairs,
low-voiced and disconsolate, Hoover slinking in alone, last of all, his
hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his eyes flitting nervously
about. All through the half-hour the talk had been as to the possible
cause of Snipe's mysterious withdrawal from the school and later and
more mysterious disappearance. Everybody felt that John, the janitor,
could tell something, even if it were only a lie--or a pack of lies, for
John's veracity was a thing held up to scorn at the end of a hair. But
John kept under the wing of some teacher and could not and would not be
approached, and John looked white and scared. The Doctor came at the
usual time, made the usual impressive pause at the doorway, pointed, as
usual, to the usual foot of the class, who blinked and shifted rather
more than ever. Then Pop removed his hat and strode with his usual
deliberation to the closet, hung it on its peg, produced his gold-rimmed
spectacles, and, as usual, wiped the glasses with his spotless cambric
handkerchief as he looked over the notes and letters on his desk, while
in subdued, half-hearted way the recitation went on. Then, with only a
glance along the line of young faces, all studying him and none
regarding Halsey, who at the moment had little Beekman on the rack, he
signalled to Shorty, and the boy sprang to his side.

"Hear anything?" he asked, in undertone, as though he needed not to be
told that Shorty had gone to inquire.

"No news, sir," said Loquax, with lips that twitched alarmingly. "Mrs.
Lawrence will be here right after school."

"Then you stay. I may need you," said the Doctor, and pointed to the
bench.

Five minutes later, after rapidly reading the brief missives on his
desk, the Doctor arose, signalled to Hoover, ushered him into the
lead-colored closet, followed and shut the door, from which quarter of
an hour later Hoover emerged, as has been said, looking limp and
woe-begone, and the moment school was over slunk away homeward without a
word. By this time the First Latin was half mad with mingled curiosity
and concern, when an elegantly dressed woman, followed by a manservant
with a compact little parcel under his arm, appeared at the Fourth
Avenue entrance, where the group still lingered, waiting for Shorty, and
the whisper went round that it was Mrs. Lawrence, Snipe's aunt. The
excitement rose to fever heat. Doremus and Satterlee, scouting about the
avenue an hour later, declared that she had been crying when she came
forth again and walked away to Twenty-fourth Street. Friday came. Shorty
was ten minutes late at first recitation and failed in every lesson, yet
not a word of rebuke came from any one of the masters. Halsey merely
inclined his dark head, and with a tinge of sympathy in his tone,
wherein they had long known only cutting sarcasm or stern admonition,
said, "Never mind going further to-day." At recess, again, the boy
bounded away to the Lawrences' and came back five minutes late, with
face as hopeless as before, but he bore a note, which he laid upon the
Doctor's desk, and without a word accepted the "ten marks off" for his
delay, which at any other time would have caused a storm of protest. Pop
arrived three minutes ahead of time, saw at a glance that little Pythias
was down near the foot of the class, and made not the faintest allusion
to it. He had barely taken his seat and looked over the two or three
notes when a heavy tread was heard upon the stair, and despite Halsey's
efforts the recitation hung fire, and every boy stared as a tall,
grim-visaged, angular man of middle age stepped within the door, and in
another moment was clasping hands with the Doctor, who left his dais to
greet him. There was a brief, low-toned exchange of words, then Halsey
and the new-comer caught each other's eye, despite the former's effort
to stick to his work, and, faintly flushing, Halsey arose, and they too
shook hands.

"How have they done to-day, Mr. Halsey?" promptly queried the Doctor;
and as nobody had done well or behaved ill, Halsey hesitated. He could
not dissemble. Pop saw the hitch and cut the Gordian knot.

"Gentlemen of the First Latin," he said, "the school is honored by a
visit from one of Columbia's most distinguished alumni. Shall we give
him an exhibition performance in the Anabasis or--take half holiday?"

The class would rather stay but not exhibit; and so in five minutes the
decks are clear, and, next to Beekman, the shortest boy in the highest
class is being presented to the tall graduate. Before the name was
mentioned he knew that it must be Lawton's step-father, Mr. Park.

First there has to be another conference of some ten minutes' duration
between the Doctor and his visitor, who had taken the youngster's hand
and looked down into his anxious face with solemn, speculative eyes and
without the ghost of a smile. Shorty feels his soul welling up in
mightier sympathy with Snipe. There is not a thing in Park's manner to
invite a boy's trust or confidence. Then the two turn to Shorty, and he
is summoned to rejoin them.

"The Doctor tells me you have been my--er--young Lawton's most intimate
friend,--that most of his hours out of school have been spent with you.
I had heard as much before through his mother and his aunt, whom I
believe you know,--Mrs. Lawrence."

The boy looks up, unspeaking, his blue eyes clouded. It needs but faint
encouragement, as a rule, to relax his tongue; but neither in word nor
manner does he find encouragement here. He looks, and his gaze is
fearless, if not a little defiant, but he answers never a word.

"What I wish to know is something of your haunts, occupations, etc. We
supposed that when in your company and in the home of such eminent
persons as your grandparents our boy would be safe."

Shorty reddens. Many a time when Snipe would have studied he has coaxed
him out for a run afar down-town, a visit to some bell tower or some
famous fire company, where they were never without kindly welcome.

"I gather," continues Park, "from what has been told me at his aunt's,
that your associates were not always of the better class of boys."

Shorty turns redder still. Many a time when he would have been glad to
spend an evening at the home of Joy or Beekman, Doremus or Satterlee,
Snipe had held back. "You go," he said: "I'll stay here and read," and
it wasn't long before Shorty fully understood the reason. Snipe could
not bear to go in such shabby attire, but he had no better, and could
get none without importuning his mother. No one in the houses of the
fire department looked or said critical things about his clothes. Snipe
was just as welcome as Shorty, and the rough fellows of the red shirts
seemed to enjoy explaining everything about the different styles of
engines and all the intricacies of their running rules to the brown-eyed
boy, who seemed to ponder over what he was told and to remember
everything. And so it had resulted that whenever a cold or rainy
Saturday came round and they couldn't play ball, big Damon and little
Pythias had spent many an hour going from one engine-or hose-house to
another, studying the different "machines," learning to know the foremen
or leaders of the rival companies, and often climbing to the tall
perches of the bell towers and gazing out through the watcher's long
glass over the far-spreading city, the smoky shores of Jersey or Long
Island, the thicket of masts bordering the rivers, and the distant
glimmering bay. It was all of vivid interest. True, they heard language
that was eminently unclassical. They penetrated into sections of the
great city where the fashionable garments of their wealthier schoolmates
would have become the target for the satire of the saloons and the
missiles of the street Arabs. They saw and heard all manner of things at
which Aunt Lawrence would have shrunk in dismay, and concerning which
Shorty's own people were sometimes apprehensive. But as neither boy
cared to imitate the language or the manners thus discovered, it was
held that no great harm resulted. That they might have been far better
employed every right-thinking moralist will doubtless declare, and that
they would have been better employed even Snipe, down in the bottom of
his heart, would have admitted--but for his clothes. It is astonishing
how much one's garb has to do with one's goodness, even among
school-boys.

And all this was passing through Shorty's mind as the steely blue eyes
of Mr. Park were searching his flushing face, and more things, too. With
all her ambition and moderate wealth, Mrs. Lawrence occupied a social
position just a plane below that on which moved Shorty's kith and kin.
Beautiful old homes on the lower avenue and around Washington Square
where they were welcome knew not Mrs. Lawrence. She had encouraged,
unquestioning, Snipe's growing intimacy with his little friend, because
it "brought the families together," as she once gushingly explained to
Shorty's favorite aunt, and, as she confided to her husband, might lead
to even more. Much, therefore, did she question Snipe as to what took
place at table, in the parlor and music-room of the big household in
Fourteenth Street, and, in the engrossing interest she felt in the
doings of certain of its elder inmates, lost all thought of those of the
boys themselves. Not until within the past few days had she been
required to give an account of her stewardship, and now the butler's
revelations, gathered mainly, as he stated, from market conferences with
the magnate who presided over the board at Shorty's, had filled her with
dismay.

"Them boys, ma'am," was that dignitary's comprehensive summing up, "do
be seeing the worst society in New York, 'stead of rejoicin' in the
best--with their relatives."

"You do not answer," at last says Park. "Could you find no better way of
spending your play hours than going around among low firemen?"

"We spent 'em at base ball when the weather was good," says Shorty,
shortly, and there is glowing temper in the tone which the Doctor knows
of old, and he sees it is time to interpose.

"I have never said anything to you about this, my young friend," says
he, "because I found that your relatives knew all about it, and thought
you capable of keeping out of trouble; but I did not know Lawton was so
often with you. What Mr. Park wishes to know is why you spent so much
time among the firemen and so little among your classmates?"

Shorty turns to the Doctor fearlessly. Him he knows and trusts. Twice
for boyish misdemeanors has the great teacher bidden him take his books
and leave the school, and both times has he reinstated him, as he had
others, within twelve hours. "I don't care for these Sammy-go-softly
boys," he had confided to Shorty. "I don't mind a little fun, but it
must not take the form of impertinence to teachers or disobedience of
their orders. If they are unjust, I'll straighten it out myself, but
don't you try." Like most of the boys in the First Latin, Shorty knows
he has the Doctor's sympathy and friendship, and so the answer comes
pat. "The reason was because he had no money and was ashamed of his
clothes."

Mr. Park is severely judicial. School-boy impetuosity must not be
permitted to ruffle him. With great dignity he begins,--

"I do not approve of young lads having unlimited pocket-money or
fashionable clothes, much less so in the case of a lad who must make his
own way in the world, as George will have to do."

