The Cadets of Flemming Hall (2024)

PREFACE.

From the days of “Tom Brown at Rugby” tohis more modern brothers, the American “NewSenior at Andover,” and the French “StraightOn,” stories of boy school life have gone on multiplyingand still the tale is not all told. Everyschool has its slightly different atmosphere, andcalls for its different historian. For that reason,I offer this picture of life at Flemming Hall.

Though Irving Wilde and the doctor may not beportraits, still the school life of each one of us hasknown one or more similar teachers, from whomwe have gained the inspiration to do broader, truerwork, inspiration which, although unconsciouslyreceived, perhaps unconsciously given, has yetleft its stamp upon all our later work in life.

It is to the courtesy of one such teacher that Iowe the Harrow song with which my story closes.So far as I know, it has never been in print, onthis side of the Atlantic. My preface, too, wouldbe incomplete without an expression of my indebtednessto the boy friend who criticised my athletics,and above all to the kindness of the artist,Mr. Clephane, whose thorough and practical knowledgeof cadet life has been invaluable to me.

It is to be hoped that I have done no harm to thecause of Yale athletics, in making use of the incidentof Captain “Phil” Allen’s daring leap, duringthe Yale-Atalanta race, in May, eighteenhundred and ninety. I can claim no originality inthe climax of my regatta; it is the mere telling ofan historical fact.

If, in spite of my long list of assistants, my boyreaders can find a single line of my story whichshall bring me into closer touch with them, I shallbe more than satisfied.

“Tremont,”

Third January, 1892.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

THE CADETS.

“There comes the stage!”

At the word, four or five boys came leapingdown the flight of steps and joined the lad watchingat the gate, as the old coach crept slowly upthe hill. The powerful, iron-gray horses, tired outwith their long climb, plodded onward, quite unconsciousof the eager faces above them. Suddenlya smooth brown head was popped out of thestage window, followed by an arm that wavedvigorously in answer to the ringing cheer whichgreeted the owner’s coming.

“Hurrah, there’s Hal!”

The stage turned in under the arching gateway,and the horses, quickening their pace as theyreached their journey’s end, toiled up the graveldriveway leading to the steps. Before they hadfairly stopped, out jumped a boy of sixteen, dressedin a gray uniform, resplendent with brass buttons.He was immediately seized and surroundedby his schoolmates, all talking at once.

“Glad to see you back, old boy!”

“So late I was afraid you had cut FlemmingHall for good!”

“Why didn’t you wait till Christmas, and donewith it?”

“Where’ve you been all summer?”

“Lots of new fellows here and our new teacher;you just ought to see him!”

Without deigning to reply to the shower ofquestions, as soon as he had shaken hands allround, the new-comer turned back to the stageand said,—

“Come, Leon, step out and show yourself.”

As he spoke, a boy two or three years youngerthan himself stepped down from the stage andjoined the group, a little shyly, it must be confessed.But Harry laid a protecting hand on hisshoulder, as he said by way of introduction,—

“See here, you fellows, this kid is my brother,Leon Arnold. He’s a good fellow, plucky enoughto make up for his small size, and I know you’lllike him. Now come on, one at a time, and I’lltell Leon who you all are, so you can start fairand square. This is Louis Keith,” he went on,turning to a slender lad of fifteen whose darkolive skin and blue-black hair were suggestive ofJapan or China, rather than American birth; “wecall him Ling Wing, or Wing for short. He’s thedude of Flemming Hall, and immensely proud ofhimself when he gets on his dress uniform. Thisnext one,” he added, pointing to a yellow-haired,roly-poly youth of about the same age; “is MaxEliot. Look out for him; he’ll get you into allsorts of mischief.”

“Don’t you worry, young Arnold; I’ll get youout again, and that’s more than Hal does for hisfriends. Ask him about the night Max and Louiswent after the pies,” interrupted the tallest of thegroup, a sixteen-year-old giant who was alreadypast his six feet and was still stretching upward,while his small sandy head and blue eyes lookedridiculously boyish at the top of his manly figure.

“This, Leon,” his brother explained, withoutpaying the slightest heed to the interruption; “isJack Howard, popularly known as Baby. He’s agood fellow, but an awful drain on the familypurse, for the tailor always charges him double forhis uniforms.”

During the laugh that greeted this sally, ayoung man drew near the group, a well-built,athletic-looking young man dressed in army blue,whose brown eyes brightened behind their spectaclesas he put out his hand, saying cordially,—

“Harry, I am glad to see you at last. We hadalmost given you up.”

Regardless of Leon and of his introductions,Harry whirled around quickly and grasped theoutstretched hand.

“Lieutenant Wilde! Are you really back here?How jolly!”

“Back again, as well as ever and delighted tobe with my boys once more, after six months ofrest. They were all here but you, and the doctorand I were beginning to be afraid you were notcoming, after all. Is this the brother you wroteabout?”

“Oh, yes, this is Leon. Leon, Leon, this is LieutenantWilde,” he added, eagerly pulling hisbrother by the sleeve.

Lieutenant Wilde looked at the lad with interest.Harry Arnold was one of his favorites, andon that account he was the more curious to seeHarry’s younger brother. Very different werethe two boys who were standing there in the glareof the September sun, under their teacher’s gaze.Harry’s broad shoulders, round face, quiet grayeyes and firm lips seemed to tell of a more lastingstrength than the thin, wiry figure of Leon, hislaughing, restless brown eyes and mobile mouth;but the boyish hearts were the same in their quick,impulsive generosity, in their firm adherence to astrict code of honor, and in their keen sense offun. Though apparently the more yielding of thetwo, Leon ruled his brother with an iron rod, andin spite of the difference in age, he was respectedand admired by Harry, who willingly became hisabject slave.

“And so you are Leon,” Lieutenant Wilde wassaying. “I am glad to welcome you to FlemmingHall, and I hope you may stay with us as long andlike us as well as Harry has done. The doctor iswaiting for me now, and I must go; but bring yourbrother to my room this evening at eight, Harry;I want to have a talk with him, so I can tell intowhat class he is to be put.”

“All right, sir.”

And as Lieutenant Wilde walked away, theboys all gave him the stiff military salute.

“Well done, young Arnold,” remarked JackHoward condescendingly. “You do that veryrespectably for a new fellow.”

Leon laughed outright.

“That’s Hal’s work. He’s been coaching meall summer, so I shouldn’t disgrace him when Icame. It’s been nothing but salute, present arms,recover arms and all that, till I could do it to suithim.” And the boy made a few quick turns withhis tightly-rolled umbrella, in place of a moredangerous weapon.

“There, Leon,” interposed his brother good-naturedly,“you’re telling family secrets. Comeand see our quarters now. Don’t go off, Paul,”he continued, as one of the group started to turnaway; “there’s room for you all and more too,and I have some fine grub in my trunk.”

What boy could withstand such an invitation?With one consent, the lads followed Harry as heled the way up the steps, into the broad hall andup the oak stairs that wound along three sides ofthe wall.

“What room are you going to have?” inquiredMax, as he brought up the rear of the procession,with Harry’s bag in his hand.

“Number fifteen, of course,” said Harry, as heturned down a side hall. “It’s the largest of thedouble rooms and I spoke for it long ago; didn’tyou know that? I shall take Leon in with me fora term, anyway. Then, if he gets sick of me, he’swelcome to change. Come in, all of you, and I’llhave the provisions out in a jiffy.”

While the boys were delaying below, the trunkshad been brought up-stairs, and now stood convenientlyplanted in the middle of the floor. Harryand Leon each fell upon one of them, tugging atthe straps and impressively jingling their largebunches of keys, most of which, it must be explained,were slipped on the rings for effect, sincethey and their locks had long ago parted company,never to meet again. In the meantime, their guestsproceeded to seat themselves as their tastes suggested,perching on any lofty point that presenteditself. Jack Howard arranged himself on the footboardof the bed, with his long legs curled upuntil his knees nearly touched his chin; Louis andMax each took a chair-back, while Paul Lincoln, aslender, brown-eyed, rosy-cheeked fellow of seventeen,settled himself in the high window-seat, withhis feet on the table near by.

“Glad you’re going to have this room,” remarkedLouis, as he passed a caressing hand overthe strap adorning his shoulder. “Max and I areright across the hall. We couldn’t imagine whowas coming in here, when we saw the room wasengaged. Nobody thought of you, for we supposedyou were booked for a single room.”

“So I was,” responded Harry, as he succeededin opening his trunk and tossed a pile of clothingout upon the floor; “but early in July father decidedto send Leon here, so I wrote to the doctor,and he said that the Vernons weren’t coming backand we could have fifteen. Where are you now?Oh, here you are!”

This apostrophe was addressed to a box of goodlyproportions that soon came to light, and was openedamid the admiring murmurs of the boys who hadlearned, in past terms, to know and appreciate theboxes packed by Mrs. Arnold.

“Your mother is a trump, Hal!” said Max,diving into the box to seize a piece of cake in onehand and a chicken wing in the other. “I justwish she’d show herself here. We fellows wouldmake her our best bow, wouldn’t we, Stan?” hecontinued, turning to a boy of fourteen who hadnot yet spoken, though his rapidly changing expressionshad shown him no uninterested listenerto the conversation.

While the boy addressed nodded in answer tothe question, Harry interrupted,—

“Now tell me all the news. Who is back of theold boys? Who is there that’s new? Didn’t yousay there was a new teacher?”

At the last question, Max rolled up his eyes andgroaned. It was Jack who answered,—

“Most of the old boys are back, and there areabout twenty new ones, none of them much accountbut my young cousin, Harold King. Hemust be about Leon’s age, by the looks of him,and he’s a first-rate little fellow, too. But thisnew teacher is the worst I’ve seen.”

“What’s his name?” inquired Harry, whilehe passed the box of sponge cake to StanleyCampbell.

“Boniface. Luke is his first name, but thefellows call him Bony. He deserves the name,too.”

“Looks as if he were made of three or four oldskeletons patched together,” remarked Max; andLouis added scornfully, with a satisfied glancedown at his own well-fitting uniform,—

“His clothes are loose where they ought to betight, and tight where they ought to be loose.I don’t see how the doctor ever came to pick upsuch a man.”

“They say he knows most everything, though,”put in Stanley, rising to the defence of the absentteacher.

“How old is he?” asked Leon.

“Not so old as he looks,” answered Paul; “butwhen you see him, you’ll think he is about fifty,that he’s lost his last friend and never expects tohave another—”

“And doesn’t want any more, either,” Max wenton. “He acts as if he couldn’t bear us boys; nota bit like Lieutenant Wilde, but as if all he wantedwas to get his salary, without caring for us at all.”

“Show Hal the way he looks, Max,” said Jack,clasping his hands around one of his knees, as hestill sat on the footboard of the bed.

Max ran both hands through his soft yellowhair, until it stood rampant and disorderly on hishead. Then he raised his eyebrows, rolled up hismerry blue eyes and drew down the corners ofhis mouth into a mournful curve.

“That’s just about it, Hal,” laughed Paul.“Max kept doing that this morning when he wastalking to us, and it was all we could do to keepfrom shouting.”

“What does he teach?” Harry asked.

“Latin and Greek, in Mr. Winston’s place.Mr. Winston is going to New York to study to bea doctor, and this man has come to take his classes.He isn’t as cross as Mr. Winston used to be; buthe’s sort of dismal, perpetual mullygrubs, youknow, and I don’t believe he’ll ever get much outof the boys.” And Louis slipped down from hischair-back and moved across the room to join Paulin the window.

“The seniors are all down on him,” added Max;“and most of the juniors don’t like him. If manymore of the boys get to hate him, I don’t believethe doctor will keep him more than a term.”

“I wish the whole school would get after him,then,” remarked Paul vindictively. “He useswords a mile long, but I don’t believe he knowsso very much, Stan; and even if he does, the boyswon’t learn half as much from him as they wouldfrom somebody that was a little less like a walkingfuneral. For my part, I like a man that hassome fun and life in him, like Lieutenant Wilde.”

“Who is there that isn’t back?” asked Harry,while he began to unpack his possessions, droppinghis collars and cuffs in a pile on the floor,and carefully placing his tennis racket and bat onthe bed.

“All our class are back but Williams and Sothern,”answered Jack. “How is it with thejuniors, Stan?”

“There have five or six fellows dropped out ofour class,” replied Stanley; “Boothby and Allenand Crane and the Vernons; not much loss, any ofthem except Crane, though. He was one of thebest in ninety-two.”

Stanley’s remark ended in a most unmelodiouscroak, for he had just come to the age when hisvoice was changing, and the feats that his throatperformed at times, surprised even its owner andcovered him with confusion. It was not so tryingwhen, as now, he was alone with his friends; butStanley’s voice was no respecter of persons, andwhether he was in the class-room or on the parade-ground,in the midst of a Greek exercise or givingsome military command, his tone would suddenlychange from a manly bass to a piping falsetto, andpoor Stanley would blush and long to hide hisdiminished head in some safe retreat where hecould not see the knowing smiles and glances ofhis companions.

“Isn’t this a new racket?” asked Max, pouncingon it as soon as it appeared.

“New in August,” answered Harry proudly.“I won it in a tournament at Lenox. There wereabout a dozen of us played, and I took it indoubles. Leon took the first prize in singles,though, and he was one of the smallest thatplayed.”

“Good for you, young Arnold,” said Paul.“You are the fellow for Flemming, if you like thatkind of thing. What can you do in football?”

“A little of everything,” replied Leon, with hishead in his trunk as he wrestled with a pile ofbooks. “I’ve played centre rush for the littlefellows and quarter back for the large ones.”

“You ought to see him get over the ground,though,” remarked Harry, in a confidential asideto Jack Howard. “He’s fine in an end play, anda first-class man for almost any place you want toput him. What’s the prospect for the season?”he went on, turning to Paul.

“The second team is a strong one, for thejuniors have some splendid men, and the new fellowsare a good-looking set. We are only fair,now Williams has gone and Brewster has strainedhis knee and can’t play. Stan is to play quarterback on second, and Louis and Osborn are halfbacks. There isn’t anybody in the second class tohelp us out, unless your brother is there. Whereare you going to be, Leon?”

“I don’t know yet; second, I think. LieutenantWilde is going to tell me to-night,” answeredLeon who, at the beginning of the football discussion,had abandoned his unpacking and seatedhimself on the table with his feet on the edge ofhis open trunk.

“I hope you will, for Hal seems to think youwould be a good man, and our first team is decidedlyweak,” said Jack, uncoiling his long legs andstraightening his shoulders.

“How can I get first team, if I am only secondclass?” inquired Leon. “I thought I could onlyget on second.”

“We used to divide up according to our playing,but that let the games all end the same way.Then we took juniors and seniors against firsts andseconds, and that wasn’t much fairer, for it putall the little fellows against the big ones. Now wehave juniors and firsts against seniors and seconds,so it’s a little more even. We have our great gameof the year on the Saturday before Thanksgiving,and we begin training next week. I’m captainof the first, and if you are a good man, I wantyou, even if you are small.” And Paul smiledbenignly down upon his new schoolmate, withthe air of being vastly older and wiser and tallerthan he.

“Don’t go, Paul,” urged Harry, hospitablywaving his hand towards the box on the table.

“Needs must when Bony drives,” sighed Paul.“He has given out an endless lesson in Homerfor to-morrow, and I must get it, or be disgracedat once and forever. I’ll see you at supper-time.”And he strolled away, to be followed almost immediatelyby Jack and Stanley Campbell who wasthe head-boy in the junior class.

Max and Louis, who were not afflicted with toomuch conscience in the matter of lessons, remainedin the Arnolds’ room, to watch the unpacking andto talk over any bits of school gossip which hadbeen omitted, their summer frolics and their winterplans.

CHAPTER II.

FLEMMING AND ITS WAYS.