"That's what Snipe said," was Shorty's quick reply. "Most of the class
have both, however; and as he had neither and I only a little, we
couldn't keep up with the crowd, so we spent our time together."

"I am amazed that your grandparents should approve of such pernicious
association for so young a lad as you," says Park, shifting the point of
attack, for he feels that a revelation is imminent, and doesn't care to
have the rector know how little he gave and how much he demanded. But it
is bad fencing, for Shorty "disengages" with equal skill and follows
with a palpable hit. Ignoring Park's comment, he faces the Doctor again.

"You know, sir, that there isn't another boy in the class has to get his
boots and gloves and pay his way on fifty cents a week." And Pop,
inwardly convulsed, feels compelled to reprove.

"Tut, tut!" he says. "These are matters for parents and guardians to
settle. Little boys must hold their tongues." And when Pop means to be
especially crushing he "little boys" the First Latin.

"Any proper and necessary expense incurred by George would have been
promptly allowed," says Park, loftily, "had he seen fit to confide in me
or in his mother."

"He _couldn't_ tell his mother, even when he was nearly barefoot,"
blurts out Shorty. "She wrote him last year she'd rather sell her watch
than ask you for money for him!" And now Park, too, reddens, for he
realizes that the statement is probably true. Hastily he returns to the
charge. This boy knows and talks too much. It isn't safe to allow him
the floor. Pop turns away, with evidences of earthquake-like
disturbances underneath that silken waistcoat.

"Then this is the excuse," says Park, severely, "for his resorting to
pawnbrokers--with stolen property."

And Shorty bursts out indignantly, "He never stole a thing, or sold it
either!" And now his eyes look pleadingly to the Doctor as though to
say, "You know this can't be so! Why do you let him lie?"

And as though to answer the appeal and come to the rescue of a maligned
and beloved pupil, Pop turns instantly, every sign of merriment gone.

"Surely you are misinformed, Park," he says. "There was nothing but some
last year's books and his father's old shotgun. He told us everything."

"He didn't tell you everything," answers Park, with emphasis. "How much
of this is due to evil associations you can judge better than I; but
look here," and from a bulging pocket of his overcoat he produces a
package wrapped in a red silk handkerchief. A minute later and he lays
upon the desk Seymour's handsome gold pencil-case, an old-fashioned
watch and chain, such as women wore twenty years earlier, and some
cameo earrings, with breastpin to match. "These," says he, solemnly,
"were recovered this morning. They represent only a small portion of
what his aunt, his benefactress, has found to be missing from her box of
disused trinkets and heirlooms. The boy was shrewd enough to confine his
stealings to things that wouldn't have been missed for weeks or months,
perhaps, had not a faithful domestic's suspicions been aroused. This
will be a sore blow to his poor mother. It has almost prostrated his
aunt, and I dare say we don't begin to know the worst. Has nothing been
missed by his classmates here at school?"

There are beads of sweat on the Doctor's pale forehead as he turns away,
Joy's watch instantly occurring to him. As for Shorty, in distress and
consternation, mingled with vehement unbelief, for once in his life he
is dumb.




CHAPTER VIII.


Another week began. Pop's boys gathered on Monday morning, and the first
question on every lip was for Snipe, and all in vain. He had disappeared
as from the face of the earth. Shorty looked an inch shorter and several
pounds lighter. His chatter was silenced, his young heart heavy as lead.
He had had two miserable days, and there were more before him. He had
been closely questioned, both at home and at the Lawrences', over and
over again, as to all their haunts and habits, which he and poor Snipe
had shared in their leisure hours, and stoutly he maintained that never
had Snipe entered a pawnshop while they were together,--never had he
mentioned such a thing. The one piece of information he could give, that
went to confirm the suspicions attaching to the missing boy, was that
during the three weeks previous to his disappearance George had seemed
to have much more money than usual. He had ordered a new pair of shoes,
had bought some collars and neckties, had "stood treat" two or three
times, and had got Shorty to go with him to a great clothier's, much
affected by the school, to try on some overcoats. He had totally
outgrown the one he brought from home two years previous, and was going
without one, and seemed divided in his mind whether to buy a new one for
winter or a new suit of clothes. Another thing Shorty had to tell was
that of late Snipe had missed several evenings when Shorty expected him,
or had come very late and said he had been of an errand. Of course, it
was now apparent to poor Mrs. Lawrence that her nephew's suddenly
discovered crimes were all due to her intrusting him entirely to Shorty
and his kindred, and Mr. Park was oracularly severe in his comments on
youthful depravity of so glaring a character that it could be satisfied
with no association less disreputable than that of the rowdies of the
fire department. He went so far as to make some such assertion to
Shorty's uncle, who was called into a conference, and this was lucky for
Shorty,--one of the few lucky things that happened to him that sorrowful
winter. Ordinarily he would doubtless have been made the recipient of
several lectures of the same tenor as Mr. Park's, only less radical, but
the moment Park ventured to assert that his step-son had been led
astray, and that Shorty's kindred had shut their eyes to the boys'
misdoings and let them go their wicked ways, he stirred up the whole
tribe and put them on the defensive. Uncles and aunts might even have
thought somewhat as did Park, but not after he laid his accusation at
their door. Shorty submitted his whole cabinet of possessions to prove
that nothing of his was missing, except one pair of gold sleeve-links,
which he had lent Snipe, and gladly lent him. "If Snipe ever stole, why
didn't he steal my watch?" he chokingly asked. "It was as good as Joy's,
and hadn't any name on it, as his had, and he could have sold it
easier." All the evidence in creation couldn't make that butt-headed boy
believe that Snipe was a thief. What he probably _had_ stolen, since
they were missing from his room, were his school-books of previous
years, a set of Marryat's novels that had belonged to his father, and
his father's old shotgun, which he had brought to New York with him, and
had no use for whatever. Perhaps he was thinking, poor fellow, of
selling his father's old watch, a bulky, yellow "turnip," too big for
him to wear, in order to get the money to buy those sorely needed
clothes. Shorty well remembered Snipe's story of how his mother cried
during that summer's vacation because she could give him so little when
he needed so much; but Park's dominion was absolute. "That boy must
learn the value of money," he constantly said. "He must know as I knew
what it is to plan and contrive to make five cents do the work of
twenty-five. _Then_ he may amount to something." Park said the boy's
clothes were better than he wore in his school-days, when he had to
sweep shop and make the fires and sleep in an attic, without a curtain
to his window or a rag to the floor. Shorty began to realize at last how
great must have been Snipe's temptations, and still he wouldn't believe
he stole. Even the sight of Seymour's pencil failed to convince
him,--even the fact that Snipe had certainly run away, if indeed he had
not made away with himself.

But in the class there was gloom and sadness almost equal to Shorty's,
and by Monday noon all the story was out and much besides. Nothing could
exceed the virtuous amaze of Briggs. He always had suspected Lawton,
"but you fellows would not believe." Nothing more sardonic than Hoover's
grinning face could be imagined. His blinking eyes seemed fairly to snap
with comfort over the contemplation of Lawton's turpitude. By this time
it was being asserted that Snipe had stolen his aunt's diamonds, Joy's
watch, and every missing item, big or little, that had disappeared
during the three years of his membership in the school. John, the
janitor, was overhauled, questioned and cross-questioned. He dodged,
parried, broke away, but by implication confessed that he found out that
Lawton was going to a certain pawnshop on Third Avenue, and had been
there two or three times within the previous month. Park paid the school
another visit that afternoon and had brief conference with the Doctor,
looked steadily and with stern disapproval at poor Shorty, sitting
midway down the line and drifting gradually towards the foot. The First
Latin took Park's measure, as they had Meeker's, and disapproved of him.
They wondered would he attempt to address them. If he did, not one
applauding hand could there be, except Briggs's or possibly Hoover's, if
he referred to Snipe's to-be-expected fall. Snipe might have fallen, but
if ever a boy was pushed and driven over a precipice he was, said they,
and, take them by and large, the First Latin would have gone out of
their way to shake hands with Snipe or to avoid shaking hands with his
step-father. Park left before school closed, but to Joy's request of the
Doctor, in the name of the class, for news of Snipe, the answer was
given that they still had nothing authentic, though they thought they
had a clue. He had once spent a month with some kinsfolk of his poor
mother's in Pennsylvania, and Park opined that he would presently be
heard of there, where his peculations, he might hope, had not yet become
known.

There were half a dozen of the boys walking together down the avenue
that afternoon, Shorty in their midst. They were plying him with
questions and conjectures. No, he was not going to the Lawrences', he
said. He would never, probably, go there again. No, he hadn't been
around among the engine-houses. He didn't at all believe in Snipe's
guilt, and wouldn't believe he was hiding on that account. How did he
account for Seymour's pencil? He couldn't account for it. All he could
say was, that he'd bet anything he owned that Snipe wasn't a thief, and
some day they'd find it out, and find out who was. It so happened that
Briggs had gone on ahead with Hoover, the two lads with their heads
close together in eager conference, but at Eighteenth Street he held
back and stood waiting for the little knot of excited boys. Bertram and
Joy were of the lot, tall young fellows on whose upper lips the down was
sprouting and who on Sundays went to church in their first tophats. They
were the elders, the senate of the school, and at sight of Briggs they
muttered malediction and cautioned silence.

"Say, Shorty!" cried the pachyderm, as Pop had named him, "twice last
week I went to your house and asked for you, and the man said you
weren't home. You were up in your room with Snipe Lawton, and I know it.
I watched, and saw you come out with him half an hour later. What you
'fraid of? Think I was policeman with a search-warrant?"

The little fellow's blue eyes blazed up, but Bertram grabbed him and Joy
turned savagely on the leering tormentor. "Shut up! you sneaking whelp!"
he cried, "or I'll smash you here and now!" And glaring and red-faced in
his wrath, Joy looked fully capable of doing it.