Far up among the hills, a short distance backfrom the Connecticut River, is the little village ofHilton. It is the smallest of farming towns, onlyone or two long streets shaded with tall, archingelms and bushy maples, and bordered with simple,old-fashioned houses clustered around the graystone church and square town hall. At one end ofthe main street is the low building, also of stone,that serves for store and post-office, one corner beinggiven up to the business of government, whilethe rest of the room is filled with a motley collectionof dry goods, groceries and confectionerytemptingly set forth in glass cases on the counter,or ranged on the rough pine shelves which linethe walls. This building and the little villagehotel that stands next it, are the favorite resorts ofall the old farmers of the region, for whom thedaily trip to the mail furnishes the main excitementof life. Although the hour for the coming of thestage and for the opening of the mail has nevervaried within the memory of that oldest inhabitantwithout whom any well-regulated villagewould be incomplete; on one pretext or another,the old men come driving up to the door fully anhour ahead of time, and are apparently much surprisedto find that they are too early and mustwait. In a leisurely fashion, they get down fromtheir mud-bespattered wagons, tie their horses tothe old posts whose uneven sides bear the marks ofmany an equine tooth, and go shuffling into thehotel whence they presently emerge, wiping theirlips on their checkered shirt sleeves. Then theysettle themselves in the store, where they whileaway the hour of waiting by puffing at their pipesand discussing the weather, the crops and othermatters of local interest, with an indolent disregardof the fact that, at home, their wives and daughtersare busy with many a task which they mighthelp to lighten.

Into this peaceful community there came, sometwelve years ago, the startling news that buildingswere to be at once erected for a large school forboys; and before the sluggish minds of the farmershad grasped that main fact, the work was wellunder way. For a time the busy laborers and thefast-rising brick walls bade fair to rival the postoffice as an attraction for the villagers; but as thebuildings drew near completion and became anold story, the farmers returned to their formerseats in the hard arm-chairs and on the cracker-barrelsof the store, and thought no more aboutthe new school-house, save when some group ofgray-coated lads stepped directly into their pathway.

This school was Flemming Hall, “a military andclassical school for boys,” as ran the circular. Itwas an excellent school in all respects, and underthe successful management of Dr. Flemming, itsfounder, it had gained so high a reputation forsystematic work and discipline as to be overcrowdedwith applicants for admission. For thisreason, the doctor was able to select his boys withcare and, in general, the Flemming cadets were anhonorable, manly set of fellows whose work waswell done, and whose fun and mischief were of apure, gentlemanly sort. To be sure, an occasionalblack sheep would find his way into the flock; butthe moral tone of the place was good, and thereal work of the school was thoroughly and intelligentlycarried on.

Dr. Flemming was the right man for the head ofa boys’ school; he not only had a fine, well-trainedmind, but over and above all that, he was genuinelyfond of his boys and anxious to develop thebest possibilities that lay in each one of them. Inthis work he was ably seconded by his nephew,Irving Wilde, who, at the close of his course atWest Point, had resigned from active service, inorder to take charge of the military training in hisuncle’s school. Though still very young, duringthe three years he had been at Flemming Hall,Lieutenant Wilde had gained a strong influenceover the lads in his care, who adored him for hisquiet, even discipline during school hours, as wellas for his apparent interest in all their games andsports, in which he often had a share.

To Irving Wilde, his pupils were no mere thinking-machines,to be fed with so much material fortheir daily allowance. Instead of that, he watchedand studied each lad separately, never contentuntil he had mastered his subject and understoodevery boyish nature with all its vague, restlessambitions, its faults and its chances for a good anduseful manhood. The boys never knew just how itwas, but they soon ceased to be surprised whenLieutenant Wilde seemed to divine their thoughts,and spoke some word of encouragement for theirnobler aims, or let fall a quiet remark of disapprovalfor some wild, boyish freak. It was impossiblefor them to resent any interference on thepart of a man who was not only an excellentteacher, but a champion in all athletic sports aswell, and always ready to join them in their expeditionsup and down the valley and over the hills.Lieutenant Wilde was such good company thatthe boys could not afford to displease him, forfear he would go with them no more, and, reasoningin this way, the lads vied with one another tocarry out his wishes until his will had become lawfor nearly all of his pupils. A more selfish manmight have abused this power, a less conscientiousman might have regarded it as of little importance;but Irving Wilde did neither. On thecontrary, he did his best to increase it and todevote it, not to his own good, but to the bestinterests of the boys and of the school. A lowfever and a slow convalescence had forced him togive up his work for a few months, and the woe ofthe boys at his going away was only consoled bythe joy of his reappearance, at the time that ourstory opens.

Of the two other teachers, Herr Linden was anelderly German of majestic proportions who contentedhimself, as far as the boys were concerned,with instilling into them a generous amount of theFrench and German tongues. That done, and tohis credit it must be distinctly stated that it waswell done, he went his own way in calm unconcernof his pupils who, on their side, accepted hislabors as a necessary evil and thought no moreabout him outside of school hours.

But the new teacher, Luke Boniface, though avery common type in northern New England, wasa foreign element at Flemming Hall. The son ofa poor country minister, he had early made up hismind to work his own way through college andfit himself for the life of a missionary to India.With this end kept constantly in view, the yearsof his boyhood had been years of hard labor andstern self-denial. By working through all hisvacations, and occasionally giving up one year ofstudy, in order to earn enough money to carryhim through the next, he had toiled his way alonguntil, at the age of twenty-eight, he had just completedthe undergraduate course in a small inlandcollege. Then more money must be had beforehe could take his special professional course, andto Luke Boniface it seemed that a year of teachingwas the best and easiest way to gain that end.Some months of this work in a little countryschool, a few years before, gave him the right tocall himself experienced; and with the help offriends, he asked and obtained the position ofclassical teacher at Flemming Hall, although hisonly practical knowledge of boys was that gainedfrom teaching the overgrown striplings whoseschool life was limited to a few weeks of everywinter, and the chubby, pinafored urchins of theA B C class. The boys at Flemming filled himwith terror when they assembled before him, onthe first morning of the term. So elegant andworldly-wise were they that, in comparison, hefelt himself a mere child in their presence. Hisembarrassment made him appear even more awkwardand constrained than ever, and long beforethe hour was over, he heartily wished himselfaway from Flemming Hall once more. Could hego through with it? His heart almost failed him;but Luke Boniface was not the man to abandonthe set purpose of years, in the face of a roomfulof rollicking boys. He would remain in his placeand conquer them. During the summer he hadoften dreamed of the coming year, of the stronginfluence for good which he would exert over theboys, of the popularity he would gain. Now, ashe glanced about the room, he instinctively triedto hide his large feet under his chair, and to pulldown the sleeves of his best coat, which all of asudden seemed to him to be pitiably mean andshabby. His years of toil and care had drawnanxious lines on the face that now flushed a deep,dark red, as he caught sight of Max who wasroguishly imitating him for the benefit of hismates. The young man raised his eyebrows, andpressed firmly together his lips which had shapedthemselves into a melancholy droop. It is a trueold saying that “God makes the other features,man makes his own mouth.” In the midst of hispetty anxieties and struggles, Luke Boniface hadfound neither time nor disposition to be genial;to him, life was all a hard, stern reality, and hismouth showed that he felt it to be so. Taken allin all, he was a man to be honored and respectedrather than loved, sensitive and, like many sensitivepeople, fond of pulling himself up by theroots occasionally, to inspect his growth; conscientiousand anxious for the good of those aroundhim, nevertheless he was ill at ease, cold and forbiddingin his manner to the very persons whomhe most desired to approach. Moreover, as hasbeen said, he had little knowledge of boys andtheir ways and small desire to increase that knowledge,though he regarded them as a class of youngsavages whom it was his duty to try to improve,just as one day he hoped to work among theheathen of India.