"Why, what have I done?" sneered Briggs. "He's the fellow that stood by
the thief that's been robbing us right and left, and didn't dare let his
own classmate come up in his room."

"You used to ring the bell and bolt up there the moment the door was
opened, you cad!" answered Joy, "just as you did at my house and others
until orders had to be given not to let you in. Get out of the way! No
one in this party wants to be seen in the same street with you."

"Oh, all right," snarled Briggs. "If you want to run with thieves and
pickpockets you're welcome. I don't."

But now there was a crash on the broad flagstones as the red-labelled,
calf-bound, tightly-strapped volumes of Virgil and Xenophon went
spinning to the curb, and, wrenching himself free from Bertram's
relaxing grasp, Shorty flew at Sandy Briggs like a bull terrier at some
marauding hound. Quick, alert, active, the surest-footed boy in the
school, there was no dodging his spring. The whack of the leather on the
flagging was echoed on the instant by the biff-bapp of two knotty fists,
and Briggs reeled back before the sudden storm and tumbled into the
gutter. Instantly the others threw themselves on Shorty or between the
two. Briggs bounded up in a fury, the blood streaming from his nose,
rage and blasphemy rushing from his swelling lips. He was ready enough
to fight a boy so much smaller, and disdained Julian's prompt proffer of
himself as Shorty's substitute. A policeman at the Everett corner came
sprinting across at sight of the swift-gathering crowd. Joy and Julian
saw him, and grabbing Briggs, darted with him down the stairway to the
Clarendon's barber-shop. Bertram, Beekman, and Gray snatched up Shorty
and Shorty's books and fled with him eastward towards Lexington Avenue.
The row was over as quick as it began, but not, alas! the results. "I'll
pay that blackguardly little cur for this,--you'll see if I don't!"
shrieked Briggs at his captors, and they all knew that even as he could
dissemble, that fellow could hate.

Late that afternoon the Doctor sat in the midst of his books and
manuscripts in the solemn library, the sanctum in which he rarely
permitted himself to be disturbed, yet he lifted his massive head and
listened eagerly as a servant entered with a message.

"Send him right in here," said he, throwing down his pen, and the words
were hardly out of his mouth when in came Shorty, bounding, breathless,
excited, and with snapping eyes. "Ha, lad! So you've heard from Lawton!
What does he say?" And trembling, rejoicing, triumphing, yet troubled,
the youngster read from a letter in his hand.

     DEAR SHORTY,--I couldn't stand it. I had to go, and, please
     God, I'll never come back, only I want you to know the reason
     and you won't blame me much. I begged Halsey not to tell the
     Doctor or anybody what that low sneak of a janitor told him.
     It's no disgrace to be so poor that a fellow has to pawn his
     old books and things to get shoes, and you know how I was
     fixed; you know that I was on my bare feet, almost, and that my
     clothes wouldn't cover me. I couldn't ask a penny of Aunt
     Lawrence, and they didn't seem to see or care how I looked. I
     couldn't worry mother any more, so what _was_ there to do? They
     gave me a shilling apiece for the school-books, and then I took
     over my Marryats--I hadn't even read some of 'em--and got
     twenty cents apiece, and finally father's old shotgun. It was
     mine; mother had given it to me. It was no use to me. Why
     shouldn't I sell it and buy clothes? I didn't know it was so
     costly and valuable, but Aunt Lawrence says now it was worth
     one hundred and fifty dollars. It came from London. I thought I
     was lucky to get seven dollars for it. Of course old Binny saw
     me one night ["Binny is the butler," explained Shorty. "He
     hated both of us, I suppose, having to answer door so
     much,--Aunt Lawrence wouldn't let Snipe have a key"], and I
     guess he must have sneaked after me; but when Halsey told me it
     was known I visited the pawnbroker's (it wasn't a pawnbroker's.
     It was just a second-hand store), and demanded to know what I'd
     sold, and talked of the disgrace and all that, and hinted
     things about Joy's watch and other missing items I never even
     heard of, I told him the whole thing, and begged him not to
     make trouble for me,--I had enough. But he said the Doctor must
     know, and the Doctor sent me round with him and I showed him
     the shop, and he rowed the man in charge and said my aunt must
     be told at once. You never heard such a row as she made,--the
     shame and the disgrace I'd brought on them all. She could never
     show her face in society again. Selling my father's books! my
     father's beautiful gun, that my poor mother had so proudly
     intrusted to me! Why, Shorty, she drove me nearly mad. Even
     Halsey tried to stop her after a while, and to say it didn't
     begin to be as bad as she made it, but she ordered me to my
     room, and then came up and jawed until I was near crazy, and
     then when she'd talked herself out up comes Cousin Maud, and
     she just belched fire and brimstone for an hour; and after
     dinner that night Uncle Lawrence,--why, he never so much as
     noticed me generally, and you know how he used to pass us on
     the street and never see us,--he went on at a perfectly
     infernal rate. I was an ingrate and a thief and a consorter
     with the lowest order of humanity (rough on _you_ that was,
     Shorty), and when he got through I'm blessed if they didn't
     wind up by sending my little cousin, Queenie,--I always liked
     her,--but she went on and preached about disgrace and shame
     just like Aunt Lawrence, and how good they'd all been to me,
     and how shocking was my ingratitude! She supposed I spent the
     money in liquor and cigars for my rowdy friends (I did stand
     treat to milk and custard pie as much as twice); and then Aunt
     Lawrence comes up again, and read me what she'd written to
     mother, and that was the last pound. I had five dollars left
     that I was saving for some clothes, and planning to sell the
     old watch and get the rest of the money I needed, but she took
     that away, lest I should steal that too, she said, and I was to
     be sent back to Rhinebeck as soon as mother could be heard
     from. She'd been to the Doctor and told him I don't know what,
     and came back and said the Doctor and teachers as much as
     declared they thought me the thief that stole Joy's watch. She
     told me to go and say good-by to you and confess everything,
     but I shall never disgrace the home where I was so kindly
     welcomed by setting foot inside its doors again. I've started
     out for myself, Shorty, dear old boy, and I'll make a living,
     never you fear, and I'll write to you sometimes when I can do
     so without being followed or found out. Don't let the fellows
     think too mean of me. Here's the one thing I've got to confess,
     and you tell it to Seymour. I found his pencil under the fourth
     bench that afternoon Beach kept me in two hours for welting
     Beekman with a putty-ball, and instead of giving it to Beach,
     as the rule is, I stuck it in my pocket and never thought of it
     again until next morning, just as I got to school and saw
     Seymour. I hunted in my pocket and it was gone. I ran home at
     recess and hunted everywhere, and asked the girl who makes
     believe do up my room, but couldn't find a trace of it. That
     was two weeks ago, and all this time I've been hoping to find
     it, or when I got the money on the watch to buy him another and
     tell him the whole story. Now I can't do either.

     Good-by, Shorty, dear old fellow! Say good-by to Bonner and
     Hank and Keating and Joe Hutton. Forty's boys were always kind
     to us, weren't they? And if any of the class feel that I am not
     altogether a disgrace to them, give them a bit of love, from
     yours till death.
                                                           SNIPE.

[Illustration: "I couldn't stand it. I had to go."]

The little reader was almost sobbing when he got through, but the Doctor
was on his feet and listening in undisguised interest and sympathy.

"But that pencil was found among those things Mr. Park brought to the
school!" he exclaimed. Then, as a sudden light seemed to flash over the
case, he took the missive in his big, white hand and pored over the last
two of its many pages. "You have shown this to----?" he began.

"Nobody, sir. Nobody was at home. I brought it right to you."

"Then leave it with me and say nothing about it till I tell you. I will
see your grandfather to-morrow."




CHAPTER IX.