The large grounds of Flemming Hall lay a littleto the south of the town. Turning abruptly fromthe street, the drive wound up a steep hillside tothe group of brick buildings on the level groundat the top. From there, a magnificent viewopened out in every direction. Old Flemming,as it was called, the dormitory where the boys alllived, fronted towards the west, and, standing onits broad piazza, one could look far away into theGreen Mountains, beyond the river whose graywater shone here and there through the trees below.At the south the hills rose, range on range,some thickly wooded, others more open and dottedwith white farmhouses, long, rambling barns, andherds of black and white cattle grazing over thesmooth pastures. In the other direction lay thelittle village nestled among its trees, and beyondthat, the mountains, blue and misty in the distance.Directly in front, the smooth green lawnsloped away to the street, and half-way down thehill was the pretty red cottage where Dr. Flemminglived with his wife and little daughter. Atthe right of the dormitory rose the square toweron the recitation hall; at the left was the armory,with the stars and stripes flying above it. Backof the armory was the much-trodden parade-ground,and beyond lay the great fields given upto baseball, football and tennis, for Dr. Flemmingbelieved that boys needed plenty of out-door exerciseand that, indulged in moderately, such exercisewas a help rather than a hindrance to thelessons. Having once made sure of sound bodies,by a careful selection of his teachers and a no lesscareful oversight of their work, he would succeedin developing the sound minds to put into them.So well did he carry out his ideas that there wasnearly as much rivalry in the class-rooms as in thegames, and it was by no means uncommon to findthe same boy excelling in both connections.

As Leon followed his brother into the greatdining-room, that first night, he glanced curiouslyup and down the room to see his new companions.The seventy or more cadets who were groupedabout the four long tables, looked so much alike,in their gray uniforms, that he had some difficultyin recognizing the half-dozen of them to whomHarry had introduced him, in the afternoon. Butsoon Jack Howard’s tall figure caught his eye, andthe next moment, he found himself sitting downopposite Max Eliot who was casting significantglances towards the far corner of the room. Leonfollowed the direction of his eyes and saw a youngman with a discouraged, anxious face and a headof bristly brown hair, seated at the upper end ofthe table diagonally across from the one at whichthey were taking their places.

“That’s Bony,” whispered Max, leaning acrossthe table. “Isn’t he fine?”

Leon gave a nod of assent.

“Hope I don’t get at his table,” Max went on,in the same tone; “his face would sour the milk onthe oatmeal, mornings, and I don’t want to havemy appetite destroyed in that way.”

“You look as if you were pining away, Max,”remarked Leon’s right-hand neighbor.

“So I am,” responded Max, with a pretendedsigh. “You could pack my appetite in a pill-box,and put on the cover. By the way, Alex, this isLeon Arnold, Hal’s brother. Arnold, this fellowis Alex Sterne, a bright and shining light of thesenior class.”

Leon turned slightly, to be met by two blue eyeswhich gazed so squarely and steadily into his ownthat they would have had a look almost of defiance,had they not been softened by the mouthbelow them. There was an air of candor andtruthfulness about the lad, about his broad, openforehead and the clear eyes which looked intoLeon’s, that gave the new-comer a sudden feelingthat this was a friend to be trusted. Moved bythis attraction, he said, with a laugh,—

“Max doesn’t seem to fancy the new teacher.”

“He’s not so bad,” answered Alex, as he scientificallyspeared an olive. “He isn’t pretty to lookat, I know; but he would be well enough in class,if the fellows would let him alone. Have youseen the doctor?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll like him; all the boys do. He’s a goodman, and Lieutenant Wilde is another.”

“I’ve seen him,” said Leon; “and he told us tocome to his room to-night. Where does he live,at the doctor’s?”

“No; he’s down there now, but he rooms hereand sits at the head of this table. There’s alwaysa squabble among the boys, to see who shall sitnear him. He’s so jolly that he keeps them in aroar, all meal-times. Is this the first time youhave been away to school?”

Leon modestly confessed his inexperience.

“Well, Flemming is a good place to come to,and I know you’ll like it. You start at an advantage,”Alex went on, in a lower voice; “in beingHarry Arnold’s brother. Everybody here likesHal, and if you’re the fellow you look, they’ll likeyou too, provided you keep out of mischief.”And he turned away from Leon, and began to talkwith the boy on the other side of him.

“I saw you chumming with Alex Sterne atsupper to-night,” remarked Harry, as the boyswere starting for Lieutenant Wilde’s room. “Howdid you like him?”

“Immensely,” responded Leon, with unexpectedfervor.

“You’re all right there,” answered Harry;“Alex is one of the finest fellows at Flemming.He’s older than most of us, nineteen, and adjutantof our battalion, the truest, steadiest, most all-roundsort of fellow we’ve ever had here. I don’tbelieve he has an enemy in the school, and that’smore than anybody else can say. I’ll tell youmore about him some day; but this is LieutenantWilde’s room.”

A cordial “come in” answered Harry’s knock,and the boys entered the bright, attractive room,half bedroom, half study. Lieutenant Wilde tossedhis magazine on the table.

“It’s you, is it, Arnold?” he said, as he cameforward to greet the boys. “And I am glad tosee you too, Leon. Sit down by the fire; I haveit for looks, not warmth.” And he drew up twoor three chairs before the ruddy grate that lentan air of cosy comfort to the chilly Septemberevening.

“We may as well proceed to business at once,”remarked the young man, when they were seated.“Some of the other boys may be in soon, and Iwant to find out what Leon knows, while we arealone.” And in a pleasant, off-hand way, hebegan to question the boy about his past work,while Harry amused himself with the magazinethat Lieutenant Wilde had laid aside. The examinationwas a most informal one, and was overand done before Leon had time to be frightened.

“Your brother will easily go into the second,”Lieutenant Wilde said then, as he turned back toHarry. “And now tell me what you have beenabout, all summer.”

Harry was just entering on an account of hisdoings, when a knock announced the arrival ofAlex Sterne and Jack Howard, who were closelyfollowed by Max Eliot and Stanley Campbell; forLieutenant Wilde’s room was a favorite resort withthe boys, and it had long been his habit to hold asort of open court in it, on every Wednesday andSaturday evening. Though any and all of thecadets were welcome, it was Harry and hishalf-dozen intimates who were most often to bemet with, gathered around the fire, or walking upand down the long room, now talking over theirlessons, now planning some holiday excursion or,quite as often, listening meekly to a timely littlelecture from Lieutenant Wilde, for some thoughtless,mischievous freak, too slight to be broughtbefore the doctor’s notice.

This evening was the first Saturday of the newyear, and with one consent the boys groupedthemselves about their teacher, waiting to hear ofthe way he had spent his time during the sixmonths that he had been away from them. It wasall so pleasant and sociable, so unlike the usualrelation between teacher and pupil that, for a time,Leon was content to sit quiet and listen to thespirited narrative of Lieutenant Wilde, to his livelydescription of the quaint little southern town wherehe had gone for rest and change, of his summercamping tour in the Yellowstone Park, where hecaught his fish for dinner in one stream and cookedthem in the boiling waters of the next one, onlya few paces distant. But it was impossible tofeel himself an outsider long, for LieutenantWilde constantly turned the conversation in hisdirection, in such a winning, friendly way thatthe lad was soon as much at home as any of theothers; and long before “lights out” had sounded,he had mentally sworn allegiance to this youngman who joked and laughed like a boy, yet neverfailed to keep a certain quiet, kindly dignity ofhis own which made the lads feel that, althoughhe was a real friend and companion, still he wasnever to be trifled with or opposed.

CHAPTER III.

LEON’S FIRST DAY AT FLEMMING.

“Say, Hal, how does it look?” asked Leoneagerly.

It was early the next morning, so early thatHarry was still dozing between the sheets; butLeon stood before the square mirror, trying invain to get a glimpse of his own back and legswhich, for the first time, were clothed in cadetgray. The suit he had worn the day before wastossed carelessly across the foot of his bed, and forhalf an hour he had been devoting all his attention tohis toilet, then turning and twisting himself beforethe glass, to assure himself that the new uniformwas to his liking. The change of costume wasbecoming to the lad. He already looked morethe man and the soldier than he had done theevening before, and thanks to Harry’s perseveringefforts during the summer, he carried himself withthe ease of an old cadet, rather than the consciousawkwardness of the raw recruit, first donning hisregimentals. But after he had inspected himselfin every possible position, and gone through a sortof rudimentary drill of salutes and facings, hebegan to wish for the admiration of some disinterestedperson, so he remorselessly waked up hisbrother. At the third call, Harry rolled oversleepily.

“Ha-um!” he remarked, with a vigorous yawn.

“Wake up, Hal!” Leon implored him. “Iwant you to see if I’m all right.”