A week later the First Latin was divided against itself,--a most unusual
thing. That it generally despised Hoover and hated Briggs was an old
story. These two of the twenty-seven had long been excluded from the
fellowship of the twenty-five; but that twenty-five was now reduced to
twenty-four by the loss of Snipe, and the twenty-four was split, much to
the comfort of the two outsiders. A grievous burden had been imposed on
Shorty when the Doctor bade him tell no one about Snipe's letter,--that
he had good reason and desired to investigate on his own account. Shorty
couldn't listen to an insinuation of any kind against his chum, and
there were members of the class who now couldn't help entertaining
suspicion and saying so. Shorty's intentions of observing the Doctor's
caution were of the best, but indignation would find vent, and so would
the boy nature that impelled him to say that he had information when
Snipe's accusers had not. Then he had to lose a point and admit that
his knowledge was of such a character that it must be kept concealed
awhile, which statement many of the class decided to accept, but not a
few to deride. Turner was one of the latter, and at recess one day
openly taunted Shorty with professing what he couldn't prove. Briggs was
on the outskirts of the knot of excited lads at the first sign of
trouble. He was still raging in his heart against Shorty because of the
stinging blows that sent him reeling into the gutter the previous Friday
afternoon. Here was a chance for vicarious vengeance. Shorty was half a
head smaller than his long-armed accuser. Briggs knew that Joy, Julian,
any of the bigger members of the class, would pounce on him if he dared
lay hand on the "little 'un," but Turner was nearer the youngster's
weight. Those were the days when Heenan and Sayers were the models of
the fistic art, when Charlier's boys at Wood's gymnasium or Pop's at
Ottignon's were accustomed to putting on the gloves with the master, and
school affairs were settled in the neighboring stable after the manner
of Tom Brown and Slogger Williams in "School-Days at Rugby." Cooler
heads in the little crowd counselled peace and strove to stem the angry
torrent of words between the boys. Even Turner himself, seeing Shorty's
rage, would probably have been willing to take back what he had said,
but Briggs had other plans. Stooping underneath the elbows of the boys
at Turner's back, he suddenly straightened up, giving Turner a powerful
shove that sent him lunging against his fuming little antagonist, and
like a flash came the first blow, the counter, an instant's clinch, and
then, as the boys broke away, two stinging whacks before the elders
could interpose. "Come round to the stable and finish it!" yelled
Shorty, in his fury. "Come on yourself!" shouted Turner; and, despite
the pleadings of those who hated to see class harmony destroyed, away
went the excited crowd, Hoover and Briggs leering and grinning after
them, while John, the janitor, bolted miserably up-stairs to give
warning to Othello, who had determined there should be no more
stable-fights, and who came breathless into the arena just as the
combatants had shed their coats and collars and, with clinched fists and
flashing eyes, were facing each other for business. The ring broke and
scattered pell-mell at sound of Halsey's voice, but the principals were
caught. Recess was ordered suspended. The bell summoned the class
in-doors, and, in sullen silence, slowly the boys obeyed. Shorty's
prominent nose had suffered in the preliminary skirmish, and he had to
go and stanch the blood. Turner, scowling, was sent to the foot of the
class, where Hoover welcomed him with a malignant grin, and there, along
its accustomed line, sat the First Latin in gloom and despond, while the
head-master penned brief memoranda of the circumstance. Everybody felt
there would be tragedy when the Doctor came. "The next boys I hear of as
fighting around school," he had said the week before, "I'll pack 'em
home to their parents." And yet the First Latin had reason to believe
the Doctor had nothing but disdain for boys who quarrelled and called
names and perhaps cuffed, scratched, or kicked, and couldn't or wouldn't
fight "fair and square." Only a few months before, just at the close of
the school-year, when the twenty-seven were still the Second Latin,
there had been a laughable scuffle between two big, lanky lads in the
senior class. Full ten minutes had they clinched, wrestled, slapped, and
sparred in the vestibule, many of the Second Latin looking--and
egging--on and indulging in satirical comment, until Beach swooped upon
the surging crowd and ordered DeForest and Dominick, the principals, to
their benches. The classes recited together then in Latin Prosody, a
Second Latin boy many a time "taking a fall" out of the First and
getting the head of the combined array. There was no love lost between
the two. Pop was unquestionably partial to the juniors, and had frequent
occasion to torment the seniors with satire over the fact that the
youngsters knew better Latin, if not more, than did the other class. He
listened to Beach's report of the affair with frowning brows, until it
transpired that full ten minutes were consumed before the combatants
were separated. Then his broad features expanded in a smile of
amusement. "What!" he exclaimed, as he studied the crestfallen faces of
the culprits. "Ten minutes' battling and not a scratch to show for it!
Scandalous! _Et tunc pugnabant pugnis_---- Hold! Young gentlemen,
there's a capital start on a fine, sonorous line, dactylic hexameter.
Half-holiday to the class that first completes it! Half-holiday except
to those wielders of the wind-stuffed cestus. Set your wits to work--and
your pencils." With that he seated himself in his chair of state, his
fine cambric handkerchief came forth to mop his glowing face, and, still
chuckling with suppressed merriment, the massive rector looked down
along the crowded ranks of his boys, forty-five in all, and then he
wiped his gold-rimmed spectacles and laid them on his desk, and then
little Beekman darted up to his side, a scrap of paper in his hand, and
gave it hopefully to the magnate in the chair. The Doctor glanced over
it, shook his head, and frowned. "No, no," said he. "What we want is
sound and sense combined. You've only got the sound, like the blows of
our gladiators. There's nothing behind them. The words mean nothing.
Mark the rhythm and majesty of mine. _Et tunc--pugna--bant pug_---- All
spondaic. And then--they were--fighting--with fists---- Come, come,
gentlemen, that line needs appropriate close. Ha! the versatile Second
Latin again tenders a contribution!" and the big Doctor took the next
youngster's slate, leaned back in his chair, read, a beaming light shot
into his eyes; then the eyes closed, the massive head fell back, the
capacious waistcoat began to heave and shake from internal convulsion,
and the whole array of boys looked up expectant. For a full minute Pop
lay back in his big chair in solitary enjoyment of his fun, and at last,
bubbling over with merriment, he straightened up and began, "Listen,
young gentlemen of the First Latin, to the satire of the Second.
Triumph, gentlemen of the Second, in the victory of your laureate.

     '_Et tunc pugnabant pugnis sine sanguine nasi._'

"And then they were fighting with fists (full ten minutes understood)
and not a drop of blood was drawn from the nose. Poetic license set at
naught! Stern facts related! Half-holiday to the Second Latin! Take your
books and go rejoicing! Gentlemen of the vanquished First, remain where
you are."

That episode widened the breach between the classes and strengthened the
conviction that Pop was "down on" bloodless encounters. Pop was
thorough, argued the boys. He wanted no quarrelling, but if quarrels
came, they were soonest ended when fought to a finish on the spot.

And so despite the frown on Halsey's dark face most of the First Latin
hoped that when the Doctor came he would look with leniency on the
misconduct of the belligerents. Hoover, defrauded of his smoke, pleaded
for permission to go to Duncan's to get his fine silk handkerchief,
which he claimed to have dropped during their brief ten minutes of
recess. This was killing two birds with one stone. He needed his
cigarette, and he hoped to create the impression that he was not among
the crowd at the stable. There had been a solemn conference between the
Doctor and Hoover senior, and solemn warning to the young man on part of
both, and Hoover junior felt that he could risk nothing with the rector
in his present frame of mind. The head-master, with doubtful glance in
his eyes, said go, and not three minutes later wished he hadn't. There
was a sound of angry altercation below-stairs. John's whining voice was
uplifted in protestation. At any other time the class would have had fun
out of it, but the class was in no mood for frolic now.

"Stop that noise and come up here at once!" ordered the master from the
head of the stairs, and sullen and swollen-faced, the janitor came.

"I couldn't help it, sir," he began at once. "I ain't going to be cursed
for obeying orders by any such sneak as that."

And when Halsey could check the angry torrent of his words, it
transpired that Hoover had taken occasion, with much blasphemy and bad
language, to abuse him for having told about the fight. Hoover came in
ten minutes later, glancing shiftingly around. "Say, did that cur tell
on me?" he whispered to Turner, as he sidled into his seat, and Turner
turned his back and bade him go to Halifax, but Briggs nodded yes. It is
an ill wind that blows nobody good. The Doctor came with gloom in his
eye and thunder on his tongue. Things had been going amiss. Not another
word had been heard of Snipe. A favorite pupil had disappeared because
of troubles brought to light at school, and the Doctor felt that his
system, his methods, his discipline and supervision were all being
challenged and dissected by his rivals and opponents, and, like every
successful man, he was the target for the shafts of all the envious. A
high authority at faculty meeting that day had demanded news of the
missing boy and particulars as to the causes of his going, had intimated
that such things ought not to be in a well-regulated school, and the
rector came down ruffled and wrathful. The first thing to attract his
eyes was the sight of Shorty sitting ruefully on the "mourners' bench,"
as the boys called the settee at the foot of the class. Hoover, Turner,
and Briggs were the other occupants.

"Hiyee!" he exclaimed, as he halted at the doorway. "The lad of the long
tongue has let it run away with him again, I suppose! What's he been
saying, Mr. Halsey?"

"Nothing, sir," said Halsey, briefly. "Fighting again."

"What! And after my prohibition! Here, you, sir!" he exclaimed, with
indignation in his tone. "Take your books and pack yourself out of
school, at once!"

Slowly Shorty found his legs and, uttering no word, went drearily to the
bookcase, obeying the pointing, menacing cane in the rector's hand, and
trembling and with heavily beating heart began to gather and strap his
few possessions. For a moment there was dead silence. Pop still
standing at the doorway, glaring at the culprit, perhaps wishing the boy
would speak. But Shorty's spirits were crushed by the sorrows of the
past ten days, and he didn't much care what happened. It was Bertram who
broke the silence.

"May I say a word, sir?" he asked, as he rose respectfully.

"Not unless you wish to quit the school the same way, sir. Young people
will speak when spoken to and not before. Come, you, sir," he continued,
turning again on Shorty, "I am waiting for you to go."

"So'm I, sir," said the youngster, desperately, "but I can't--till you
get out of the way."

For an instant the silence was intense. The Doctor stared, then dropped
his threatening cane, closed his eyes and began to shake. In another
instant the room rang with a shout of laughter, even the saturnine
features of Halsey relaxing in a grin.

"Who's the other belligerent, Mr. Halsey?" asked Pop, as soon as he
could regain severity of mien. "The illustrious Turner, I apprehend.
What did you wish to say, Bertram?"

"Nothing, sir, in view of the penalty," was the prompt answer.

"It wasn't his fault, I suppose you wish to imply," said the Doctor. "Go
back to the bench, sir," was his stern order to Shorty. "Remain after
school, both of you, until I investigate this and send you home with a
letter apiece. Any other enormities to report, Mr. Halsey?"

"Yes, sir,--Hoover. The janitor says that he cursed and abused him at
recess for obeying your orders."

The Doctor's face had mellowed a moment before; now it hardened. He
stood with his cane tucked under his arm, his top-hat in one hand, the
polishing handkerchief in the other, flicking away the dust and
smoothing the glossy crown. Foul language on part of boy or man was
something he abhorred, and Hoover had been reported more than once. For
John, the janitor, the Doctor had but faint regard. He was a blundering
booby, said he. But that in no wise relieved Hoover. Watching his
angering face, the silent boys could almost foretell the words they saw
framing on his compressed lips. "Out of my school, sir," were beyond
doubt the first he would have spoken, but there sat two other culprits
who deserved the temporary expulsion that was at the time his favorite
method of punishment. If Hoover went, they too must go, or Hoover senior
would hear and ask the reason, and the Doctor hated to be
cross-questioned about his school. His methods were his own; one might
almost say the boys were too.