“Guess so.” And Harry turned back and composedhimself to sleep once more, without bestowinga glance on his brother.

Leon crossed the room and shook him, for hefelt that this was the time, if ever, when he had aright to demand fraternal advice and approval; butHarry only pulled the blanket over his head andsleepily murmured,—

“Go ’way.”

“Won’t you?” said Leon. “Well, we’ll seeabout it.” And filling a bath sponge with water,he cautiously approached the bed, with one handsuddenly twitched away the blanket and with theother dropped the sponge directly into Harry’sface. This time his efforts were crowned withsuccess. Harry sat up spluttering and wrathful.

“Confound you, Leon!” he shouted, as hehurled the dripping sponge straight at his brother,who dodged just in time to let it drop harmlesslyon the floor behind him. “Why can’t you let afellow sleep? What are you waking me up for,in the middle of the night?”

“’Tisn’t; it’s morning,” returned Leon coolly;“and besides, I wanted you to see whether I’d puton my rig the way it ought to go. I knew you’dhate to have me appear with my coat on hind sidebefore. Just cast your eye over me and see if I’mall here.”

“Did you get up at this time in the morning,just for this?” And Harry surveyed his brotherwith a scorn which soon changed to ill-concealedapproval, as his eye rested on the trim, straightfigure before him.

“You do carry it off better than most of thenew fellows, Leon; that’s a fact. You must buttonyour coat, though, and just pull up your leftcuff a little, for it shows too much. There, that’sall right.”

“Then I do look well?” asked Leon, blushinglike a girl at his own vanity.

“Yes, you’re O.K., only don’t let your finerymake a Miss Nancy of you. Now, do let me goto sleep. It’s a good hour to breakfast time.”

“All right; I’m going out to explore.” Andcatching up his cap, he departed, leaving Harry toresume his nap.

Fifteen minutes were enough to show him thegrounds and the outside of the buildings. On hisway back to Old Flemming he met Stanley andAlex, who were just starting for a walk.

“You’re early, young Arnold,” Alex called, ashe drew near. “If you’ve nothing better to do,come with us.”

“Where are you bound?” asked Leon, secretlylonging to accept the invitation, but afraid hemight be intruding.

“Only just to the village and back,” answeredStanley, pushing back his cap to let the cool morningair strike his forehead. “Come on.”

Leon accepted this repeated invitation, and thethree boys tramped away up the road, whichstretched along between two stone walls overgrownwith blackberry vines and the dainty spraysof the Virginia creeper.

“What do you do here, Sundays?” asked Leon,stooping to break off a top-heavy spray of golden-rodthat was lazily supporting itself against arock.

“A little of everything,” answered Stanley.“Sunday is an off day and we aren’t kept nearlyso close. We don’t really begin work till to-morrowmorning, anyway.”

“When does drill begin?” inquired Leon.

“You new fellows will be put right at it,” Alexreplied. “You’ll be divided up into squads andput in charge of the sergeants till you can saluteand march and manage a gun without knockingthe next fellow’s head off. After that, you candrill with the battalion.”

“It’s no end of fun to see the new fellows ondrill, for they make such work of the ‘militarygoose-step,’ and when they first get their rifles,they’re all the time dropping them on their owntoes, in parade rest and order arms,” added Stanley.“We used to go over to watch them, but itrattled them so badly that Lieutenant Wilde madeus stop.”

“What is he?” asked Leon. “What’s his rank,I mean?”

“He ranks lieutenant in the army,” said Alex;“but here he’s commandant and major of our battalion.You’ll get on to the ranking soon,” headded encouragingly.

“Oh, Hal’s told me some of it, and he’s givenme ever so much drill this summer, so he said that,after a day or two, I could go right into battaliondrill, with the other fellows of my class.”

“Good thing you have a brother,” said Stanley.“Most of us have to learn it all after we get here,and precious slow work it is, too.”

“Hullo, what’s this?” exclaimed Leon suddenly,as he glanced up the road ahead of them. “Thisthing coming looks like a scarecrow out for a morningstroll.”

“That’s one of Hilton’s characters,” answeredAlex. “He’s kind of a half-witted fellow that livesin the woods north of the village. You must goto see him some day, for he’s delighted to have usboys call on him, and his cabin, where he lives allalone, is well worth the seeing. Just bow to himwhen you meet him; it pleases him immensely.”

The subject of the conversation was hurryingalong towards them, with a curiously uncertain,rocking gait. The huge felt hat that coveredhis head and rested on his shoulders behind, waspushed off from his forehead, showing long, lankwisps of yellowish white hair; and the ragged graycoat whose tatters were fluttering airily in the morningbreeze, made him look so much like what Leonhad called him, “A scarecrow out for a morningstroll,” that one felt moved to peep under his coatfor the supporting cross-sticks and straw whichwent to make up his body. Trudging along byhis side was a mite of a boy with a bushy thatch oftousled flaxen hair, and dressed in a jacket andtrousers of blue checked gingham. The strangepair seemed to be well-tried friends, for the urchinwas chattering earnestly to his venerable companionwho looked down at him with a simpering,vacant expression, as if only half understandingthe simple talk of his little comrade.

“Who’s the boy?” asked Leon, after watchingthem for a moment, in amused silence.

“Cappy Toomsen, short for Caspar,” said Alex.“It isn’t a cheerful name, I confess; but it doesn’tseem to worry Master Cappy, for a more jolly littleimp never lived. He is a great admirer of oldJerry, and the two are off somewhere together,almost every day.”

“How do? Fi’ day. New boy. Who he?”remarked Jerry, planting himself in their path atthis moment, and pointing at Leon who flushedunder his broad stare.

“Hullo, Jerry!” responded Stanley, noddinggood-naturedly to the old man. “This is LeonArnold, a new boy at Flemming.”

“Arno’, Leon Arno’,” said the old fellow, bobbinghis head wisely. “Jerry likes Flemmingboy!”

“Well he may,” remarked Stanley, as he wenton. “He gets many an old coat and bit of moneyout of them.”

“The Hilton people call him Flemming’s ragbag,”added Alex. “He goes round, most of thetime, dressed in our cast-off uniforms. Jerryalways insists on being introduced to every newboy that comes to Flemming, and he has an endlessmemory for names and faces, so he’ll neverforget you, you may be sure.”

Quarter of an hour later, the boys went in tobreakfast. At the dining-room door, Leon waswaylaid by his brother.

“Where in the world have you been, Leon?”he said eagerly. “I’ve been looking all round foryou, to tell you that word just came up from thedoctor’s that we’re to dine there to-night. Isn’tthat jolly? It’s because you’re a new fellow, witha brother among the old boys. He always invitesthem.”

At breakfast, the new seats for the term wereassigned, and Leon found himself between StanleyCampbell and Mr. Boniface, with Max oppositehim. Farther down the table were Alex andLouis, while Harry was across the room, next toLieutenant Wilde. As the boys took their seats,Max introduced Leon to still another table-companion,George Winslow by name, who glancedup long enough to nod indifferently, then beganto eat his breakfast with a perfect unconcern.Leon watched him with an instinctive feeling ofrepulsion, for he formed a complete contrast tothe genial good-nature of the other boys aroundhim; and his low, square head with its cold, steel-grayeyes and heavy under jaw, was as little agreeableas was his habit of taking in his food instolid silence, and with an utter disregard for theneeds of those about him. He was still deliberatelyturning over the pile of muffins, to select thebrownest and lightest, when he caught Leon’sstare of amused astonishment. He paused longenough to give back one look of defiance whichmade Leon hastily drop his eyes, while his faceflushed as if he had been struck a blow. Thatone look told Leon, plainly as words, that here hehad found an enemy. When he glanced up again,Stanley was giving an account of their meetingwith Jerry.

“Jerry’s a rare specimen,” commented Max, aswith a fine unconsciousness, he slipped his handunder that of George Winslow, and brought awaythe last muffin on the plate. “Oh, beg your pardon;were you after that?” he asked innocently,then continued, “You just wait till you get insidethe church this morning, you’ll see more oddpeople there than you ever supposed were in theworld.”