"Using blasphemous and profane language again!" he finally began, as he
stood and glared at the scowling pupil. "Gentlemen never abuse a servant
for obeying orders. Gentlemen avoid the use of profanity. We must have a
new name,--a more descriptive title for our _monstrum horrendum_, our
roaring Polyphemus. What say you, Bertram, Imperator? What say you, Joy?
Come, wake your nimble wits, young gentlemen. The astute head of the
class is silent, the second is dumb, the third sits mute," and now the
great but shapely white hand, with its taper index, points to one after
another, "the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. What? Have we no wits left
to-day? You, Beekman; you, Satterlee; the iconoclastic Bagshot, the
epicurean Doremus" (a titter now, for Doremus's taste for cream-puffs is
proverbial). Speak up, Van Sandtvoordt. Gihon, Post, Dix, Bliss,
Seymour, Grayson, next, next, next; the late belligerent Mr. Turner, the
benignant Briggs, Hoover we'll skip, and now the other gladiator,
Loquax. _What?_"

"Polyblasphemous!" says Shorty, with twitching lips, the Irish in him
coming to the top despite his weight of woe.

An instant of silence, then, shaking from head to foot, the tears fairly
starting from his eyes, unable for the moment to speak at all, laughing
himself to the verge of apoplexy, the Doctor motions the youngster from
the foot to the head of the class, and it is a full minute before order
is restored and the laughter of the First Latin subsides. Even then,
every little while some boy bursts out into a chuckle of merriment, and
Hoover glares at him with new malevolence. Every little while the Doctor
settles back in his chair and shakes anew. That _jeu d'esprit_ saves
three culprits from deserved suspension and brings sunshine through the
storm-clouds for the day at least. But it thickens the hide of Hoover's
hate.

"You think you were smart this afternoon" (with an adjective to the
smart), sneers Hoover to the youngster after school. "You'll find out
where the smart comes in before you're a month older, young feller."

And Hoover means it.

[Illustration: She was permitted to read and to weep over Snipe's
pathetic letter.]




CHAPTER X.


Another month had come and not another word from Snipe. All the Doctor's
explorations were in vain. There was grief at the Lawrences', for the
poor mother had been visiting her sister, imploring full particulars in
one minute and denouncing her informants in the next. The most yielding
and self-forgetful of women ordinarily, she had risen in rebellion
against those whom she believed had wronged her boy. There was a rupture
at Rhinebeck, where George Lawton's step-father was given to understand
by George Lawton's mother that she would never believe that her boy had
stolen. That he had sold the books and the gun and might have sold the
watch was probably true. He had to do it to buy even the coarsest
clothes to hide his nakedness. She had come to Shorty's home, and, with
that sad-hearted youngster as her guide, had been conducted to the
Doctor's study, and there she was permitted to read and to weep over
Snipe's pathetic letter. She drew from Shorty all the details of the
boy's effort to get along on his scanty allowance, to spare her, and to
make his worn shoes and shabby, outgrown garments answer for another
year. The interview between the now roused and indignant woman and her
husband on her return to Rhinebeck must have been a source of amaze to
him as well as discomfiture. In forty-eight hours she was back at Mrs.
Lawrence's. "Do not put yourself out for me any more than you did for
George," she said to her sister, with a tinge of irrepressible
bitterness. "I will sleep in his little hall bedroom and sit at his
corner of your table--when you are not entertaining." And Mrs. Lawrence
made no reply. She knew well there had been much to warrant the mother's
accusation. George might indeed be the culprit her husband, her
brother-in-law, and her butler asserted, but he might not, probably
would not, have been but for the indifference or neglect which had been
his portion. Down at the bottom of her heart Aunt Lawrence was a
sympathetic woman, and not entirely unjust, for after the first few days
of excitement, at which times those at fault are sure to strive to fix
the blame on others, she realized that what she had said of George's
playmate and his people, even of George's misguided methods of spending
his recreation hours, was something she would gladly recall.

But all this time the search for the absent boy had gone on
unremittingly. Shorty had promised faithfully that if another letter
came from Snipe he would bring it to the mother at once, and Pop had
given his sanction. He refused to promise to come every day to see her,
as she had at first almost demanded. He told her frankly that after what
Mrs. Lawrence had said of him and his leading George astray, he couldn't
come. The Doctor had certain theories about the missing jewelry, and
had, on his own account, employed detective aid, and abandoned his
theory more perplexed than ever. Privately he let it be known to the
police that he would pay a handsome reward for the recovery of Joy's
watch and information that would lead to the apprehension of the thief,
but not a trace of it had been found. School work had to be kept up, but
Shorty's standing suffered. The weekly reports that so often bore in
Pop's remarkable chirography the word "_Imperator_," in Halsey's big,
round hand the inscription "_Nulli Secundus_," and over the sign manuals
of the other teachers some tribute to his scholarship and industry, now
spoke of him as "falling off," "losing ground," etc., and a gentle hand
was laid on his troubled head at home ere it signed the receipt, and
kind and sympathetic words would send him hurrying away to his own
little den, there to give way to a passion of tears. It was bad enough
to lose Snipe. It was cruel to think of the boy's loneliness and
suffering, but it was getting to be worst of all at school, where, true
to the old, old saying, the absent was sure to be wrong. Little by
little sneer, rumor, and insinuation had done their work, and, with no
one to defend but Shorty, Snipe's name had become clouded with suspicion
that was verging into certainty. If innocent of all the misdeeds laid at
his door, why had he run away? Why did he not come home to face his
accusers?

And so it happened that Shorty saw less of his schoolmates and more of
his and Snipe's old friends, the firemen, than ever before. At home this
was looked upon as decidedly unfortunate, but the lad was so unhappy and
restless that no active opposition was made. "No good can ever come from
such association," said the one oracular and dogmatic member of the
household. But that prophecy was destined to be put to the blush.

Quarter day had come at Pop's,--a day marked in the annals of the school
and celebrated in its traditions. More stories centred on that momentous
date than on all the other school-days combined. On the Friday of the
last week of the expiring quarter each of the Doctor's pupils would be
handed an envelope addressed to his responsible parent or guardian, and
each envelope so addressed contained the school bill for the ensuing
quarter, filled out in the Doctor's unique and dainty hand. No writing
was ever like it. Pop had a system of penmanship, as he had of
punishment, of instruction, and school discipline, peculiarly his own.
His capital letters were always large, clear, and well formed. His small
letters, except those extending above and below the line, were indicated
by tiny, back-handed dashes that individually conveyed no idea and
collectively were unmistakable. Not a word of instruction accompanied
the presentation of the missive, but every boy knew infallibly what to
expect. From time immemorial in the history of the school the unwritten
law had been that every boy appearing with the cash or check in payment
of the bill early on the following Monday morning might go his way on
whole holiday. If the money came on Tuesday the bearer was released at
twelve o'clock; but if it failed to come on Wednesday the pupil found
himself drifting from one scrape into another until it did come, and old
boys used to declare that pretexts were never lacking, when they were of
the school, to warrant the Doctor in flogging, every day until the money
came, the hapless lad whose parents failed to meet the demand on time.
Small wonder that Pop's boys developed phenomenal powers as bill
collectors and that Pop himself had no dunning letters to write.

The late autumn had given way to early winter, sharp and frosty. A great
presidential election had been held some weeks before. The East was
excited and the South enraged over the victory of a far Western
candidate, almost unknown to Gotham. Rumors more and more alarming of
Southern force and fury flew from lip to lip as November drew to its
close, and December, frosty but kindly, was ushered in. The boys had
separated Friday afternoon, taking the bills with them, and early Monday
morning Othello sat "for such occasions only" at the Doctor's desk, in
readiness to receipt for checks or cash before the opening hours of
school. A dozen at least of the First Latin had gleefully gone their
way. Another dozen, less fortunate, lolled dejectedly on the benches,
devoutly wishing their _paters_ were as well to do as those of the
holiday-makers (which many were, but held to a theory that Pop found too
many excuses for holidays). Shorty was neither with one nor the other.
Nine o'clock came and two of the First Latin had not reported; Hoover
was the other. The bell rang. Beach was told off to put the supposedly
derelict through their paces in Sallust, while Halsey went on signing
receipts, shoving money into the drawer, and saying, "You may go,"
briefly as possible, to the boys who came provided. The rule held good
for the entire school, and by quarter-past nine the rector's drawer was
stored with something over a thousand dollars in checks, bank-notes, and
coin. It was fully half-past nine when Hoover came slowly and sullenly
up the stairs and entered the room. Briggs, sitting at the foot of the
incarcerated dozen, jocularly hailed him with, "Hullo! for once in his
life Hoover won't have to sit on the mourners' bench."

"Go there yourself, sir!" said Beach, sternly, bringing Briggs instantly
to his feet with whining expostulation. "Why, what did I say, sir?" And
it takes more fines and much frowning to settle him, Othello never
interposing, for this money taking and changing is his bane. He has to
do it in the Doctor's absence, but he hates it. He counts over every
penny slowly and carefully, for the rector requires account to the
uttermost farthing, and small boys waiting for their receipt fidget
impatiently.