When the long line of boys was marshalled intothe little church, Leon was forcibly reminded ofthe remark which Max had made at breakfast for,accustomed as he was to the city and its ways, theplace and people filled him with amazement. Thechurch itself was a low, square room in whichonly the middle seats faced the minister, whilealong each side of the room were rows of pewsslightly raised and facing each other, thus givingtheir occupants a fine opportunity to see everythingthat concerned the congregation. The warmSeptember sun streamed in at the unshaded windows,making the two tall stoves with their longstretches of rusty pipe seem quite unnecessary.Huddled together in the corner, around thewheezy little organ, sat the half-dozen singers,while at the foot of the low pulpit lay a shaggyyellow dog with one eye, who had followed theminister up the aisle and taken his place with anair of calm assurance which told, as plainly aswords could have done, that his appearance atchurch was as regular as the coming of Sundayitself. The congregation, except for the Flemmingboys, was limited to a few women whosepleasant, gentle faces looked strangely overpoweredby their vast and top-heavy bonnets,while here and there was a subdued-lookingfarmer in his ill-fitting suit of Sunday clothes, ora freckled, sun-burned child. The boys of theschool occupied the seats along the left side of theroom; and from his seat between Harry and Louis,Leon glanced about, now at the tin basins hungby wires underneath the joints in the stove-pipe,now at old Jerry who, from his seat by the door,was lending a vacant attention to all that waspassing, now at the dog who seemed impressedwith the solemn nature of his surroundings, andlay quiet, only scratching his head, now and again,with a deprecating, apologetic air.

“I seen them boys laughin’ at Bose, ma,” heheard a sharp-faced child say to her portly companion,as they were coming out of church.

“More shame to ’em, Sairy, to hev their thoughtson sech carnal things! But,” added the good dameseverely, as she glared down at her little daughter,“ef your own eyes had ’a’ b’en where they’d oughtto be, you wouldn’t ’a’ seen it.”

“That dog is another of Hilton’s characters,”Louis was explaining, as the boys walked awaydown the road. “He was brought up from hispuppyhood to go to church, and he behaves betterthan most of the children.”

“He has the advantage over the kids though,”put in Max from behind, where he was walkingwith Harry. “Bose can go to sleep when the sermongets too dry, and they aren’t allowed to.I saw old Mrs. Wilson wake up her little girlsix and a half times to-day, Wing.”

“Which was the half-time?” asked Leon.

“The time she poked her and she didn’t wakeup,” responded Max promptly, while the boyslaughed at his mathematics.

So the nonsense ran on until the boys reachedthe steps of Old Flemming. There they separated,Harry, Stanley and Louis going to their rooms towrite their home letters before the hour for dinner,while Alex, with Max and Leon, sat down on thesteps in the sunshine.

“Come take a walk, Max?” asked a gay voicebehind them.

Max sprang up at once, exclaiming,—

“Hullo, Frank; where’ve you been all themorning?”

“In my room; I didn’t feel just right, so I cutchurch. Now I want to stretch myself a little.Come on.” And as the two boys walked away,Leon heard the new-comer ask,—

“Who’s the new fellow?”

“Hal Arnold’s brother.”

“Any good?”

By this time, they were too far away for Leon tocatch their words, but he sat staring after them, asif dazzled by the rich, dark beauty of the stranger.When they were out of sight, he turned back toAlex.

“Who’s that?” he asked eagerly.

Alex, too, had been watching the boys, whilesomething like a frown gathered on his face.

“That’s Frank Osborn,” he answered. “I don’tsee what makes Max so wild to be with him.”

“Why not?” inquired Leon, surprised at hischange of tone.

“Because he’s the worst friend Max can have,”said Alex abruptly. “He’s a Southerner with plentyof money and brains; but he’s no dig and he getsMax into scrapes the whole time. He’s not reallybad, only a little fast, and getting worse; but helaughs at Max for being slow and makes him thinkit’s manly to just steer clear of being expelled.He’s not ugly, though, like Winslow, the fellowyou saw at breakfast. He’s nothing but a bully,and you don’t want to have much to do with him.But you have Hal to look out for you, and he’ssteady as a deacon, so you’re all right.”

The shadows were stretching out in long linesfrom the western hills, as Leon turned away fromthe mirror after a prolonged season of prinking,and rather nervously followed his brother downthe stairs, out of the house and down the hill tothe doctor’s door. In spite of Harry’s delightat the invitation, Leon was dreading the prospectof dining with the master of Flemming. However,such an invitation was not to be refused, and hewas soon being ushered into a cosy parlor, wherea little girl of six was sitting alone in front of acrackling fire. She was a dainty maiden, with atangle of long brown curls and a pair of roguishbrown eyes that shone with excitement, as shecame bounding forward to meet Harry, with apatient-looking gray cat so doubled up over herarm that its lank tail and pointed ears met below.

“Hullo, Gyp!” exclaimed Harry, catching herup, as she reached him.

“Hullo!” she answered, returning his caress asa matter of course. “Papa told me to stay heretill you came, so I could call him d’reckly. I keptMouse for company, you see.”

“Is this the same old Mouse?” inquired Harry,laughing. “I thought the rats ate her up, longago.”

“No, course not,” responded Gyp, in a tone ofcontempt for Harry’s mistaken idea. “Mouseāted all the rats up; that’s the way ’twas. NowI’ll call papa.” And she vanished, carrying thelong-suffering Mouse head downward in her arms.

“Gyp is a great institution,” laughed Harry.“She and Mouse make no end of fun for us, andshe’s as bright as Mouse is stupid. That catmust have been damaged in her infancy, I know.”

At this point, Gyp reappeared, triumphantlyleading by the hand a gentleman whom she introducedas “papa.” Dr. Flemming might have beenforty or forty-five years old, and though his tall,slight figure and thin face with its silky, yellowmoustache and deep-set blue eyes, suggested delicatehealth, yet, there was no air of languor ineither his words or manner. He welcomed bothboys cordially, and at once set about entertainingthem in a pleasant, friendly way that delightedLeon as much as did the quaint, dry wit whichcame into almost every remark he made. A fewmoments later, Mrs. Flemming entered the room,and Leon found her a bright, motherly little womanwith a delightfully long memory for the differentboys of the school, and the pet hobbies of eachone of them.

After an informal dinner and an evening ofpleasant talk, the boys reluctantly rose, to saygood night. Dr. Flemming rose, too, and, takingLeon’s hand in both his own firm, slender onesand looking down into the lad’s eyes so keenlythat Leon felt he could see into the very depths ofhis soul, he said kindly,—

“Arnold, you are just starting out into a newlife, and I say to you what I say to all the boyswhen they come here. You will miss your homein many ways; you will find many things herethat are new and strange. Do the very best youcan in everything, whether it is work or play. Begenerous and manly and, above all else, be true,true to yourself and true to the hopes of your parentsin sending you to us, and we shall all be satisfied.And one more word: at the first, when youchoose your friends, remember that, in a schoolthe size of this, there are all sorts of boys, andchoose those that will be a help to you, insteadof a pull-back. Boys can’t be too careful abouttheir friends, for with them it is just as it is withanything else. If you handle something black, alittle of the color is likely to rub off on you.Look for the best and truest boys and, for yourshare, try to be as good for them as they are foryou. Then your life at Flemming will be a pleasantand a happy one. And now, good night.”And he dismissed them, with a friendly smile.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BONIFACE REBELLION.

The real work of the term began in earnest,the next morning, and Leon found himself in aclass of fifteen or twenty boys, nearly all of themolder than himself, and among whom he looked invain for one of the lads that he had seen in Harry’sroom. George Winslow’s scowling face was theonly familiar one that met his eye, and Leon gladlyturned away from him, to make a closer study ofhis new companions. At his right hand sat a boyof eleven, with an abnormally large head and adry, weazened, lead-colored face, who appeared tofeel it his duty to maintain the credit of the classby answering all the questions addressed to anyof its members. At Leon’s other side was a boyof about his own age, whose mocking brown eyeswere dancing with fun, as he watched Leon’s otherneighbor; and he looked so bright and companionablethat Leon ventured to whisper, under cover ofsuppressing a yawn,—

“Who’s the fellow next me?”