Hoover, mean time, is removing coat, gloves, and muffler with
exaggerated deliberation, and seizes the opportunity when Beach turns to
the head with a question, and while the stove-pipe hides Othello's eyes,
to administer a fervent kick to Briggs and send that sandy-haired young
fellow's Sallust flying to mid-floor, Briggs, of course, lending
unnecessary and additional centrifugal impetus to his belongings, and in
the midst of the acrimonious debate that follows a bounding step is
heard on the stair and in comes Shorty, flushed, panting a bit, and
filled with suppressed excitement and evident importance. He squeezes in
between Hoover and the rack to hang up his top-coat, Hoover swaying
backward, of course, to make it as difficult and disagreeable a process
as possible.

"Come out of that, Hoover, and take your seat," orders Beach, sternly.
But "Polyblasphemous" is ugly and rebellious. Not until Shorty has a
second time squeezed by is Hoover made to obey. Even then he turns back
and rummages among the coat pockets, claiming that he has left his
handkerchief therein. Hoover's handkerchief, like charity, is made to
cover a multitude of sins. He feels in a dozen pockets, apparently,
before he finds it. So engrossed is the class, or what is left of it, in
the effort to bring order out of chaos at the foot of the room--and
Hoover from among the overcoats--that few see that Shorty has handed
Othello a note before silently taking his seat. Hoover is presently
settled below Briggs, fined five marks for being late and another five
for trifling, and the recitation goes on, Beach evidently ruffled. Then
Othello looks up and beckons to Shorty, who silently goes to his side.

"When did the Doctor give you this?" he asks, in low tone; but now the
boys are still as mice and listening intently.

"Just at nine, sir, up at his house. I caught him going up to college
and gave him the letter, and he turned back and wrote that." Shorty
never could explain a thing in few words.

There is a sound as of shouting and excitement on the avenue above the
school and of swift-running feet, but at the moment no attention is
paid. "The Doctor says you are to have whole holiday," continues Halsey,
in his monotonous tones. The noise without is increasing.

"I--don't care to go, sir," says Shorty, hesitating, and the class looks
up in astonishment. The noise has spread to the rooms to the east,--the
nursery,--where the small boys are; a banging of windows and shades, a
rush of many feet, and all of a sudden the leaden-colored door flies
open and Meeker appears, pale and excited.

"Mr. Halsey!" he cries, "a house right back of us is all in a blaze.
Shall I dismiss my class?"

"Wait a moment," answers the head-master, ever deliberate, and away he
goes, long striding, the First Latin, despite Beach's effort, tearing
after him. Then Beach follows the tide. The house in flames is not just
back of them, but near enough to prove a source of tremendous interest
and excitement, if not of danger. It faces on Twenty-fifth Street, just
beyond the stable, and backs up into the grape-vined, fence-crossed
rectangle at the back. Smoke in thick volumes is pouring out of the back
windows. A tongue of flame licks out under the narrow gallery at the
rear of the main floor as Halsey forces his way through a mob of
shouting small boys to the open window. The First Latin comes tumbling
after him, shoving Meeker aside. Borne on the breath of the rising east
wind, a single, solemn "bong" of the Twenty-third Street tower tells
that the watcher has quickly descried the unusual smoke-cloud billowing
up from the doomed dwelling. People in adjoining houses are throwing
open blinds and shouting unintelligible things. Boys and men come
clambering over fences from adjoining yards. Cooks and housemaids gather
on back galleries, huddling together with shawls over their heads and
red arms wrapped in flimsy aprons. A pile of bedding comes hurtling down
through the smoke from a third-story window, followed by a lot of
books. Somebody has fetched a ladder, and a dozen boys and men have
scrambled to the tar and pebble roof of the stable, and there they dance
and shout and run hither and yon, but still no firemen appear. The
nearest hook and ladder company "lies" seven blocks away. The school is
down at the foot of the First (fire) District. The jangling bells of 61
Hose can be heard coming on the jump down the avenue, and every boy
knows Pacific Engine can't be a block behind. But now the "hot black
breath" rushing from the basement and first-floor windows bursts all at
once into furious red flames, and Halsey says resignedly, "School's
dismissed till the fire's out." The boys go tumbling over each other's
heels in mad dash for the door, and the thunder of feet, as they go
leaping down the narrow stairway, shakes and scandalizes the watchmakers
in the little shop below, and Mr. Foley, rushing out at the first boy he
can lay hands on, shakes him in turn until, amazed and wrathful, the
young fellow breaks loose, whirls about, and lands a stunning
left-and-right full in Foley's angry face, and turns it even redder,
while every other big boy springs to the aid of "28," just lowering her
long side levers and "taking the butt" from "61," while two or three
stalwart, black-helmeted fellows dart up the brownstone steps and into
the smoke-vomiting doorway, glistening pipe in hand, the copper-riveted,
black leather hose trailing behind them. Before the water gushes from
the corner hydrant and swells the snake-like coils that connect with the
engine, the pipemen come reeling out before the jetting flames, and
everybody knows that that fire will burn itself out and not succumb to
water. In their haste, many lads have left their overcoats on the rack,
and from the midst of these emerges Hoover, twisting the silken muffler
about his throat, the only pupil left in the main school room, as Halsey
suddenly recollects himself--and the cash in the Doctor's drawer--and
comes hurrying back to that abandoned desk. The drawer is half-way open,
the checks and bank-notes seem undisturbed, but Halsey knows there were
a number of ten-dollar gold pieces in the lot, and now there isn't one.
Long before that lively blaze is out and only bare burned walls are left
standing, the Doctor himself arrives upon the scene, and the
head-master, with rueful face, reports himself about one hundred dollars
short.




CHAPTER XI.


When the order "Take up" was finally given that afternoon to the array
of fire companies that covered the first and second fire districts, most
of Pop's boys were still among the swarm of spectators. The fire had
broken out soon after nine o'clock, and not until one were some of the
companies sent home. Under the system existing in those days every
engine, hose, and hook and ladder company whose station was north of
Twenty-second or south of Sixtieth Street had had to answer that
alarm,--old "Black Joke," Engine Company 33, having to drag their heavy
"Carson" machine all the way from the neighborhood of Fifty-ninth Street
and Broadway. There was nothing left of the house in which the fire
started, and neighboring buildings were badly scorched in places and
more or less damaged by water. There were no "chemicals" then. The
stable had been in danger several times, and Pop's boys had performed
prodigies of valor early in the affair, leading out the affrighted
horses and wheeling buggies and wagons into the street. The cars on
Fourth Avenue had to stop for over an hour, so numerous were the lines
of hose, and both that avenue and Twenty-fifth Street and the roofs and
windows of adjoining buildings were thronged with lookers-on. The Doctor
was much displeased on his arrival to find his back windows occupied on
both floors by total strangers, who made themselves perfectly at home
and couldn't be induced to leave by any intimation of the janitor that
the principal would like to close up. The Doctor was more than
displeased when he heard from Halsey of the filching of the gold. No
pupil saw that interview. A few of the smaller boys were at the back
widows, but only John noted the two in their grave consultation, and he
was promptly ordered to leave the room, and could only guess what was
going on until the following day. As the firemen stretched their
drag-ropes and started for home Halsey suggested summoning the boys back
to their seats and studies, but Pop said no,--it was too late in the
day. He wished to think, and, tucking the cash and checks in an inside
pocket and his cane under his arm, leaving Halsey to see to the closing
up of the rooms, the Doctor went slowly down-stairs and out upon the
crowded street. He had had to thread his way through the jam at
Twenty-fifth Street, and wanted no more of that. A line of hose
stretched along the sidewalk from the hydrant at the corner below, and
he looked upon it with stern and scholastic disapproval, but followed
its lead and came upon a familiar face. It being a "neighborhood" fire,
the Metamora Hose had run over from Fifth Avenue and Twenty-first
Street, being almost as soon upon the scene as 61. Taking the hydrant at
Twenty-fourth Street, her men had unreeled up the avenue and around the
stable, giving their "butt" to Lexington 7, who, with their big
double-decker, came speeding over from Third Avenue. And now the
prettily painted hose carriage was drawn up close to the curb at
Twenty-fourth Street, and half a dozen young fellows were lolling about
the wheels and tongue, smoking and talking loudly, with much exaggerated
imitation of the Bowery dialect of the day. But the slangy, swaggering
talk came to sudden stop. Two cigars, at least, were tossed or dropped
into the flooded gutters, and two or three hats were lifted as Hoover,
Briggs, and a "horsey" young man, whose specialties were cock-fights and
"canine sports," suddenly recognized the Doctor. With grave dignity Pop
lifted his beaver, and his stern eyes gazed in disapprobation upon the
party. He knew the others, as he did his own black sheep, at a glance.
There were the Hulkers, the flashiest of New York youths, the objects of
his especial dislike. He had known their father, a worthy man despite
his swiftly acquired wealth, and the boys, too, had spent six months
within the Doctor's walls before the death of that lamented financier.
But a doting mother had long since withdrawn them from the tyranny and
oppression to which her beloved sons were there subjected. The Doctor
had his regular habits and his regular route. No boy there had ever
known him to turn southward from his school door before this day, and
his coming suddenly upon them was a shock so severe that it dashed for
the moment even Briggs's effrontery. Hoover turned a sickly yellow, and
looked as though he would have been glad to crawl under the hose
carriage. Briggs "made a sneak" to get the reel between him and the
Doctor's glowering eyes, but Pop halted short and stood with pointed
cane, and Briggs saw it was useless and crawled out again. "Smoking!"
said the rector, comprehending the sextette in general condemnation.
"Idling! Wasting the substance of honest men in forbidden and stolen
indulgence. Here, you, sir!" to Briggs, "get you gone out of this. Go
home and study, and if you miss a line of to-morrow's lessons I'll pack
you out of school." "Pack" as a verb and "copious" as an adjective were
pets in the rector's school vocabulary. "The same to you, my horsey
young friend, Mr. Brodrick. As for you," he continued, addressing the
Hulkers and their companion, who, with hands in pockets and hats tipped
back, were striving to keep up appearance of bravado, "I shall reach you
through another channel." Then, his manner suddenly changing, he turned
on Hoover, now blinking and sidling away through the quickly gathering
knot of inquisitive folk. "Hoover, come with me," he said, and Hoover,
who looked as though he would give a year of his life to get out of the
way, meekly slunk along at the Doctor's side.

Majestically the rector strode across the street and went on southward,
vouchsafing no word to the culprit on his left. There were still curious
knots of loungers along the avenue. One or two companies were manning
the brakes in Twenty-fourth Street, the hose of their engines being
carried through the basements of the red brick houses to the rear of the
wrecked premises. Furtively Briggs and Brodrick watched the pair until
lost to sight, all but the Doctor's hat, in the throngs along the walk.
Then an anxious, nervous glance was exchanged, and Brodrick whispered to
his freckle-faced schoolmate. "What's he heard, d'you s'pose?" was his
query.

"We'd better look up 61 and see what the other fellows know," said
Briggs, in low tone, while the Hulkers, now that the rector was well
away, resumed their loud laughter. "You go, Brod; I can't show up in
that crowd just now." The memory of the assault on Snipe was still fresh
in the minds of some of the lads. Very possibly it was this that held
the Hulkers and their henchmen so far away from the fire itself and from
the spot where, over a block away, 61's white hose-reel and silver lamps
could be seen above the crowd. Even now that shame and suspicion
attached to George Lawton's name, those fellows, lately his accusers, if
not indeed his active assailants, felt it unsafe to venture among a lot
of the First Latin.

Brodrick peered up the street and shook his head. "Not if the court
knows herself," he said, with the Bowery drawl; then, turning to Hulker,
"Sa-ay, Skinny, gimme 'nother seegar." But the Hulker apostrophized as
"Skinny" declined.

"You've cleaned me out of the last one. Go buy some if you want 'em."

"I ain't got a dime. Hope to drop dead next minute if I have. Sa-ay,
lend me five dollars till Christmas on that watch-chain?" he pleaded,
lifting a clumsy production from a waistcoat-pocket. But the next minute
he thrust it back in haste and confusion. Beach, with observing eye,
came sweeping down upon them. "Mr. Halsey wishes to see you both at
once," said he, with scant ceremony. "Lose no time," and, though the
message filled them both with uneasiness, neither dare disregard it.

Halsey sat at the old table as they slunk into the school-room. Two or
three First Latin men and Second Latin boys were grouped about him;
John, the janitor, was dodging about the door. Every boy in the number
had on his overcoat, but at least half a dozen others had left theirs
hanging on the rack.

"Yes, sir, I know whose they are," Doremus was saying. "There's
Beekman's, and there's Bagshot's, and that's Prime's, and those are
Second Latin coats," he added, with proper indifference to the infant
garments. Halsey thought a moment.

"They must still be somewhere about," he said, tentatively, as Briggs
and Brodrick ranged up behind the smaller lads. "Where's Hoover?" he
questioned. "He was with you a moment ago."

"Gone with the Doctor, sir," said Briggs, glad enough to have no harder
question to answer.

A long hook-and-ladder truck that had been standing for some hours in
front of the school was being reloaded with its ladders, and its gong
was sounding to recall scattered members of the company. Some small boys
had tiptoed to the window to feast their eyes on the unaccustomed sight.
"There's some of our fellows over by 61's Hose now, sir," piped a
junior, and John was bidden to go and again summon all stragglers into
school. Ringing of his bell had only resulted in derisive comment among
the firemen. Some company just starting for home was receiving the
customary "hi, hi" of the hangers-on about the other machines, and
John's mandates produced no immediate effect. At last, however, the boys
came straggling up in knots of two or three, and presently perhaps a
dozen were added to the group about the master's table. He was listening
rather absently to the excited talk. No less than six or eight of the
youngsters had personally rescued as many horses apiece, despite the
fact that there never were more than twenty of those quadrupeds, all
told, in the adjoining stable. Halsey made Briggs repeat his statement
as to Hoover and seemed disappointed. "Is this all you can find?" he
finally said to the janitor, and John declared it was.

"Didn't you tell me Prime was down there, somewhere?" asked Halsey of
Doremus.

"He's sure to be, sir. His coat's here yet."

So again the janitor was sent forth, and again came back to say he could
see nothing of the lad, and at last the master decided to keep the
others no longer. Bagshot took his coat and left. There were only two
remaining on the rack when the usual hour for closing school drew nigh.
The occupants of the rear windows by this time had satisfied their
curiosity and departed, and John had been ordered to keep the doors
closed and to admit no more. For some reason Halsey seemed to hang on to
Briggs to the very last, and he and Brodrick were still fretting about
the benches, awaiting the master's permission to retire and glancing
apprehensively at each other from time to time.

At last Halsey beckoned them to his side.

"Where were you when the class followed me into the other room?" asked
he of Briggs.

"_With_ 'em, sir!" said Briggs, with eagerness. "Wasn't I, Brodrick? We
were among the first to follow."

"Yes, sir," asseverated Brodrick as positively. "We chased right in
after you."

"How long did you stay in there?" asked Halsey. "I'm told you were among
the first to bolt down-stairs--before school was dismissed."

"A minute or two, anyhow," declared Briggs. "I thought school was
dismissed or I wouldn't 'a' run."

"Did the whole class follow? Did any remain?" he asked, searching the
anxious features before him. He and Beach had already talked this over
among themselves. John, too, had been examined, but further testimony
was needed. Briggs reflected.

"Hoover was there, sir, and Shorty Prime."

"When you came out, do you mean?"

"Ye-ye-yes, sir. 't least Prime was. I didn't see Hoover."

"Where was Prime? Are you sure he was there?"

"Right up at the Doctor's desk, sir, where you were sitting."

"He was there still when you came out?"

"Ye-yes, sir. Wasn't he, Brodrick?"

Brodrick thought so, but couldn't be sure. He had "grabbed his cap and
run." "They were all rushing down from the English department
up-stairs."

Halsey's dark face was very dark now. His eyes were full of doubt and
dread. "I want you to be very careful of what you say, Briggs, and to
say nothing to anybody of what you have said." And while they were still
in conference steps were heard upon the stairs, and presently in came
the two pony members of the First Latin, Prime and Beekman, and Prime
was a sight to behold.

"What on earth have you been doing with yourself?" queried Halsey, as he
half turned and looked the youngster over from head to foot. Shorty's
clothes were wet and bedraggled, his face smudged with soot, but his
eyes sparkling with life and animation. He had not looked so much like
his old self since Lawton's disappearance.

"Had 28's pipe, sir, the last hour," said the boy, with a grin of pride.
"They were only pumping easy to soak down the ruins, and their fellows
were tired out and let me and Julian have it."

"Where's Julian?"

"Gone home, sir. He's wet through."

"So are you, but--don't go just yet. That's all, you others," said
Halsey, whereat the three slowly vanished, leaving only the janitor
staring at the door.

"Go out and shut that door, and keep it shut," said Halsey, shortly, to
the open-mouthed servitor, and then he turned on the boy, now warming
his hands at the big stove. "Prime," said he, "you were with me at the
desk when that alarm came. What became of you? What did you do?"

"I, sir? I went like a streak for 61."

"At once, do you mean?--right after the class ran after me into Mr.
Meeker's room?"

"_Before_ the class ran after you," said Shorty, with an injured air. No
fireman would waste so many valuable seconds. "I was down-stairs and
out of the school before they were fairly off the benches."

"How could you get your cap, sir?"

"Didn't take it, sir! I ran bare-headed to Twenty-sixth Street, hoping
to be the first to give 'em a still before I saw 'em coming."

"Give them a still! What's that?"

"A still alarm, sir. Give them a tip to the fire. But it must have been
going some minutes. They were spinning down the avenue by the time I got
half-way. Then I came back for my cap, and school was coming out."

"Did you speak to any of them? What boys saw you coming back?" asked
Halsey, thoughtfully.

"Oh, I don't know, sir," answered the youngster. "Everybody was excited,
I suppose, but me. I've always run to fires since I was knee-high. They
were all shouting. You were just coming out of Mr. Meeker's room, and I
nearly ran into you."

"Do you mean you ran to Twenty-sixth Street and back in that time?"

"_More_'n that, sir. I ran half-way to Twenty-seventh and out into the
street and grabbed hold of 61's rope. There were only six or seven
fellows on her, and I ran with 'em to the corner hydrant."

Something of the master's trouble was now reflecting in the pupil's
face. Something in the minuteness of Halsey's questioning suggested
graver trouble. "I hope nothing's wrong, sir," said Prime, anxiously.
"I know I oughtn't to have run when I did without permission, but--we
don't have a fire next door every day."

Halsey rose and placed the long, lean hand on the little fellow's
shoulder. Two years and more he had known him. He and "Tut" had given
him the first touches in Latin and Greek, and, as head-master, Halsey
had had many an occasion to reprove or reprimand, for high spirits or
mischief led to many a scrape, yet there was kindness, there was even a
touch of tenderness, in the master's tone as he answered.

"Perhaps you ought not to have run when you did," said he, "but, as it
is, I'm thankful."

And Shorty could have sworn Othello's swarthy hand was trembling.

Two minutes later the master had taken the names of two of 61's men who
were on the rope when Shorty joined them. Then, bidding him say nothing
of this conversation to any schoolmate until after the Doctor's coming
on the morrow, Halsey bade him hurry home and get a rub-down and dry
clothes. As Shorty turned to the rack for his overcoat a sudden thought
struck the master.