“I don’t know,” answered the other; “I’m newhere. Don’t you know him?”

“No; I’m new, too. Isn’t he a terror?” respondedLeon.

Both boys kept their eyes intently fixed on theirbooks, for a few moments. Then Leon attemptedanother question.

“What’s your name?” he asked cautiously,with his gaze still on the page before him.

“Harold King,” replied his neighbor. “What’syours?”

“Leon Arnold; I’m Hal Arnold’s brother.Aren’t you Jack Howard’s cousin? He said somethingor other about you.”

“Yes. Hush! Do hear that fellow go on. Hemust be one of the fiends.”

“Fiends!” echoed Leon in wonder; for hissole association with the word was the idea of ablack hobgoblin, and his neighbor only resembledhis mental picture of that race, in the size of hishead.

“That’s what Jack called them,” answeredHarold, as the class rose to go back to the mainschool-room. “He says they call those little bitsof pert fellows that think they know it all, fiends.Not a bad name, either,” he added, with a wink.

Leon’s reply was prevented by a sudden pushfrom behind, and the next instant George Winslowpassed him, jostling him roughly as he went.The rudeness of the motion was so uncalled forand so evidently intentional that Leon, as he stoodhis ground and gazed proudly into the loweringface before him, felt that sooner or later it wouldbe war to the knife between them.

He felt so still more during his first drill, thatafternoon. The armory was given up to the newcadets, together with the half-dozen non-commissionedofficers who were detailed for theirinstruction, under the general supervision of LieutenantWilde. There were a few words of explanationof the duties of the soldier, the object andaim of the drill, and then the novices were dividedinto squads of four and assigned to the care oftheir different instructors. As he took his place,Leon glanced up to find himself confronted byGeorge Winslow. However, the weeks of faithfultraining that he had received from Harry, madehim feel no hesitation in obeying the orders whichwere issued, and he promptly set to work to takethe required positions for setting up and saluting,confident that he could hold his own with the rawrecruits by his side. But for some reason or other,his best endeavors proved quite unavailing, andhe found himself constantly called to account,now for having his shoulders uneven, now for inattention,and again for delayed obedience. Atfirst he was annoyed by these continual reprimands;then he grew indignant, for he fancied hecaught a little smile of satisfaction on Winslow’sface, as he ordered,—

“Right hand—salute!” Then suddenly struckdown Leon’s raised hand, saying sharply, “Get inposition before I command, and hurry up about it.”

“Arnold’s position was correct,” said LieutenantWilde’s voice over his shoulder; then he addedquietly, “that will do, Winslow. I will takecharge of this squad myself, for the rest of theafternoon.”

The dismissal was final, and Winslow dared notdisobey; so, with one furious glance at Leon, hewent away, and Lieutenant Wilde took his place.Drilling under him was an entirely different matter;and Leon left the armory, half an hour later,happy in the promise of being promoted to drillwith the battalion, so soon as he should have hada little practice in the manual of arms. But, ashe left the dining-room that night, he was stoppedby Winslow, who planted himself directly in hispathway.

“I owe you one for this, Arnold,” he said, in alow, distinct voice; “and if it means reporting meto the doctor, you’ll be sorry for it.”

“You’ll have trouble with Winslow yet, Leon,”said Harry, at bed-time when Leon told him of theday’s events. “I don’t see what started him afteryou, but he’s always taking just such spites. He’san awful bully and, if it only wasn’t against therules of the school, the best thing you could dowould be to give him a good sound thrashing.”

In the meantime, matters had not gone wellfor Mr. Boniface, that morning. The generalschool-room had been left in his charge, for thedoctor was busy with the new cadets, and LieutenantWilde’s classes met in the little laboratoryup-stairs. The ten or twelve seniors weregrouped at the front of the room for their Latinrecitation, and Mr. Boniface was trying to givethem his undivided attention and, at the sametime, to keep a watchful eye on Max and FrankOsborn and half a dozen kindred spirits who occupiedthe far corner of the room. The poor teacherwas nervous, that morning. In spite of the carefulpreparation which he had given his lesson, hefelt sure that he was not holding the interest ofhis pupils who presented every appearance oflanguid inattention. As he glanced from JackHoward who was lounging in his seat, with hiseyes fixed on the tree just outside the window, toHarry Arnold who was making an elaborate patternof dots and dashes on the margin of hisCicero, he raised his eyebrows and gave a deep,though half-unconscious sigh. The sound waspromptly echoed from the distant corner; andwhen Luke Boniface looked over in that direction,he found the boys all laughing except Max who,perfectly serious, was deep in his lesson, swayingto and fro with his eyes fixed on his book and hislips moving silently. Though in his own mindthere was no doubt as to the culprit, it was tooslight an offence to be taken up, and Mr. Bonifacecould only resolve to watch himself more closelyin the future, that he might present no such opportunitiesto the fun-loving Max.

The lessons went heavily on, marked by anentire absence of sympathy between teacher andpupil. If Mr. Boniface tried to give some bit ofinteresting information, it was received with perfectunconcern; if he attempted any pleasantry,it was heard with stolid silence; when he wasstern and severe, it produced no more effect.When Irving Wilde came in, at the end of thethird hour, to take charge of the room, he foundthe other teacher looking almost distracted, whilethe boys were all in a high state of glee over thepranks of Max and Frank Osborn. As LieutenantWilde took his place at the desk, with a reproachfulglance at the uproarious boys, the older mannoted with envy how the faces before him grewbright and interested, and how suddenly the roomwas stilled. For a moment he stood lookingabout the room and rubbing his hand up and downover his hair, as was his habit, when annoyed orperplexed. Then he hastily gathered up hisbooks and left the room, with a miserable certaintythat his morning had been wasted.

And so it went on, day after day. While therewas no open outbreak or breach of discipline, yetthe new teacher was subjected to all sorts of pettyannoyances by the lads, who had taken a disliketo his gloomy, serious manner. Order was out ofthe question, and any attempts, on the master’spart, to establish it were worse than useless, forthe boys promptly turned the tables and came offvictors, again and again. However, it had takenbut a short time for Mr. Boniface to single outMax as the leader in much of the iniquity, andafter watching him closely for a week, he surprisedhim, one morning, by an invitation to occupy theseat directly in front of the master’s desk whichwas extended to serve for both master and boy.With a good-natured smile, Max picked up hisbooks and marched down the aisle to the appointedplace, where he seated himself, with a triumphantbackward glance at his mates, triumphant, for thiswas a fresh vantage point for an attack.

It was the habit of the awkward young teacherto sit with his feet stretched far out in front of him,quite regardless of the fact that, in this way, hiscoarse shoes were exposed to the gaze of the wholeschool. Max had studied these shoes well, andwas never tired of drawing them from every possiblepoint of view, exaggerating their defects withthe skill peculiar to boyish caricature.

As soon as the master’s mind was again on hisclass, Max displayed a bit of paper on which hisfriends made out the terse inscription: “Got ’em.”It was but two words, it is true; but it was enoughto rouse their curiosity, to see what the fertile brainof Max could mean by this novel declaration of war.They watched and waited; but they only saw Maxput his elbows on his desk, clutch his yellow top-knotwith both hands and fall to studying with awill, as if heartily ashamed of his fault andresolved to make amends. But if their teacherwas deceived, the boys, who knew their friendbetter, were not. His sudden devotion to hisbook, at such a time and in such a place, couldonly mean fresh mischief. Suddenly Leon, whowas looking on, saw the teacher give a violentstart, while Max quite as suddenly raised his head,with an affectation of perfect surprise, and meeklybegged his pardon. The face of Luke Bonifaceflushed, and he looked suspiciously at Max. Hecould read nothing, however, in the boy’s unconsciousexpression, so he merely bowed, in recognitionof the apology, and went on with his lesson.Half an hour later, the mystified boys saw thesame performance repeated. At the close of themorning session, Max was told that he couldreturn to his seat.

Late that afternoon, several of the boys weresitting on the piazza rail, resting after a livelyhour of football practice, when Jack Howard suddenlyinquired,—

“I say, Max, what was it you did to Bony thismorning, to make him jump so?”