"Where was the letter written--Lawton's letter--that you took to the
Doctor this morning?"

"It didn't say, sir. It was postmarked Bridgeport, but--that don't prove
anything. Somebody else could have put it in for him there."

Jerking the overcoat from its peg and tossing it carelessly over his
arm, something bright came spinning out of the pocket, bounded to the
floor, and rolled in easy circle up in front of the master's table,
where it struck a crack, spun on edge a second, and then settled with a
metallic buzz and bur-r-r, and then lay still and shining opposite the
middle bench. Halsey started and stared, with a gleam in his eyes.
Shorty, surprised, sped after it, stooped and picked it up, then held it
between his thumb and forefinger, gazing at it in astonishment. "Why,
Mr. Halsey," he cried, "it's a ten-dollar gold piece!"

"Yes," said Halsey, "I know. See if there are any more."




CHAPTER XII.


When school reassembled the following day the First Latin knew to a man
by nine o'clock that the cause of Shorty's "late" the previous day was a
letter from Lawton. Warned by Jim Hulker that the rector had taken
Hoover to the Clarendon, Briggs scouted miserably down the avenue on
their trail, filled with no one knew what nervous apprehension of
trouble to come, and, dodging in at the office a moment later,
ascertained from a bell boy that they had gone into a parlor on the
second floor. Briggs knew what that meant. The Doctor was
cross-questioning his sullen pupil, and there were all manner of things
Hoover might be driven into confessing if closely and scientifically
pressed, and what might that not mean for Briggs? Not five minutes
later, down they came, the Doctor erect, stately, and deliberate as
ever, Hoover slinking wretchedly alongside. A carriage had been called,
and into this Hoover was practically hustled by his preceptor, and
together they were driven away towards Fourteenth Street, and Briggs
was left behind. They were going to see Hoover's father, was the
apparent explanation, and it boded ill. A ten-minute walk took Briggs
over to the house of the Metamora. The hose carriage had just returned,
and was being washed. The Hulkers had dropped off at a certain
billiard-hall, said one of the firemen, and thither sped Briggs. It was
a resort much frequented by certain of the Columbia students in those
days, and there were a dozen or more scattered about the big room at the
moment. Over in a corner, whispering together, were the two Hulkers with
a brace of followers. Over against them, across the room,
ostensibly--even ostentatiously--engaged in a game of billiards, were
Joy and Julian, and all the little pluck that Briggs had left went
oozing out of his finger-tips at the sight. Quickly he slunk back into
the vestibule and crouched there, peering through the glazed doors,
uncertain what to do. A bar-boy, coming up from below at the moment with
cigars and mixed drinks on a tray, found him peering in through the
crack, and knew him at once.

"Sa-ay," whispered Briggs, the moment he discovered who had come. "Tell
Mr. Hulker I want to speak to him out here a minute, will you?"

The boy looked hard at him, made no reply, went deliberately in with his
tray-load, deposited the glasses on little tables near the big ones,
where a jovial party of Columbians were playing, collected his pay,
counted it carefully over, then with exaggerated impudence of manner
dawdled over to where the Hulker set were in eager conference in their
corner, and said something to them. Briggs saw, and so did Joy and
Julian, the backward toss of the head, the over-the-shoulder jerk of the
thumb towards the entrance, saw the four young fellows start and glance
questioningly thither; then presently, hands in pockets and head in air,
Hulker major came sauntering out, just as Julian caught sight of a
carroty head ducking behind the framework of the doorway.

"There's that sneak Briggs now," he quickly whispered to his chum. "What
are those fellows planning, do you s'pose?"

There was a brief confabulation in the hallway without, and then back
came Hulker,--no loitering now,--said a word or two to his fellows, and
the four picked up their canes and overcoats and started for the door.
The bar-boy went running after them.

"I'll pay you to-morrow," Hulker major answered, impatiently; and Julian
heard it. The boy was importunate, and glanced at the desk. The clerk
came out from behind his barricade.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hulker, but the manager left strict orders that that
account must be settled before you could be served again. You told the
boy you would settle everything before you left, and to get those
cigars. Now, I've got to take the money out of the till and pay for 'em
if you don't."

Angrily, and with ugly words, the elder Hulker turned on the clerk. "I
haven't any money just now, I tell you. We've been at that fire all the
morning. It's too late to get a check cashed. I'll bring you the money
to-night, Billy, I'll swear to----"

But the controversy was cut short by the sudden entrance of the manager
himself. He was a man who prided himself on the "respectability" of his
place. Order and decorum were things he insisted on. Even the mildest of
sherry-cobblers, for which the bar was famous, was forbidden to the
student or youth who showed the faintest symptom of over-stimulation.
Case-hardened politicians and men about town avoided Martigny's, for the
reason that they could never get enough there. Student trade was
something he catered to only so long as it came through the well-bred
and well-behaved of their number. The Hulker set he much disapproved of
and had frequently cautioned, but money was an object, and for a time
those young fellows had it and spent it in abundance. Of late there had
come a change. Something had occurred to limit their supplies, and
within a month they had run up bills at every neighboring bar or
billiard-room where they could get credit, and now Martigny, after
thrice presenting his account, had drawn the line. Quietly but firmly he
told the elder that that bill must be settled then and there or it would
be sent by a messenger to his mother at once. It was impossible for the
players at the tables not to hear what was going on. There were sly
winks and quizzical glances. Columbiads, old or young, fought shy of the
Hulkers, but even they were unprepared for the scene that followed.

"I haven't got a cent with me, Johnny," protested the elder, while the
others crowded about in indignant chorus. "I swear I'll fetch it to you
to-night, or in two hours, if you must have it."

"You've sworn to the same effect twice before, Mr. Hulker," said the
manager, calmly, "and I cannot trust you. I was down in the bar-room
when your orders came for this round of drinks and cigars, and the boy
declared that you showed him gold, and declared further that you'd
settle the whole account. It's fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents,
and I want that money now."

"It ain't mine, Johnny. It was given me for a particular purpose,"
protested Hulker. "That was just bluffing. I didn't think he'd take it
in earnest."

"But he did, Mr. Hulker, and so did I, and so will your mother when my
messenger gets there ten minutes from now. Get your coat, Mr. Tracy," he
said, turning to his assistant. "I'll send you around with the message.
That's all, gentlemen. I won't detain you further than to say that you
will not be allowed in this room hereafter."

"Sa-ay, stop! Hold on!" cried Hulker. "Here, I'll--I'll pay it now. But
of all the dash, dash, dashed mean----"

"No bad language, Mr. Hulker," said Martigny, calmly. "A special
policeman is at the door." He glanced at the coin tendered by the
trembling hand of the leader. "Give Mr. Hulker five dollars and
twenty-five cents," said he, calmly, to the desk. "There's a friend of
yours peeking in at the door. You might inquire now what he wants." And
with unruffled civility the manager led the way to the door, closed it
after the crestfallen quartette, and came back thoughtfully chinking the
coins, just as Joy and Julian, laying aside their cues, hurried to the
desk to pay for their game.

"Was that red-headed specimen there yet when you came up, Martigny?"
asked Julian.

"Yes, sir; but he scuttled away down-stairs as soon as he saw me. Who is
he?"

"One of the Hulker set, and none of ours," was the brief answer, as
Julian's keen eyes took in the two coins Martigny was still mechanically
passing back and forth from the fingers of one hand to the other.
"Ten-dollar gold pieces," said he to Joy, as the two hurried down the
stairs and out on the busy street. There, "scooting" along in the keen
December wind, heads bowed and half hidden in high coat-collars, and
huddling together, the discomfited quartette, reinforced at the corner
by Briggs, were just turning to cross Broadway when a carriage came
driving rapidly by. Seated therein, erect and majestic, was the Doctor,
apparently lost in thought. By his side a pasty-faced young fellow,
with flitting, beady black eyes, glanced furtively out and recognized
his fellows, made some quick signal with the hand, waved it from the
window, and pointed towards the northeast corner of Madison Square.

"I'll bet I know what that means," said Julian, as the five halted,
irresolute, and gazed after the carriage. "Pop's had him in limbo for
over an hour, and the moment he gets out he wants those fellows to meet
him. We could find something worth knowing, old man, if we could see
them together again." But not until long after did Julian dream how
much.

The Doctor left Hoover at the steps of the brownstone mansion, saw him
safely within-doors, summoned the grave butler to his carriage, said a
few words in low tone, and was about to order "drive on," when he was
aware of two young gentlemen running up, panting a bit and red in the
face.

"Ha, Joy! Julian!" he cried, as they raised their caps. "What brings you
here?"

"What news of Lawton, sir? Doremus just told us there was a letter." And
to substantiate the story, Doremus himself came puffing after the pair.

"Where'd you hear it?" asked the Doctor of the third youngster, desirous
first of ascertaining where the leak occurred.

"I was over at the school a few minutes ago. The janitor told me, and
Mr. Halsey and Prime were just going away together."

"Just going away together! Why, I supposed everybody had left the
building an hour ago."

"So did I, sir, but John said Mr. Halsey had kept Prime. He was having a
long talk with him 'bout something, and John heard him say that now they
had proof it wasn't Lawton that took Joy's watch, and that they'd have
him back in less than a week."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Pop, now well-nigh as vehemently interested as his
pupils. "Then you young gentlemen will be wise to go direct to your
respective rooms and get to work on the lessons for to-morrow. It's
almost dark now. Be off with you!" and, with exaggerated sternness, the
cane was displayed.

"But was it so, sir? Have you heard of Lawton?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, instantly relapsing into the confidential manner
known only to the boys he trusted and liked. "He writes that he had been
ill, but is strong again, and we are going to tr

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