Max chuckled at the recollection, but vouchsafedno other reply.

“Go on and tell us, Max,” urged Louis, hookinghis toes into the railing to balance himself, as heleaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“What’s the use?” responded Max. “I maywant to do it again some day, and I don’t wantyou all to get on to it; it’s my own invention.”

“Nonsense, Max; we won’t steal it, and wecouldn’t do it, if we would; we’re all too good forthat sort of thing,” put in Harry Arnold, from thestep near by, where he sat leaning against the endof the rail.

“Much you are!” returned Max ironically.“Well, I’ll tell you; I just happened to step onhis toe, that’s all.”

“Happened?” inquired Paul Lincoln, takingcareful aim at a belated mosquito, as he spoke.

“Yes, happened,” repeated Max solemnly. “Yousee, when I study, I get so interested that I can’tkeep on the lookout to see what my feet are doing.To-day they wouldn’t stay on the floor, but, firstthing I knew, they were way up in the air. Ofcourse I put them down again, as quick as I foundit out, and Bony’s feet were right in the way.See? I begged his pardon, though. But thequeerest thing about it all was that pretty soon Idid that very same thing again. Strange howinterested a fellow can get in his lessons, isn’t it?”And Max paused to look innocently around at thegroup.

“It was an untoward event, anyway,” remarkedPaul.

The boys groaned at the pun.

“Oh, come, you fellows,” observed Harry; “Ifeel sort of sorry for Bony, once in a while. Ihate him as badly as any of you; but we are leadinghim a dog’s life between us.”

The boys turned and looked at him in surprise.Harry Arnold was a lad whose opinion carriedweight in the school, and a hush followed his clearvoice. It was Jack who broke the momentarysilence.

“That’s true enough, Hal; but he isn’t obligedto stay here. The sooner he clears out, the betterwe fellows would like it, and he may take the hint,in time.”

“I wonder if the doctor likes him?” said Leon.

“I don’t see how he can,” said Louis, while hecarefully brushed his cap and replaced it on theback of his head. “I have an idea that the doctortook him out of charity.”

“That’s just it,” responded Harry, clasping hishands behind his head. “Bony’s got to grub alongsomewhere till he gets money enough to pay forhis course in the seminary. If he gets turned outhere, it will be no easy thing for him to get insomewhere else.”

“The sooner he goes off for a missionary, thebetter it will be for this side of the world,”remarked Jack encouragingly. “You’re rightthere, Hal, and we ought to do our share towardssending him off in a hurry.”

“If he only wasn’t so grumpy, I wouldn’t mind,”added Max; “but I hate a man that can’t see ajoke when it’s fired at him head first; and then it’ssuch fun to see him get mad over every littlething.” And Max twisted up his face in imitationof his teacher’s frown.

“I don’t blame you much, Max,” said Harrycandidly. “He is pretty bad; I don’t see whatmakes him so uncommonly disagreeable.”

“One thing’s sure,” suggested Max, laughing;“when he goes as a missionary, the cannibalswon’t do anything but taste him, for he’s so sourthat he’ll set their teeth on edge, first thing.”

At this point, a window just above their headswas abruptly closed. As they heard the sound,the boys exchanged glances of consternation.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Jack Howard.“That’s Bony’s window. Do you suppose he’sbeen up there, all this time?”

“I hope he enjoyed himself, then,” answeredLouis, as he slipped down from the rail.

“I don’t know as I much care if he did hear,”said Max deliberately. “I don’t want to be uglyand hurt his feelings, any more than Hal does;but now honestly, if he knew just what we thoughtof him, perhaps he’d try to treat us a little moredecently.”

But how well he did know just what theythought of him! Sitting by the open window, inthe yellow sunset light, Mr. Boniface had beenquite absorbed in his work until the repeated useof his unpleasant nickname had roused him fromhis book, and forced him to listen. It was onlyfor a few moments that he had sat there; but itwas long enough to hear Harry’s attempted defenceand final confession to sharing in the generaldislike, to writhe under the jests of Max and tonote the contempt in the tone of all the boys.Then he closed the window; but it was too late,for the winged words, sharp as arrows, had alreadyflown in and struck home, touching just the pointswhere he knew himself weakest. And with alltheir teasing, they were sorry for him; that wasthe worst of it all. He could bear their dislike,but not their half-scornful pity, as to an inferior.Just because their lives had been spent in luxury,should they despise him on account of his strugglewith poverty? The thought galled him, and withhis arms folded tightly in front of him and hishead bowed, he paced angrily up and down theroom.

Irving Wilde found him so, when he knocked athis door, half an hour later, to return a borrowedbook. As he heard the nervous steps, he pausedfor a moment to listen. Then he rapped withdecision.

“Come in,” said an unwelcoming voice.

“I just came to bring back your book,” saidLieutenant Wilde, looking with some surprise onthe flushed face and angry eyes of his host, whostood facing him, without making the slightestmovement towards receiving the book. “I amafraid I am intruding,” he went on.

“No,” the other man replied briefly; “I’m notbusy.”

Irving Wilde felt a little perplexed. It wasevident that Mr. Boniface was in some trouble,but his rather hostile manner made it difficult tooffer any sympathy. The lieutenant put the bookdown on the table and turned to go away.

“Sit down,” said the other abruptly.

It was more a command than an invitation, andLieutenant Wilde meekly obeyed, wondering whatwas to follow.

“I thought,” he was beginning vaguely, whenMr. Boniface interrupted him.

“Lieutenant Wilde, what am I going to doabout these boys?” he said, rushing at once intothe midst of his subject, with the air of a man toomuch in earnest to waste time in mere words.

Lieutenant Wilde met him with equal directness.

“What boys?” he inquired. “Has there beenany fresh trouble, Mr. Boniface?”

“No,” burst out the other; “nothing fresh, butit’s a matter of every day, and it’s wearing the lifeout of me. They hate me and they try to annoyme in every way, till I feel like an old dog, at themercy of a crowd of snarling, yelping puppies.I’ve tried everything, but it’s getting worse everyday. I want the boys to like me, and I want tolike them,” he continued, resuming his march;“but it’s come to where we regard each other assworn enemies. It’s spoiling the best years of mylife and sapping my best energies.”

“Oh, pshaw, Boniface!” exclaimed LieutenantWilde, with sudden impatience; “men inour position haven’t any business to know whetherwe have any best energies or not; all we are herefor is to make the best we can out of our boys.But I beg your pardon,” he added more quietly;“I didn’t mean to be rude. Who are the boysthat are annoying you?”

Luke Boniface dropped into a chair and begantwisting his watch-chain restlessly.

“All the boys, more or less; but most of all,that Max Eliot and his set.”

“Max Eliot?” responded the other teacherthoughtfully. “Max is an incorrigible imp; butreally, Mr. Boniface, he isn’t a bad boy, only athoughtless, mischievous tease. I am sorry he’smade you trouble, for I think he and his set arethe finest fellows in the school.”

Mr. Boniface looked at him incredulously.

“Have you ever found Max doing anythingreally dishonorable?” asked Lieutenant Wilde.“All that set of boys are wide-awake, happy-go-luckyfellows, ready for any amount of fun, andoften a little too careless of others’ feelings; butI don’t believe one of them would lie, if it were tosave himself from being expelled.”

“They must be remarkable boys,” said Mr.Boniface sarcastically.

Irving Wilde turned on him with a frown; thenhe controlled himself and said quietly,—

“That is just where you lose ground with theboys, Mr. Boniface, by making them feel that youdistrust them. Do you remember what the Rugbyfellows used to say: ‘It’s no fun to lie to Arnold,for he always believes us.’ There’s a great dealof truth there. Treat boys like honorable gentlemenand, to a great extent, they will become so.Watch them like pickpockets, and they will actaccordingly. Boys are quick to see when they aretrusted, and nine out of ten of them will do theirbest to be worthy of the trust. Try and see if itisn’t so, Boniface.” And he beamed on his companionwith such hearty good-will that Mr. Bonifacewas forced to admit the truth of his remark,as far as he himself was concerned.

There were a few moments of silence; thenLieutenant Wilde rose and moved across the roomto where his host was sitting. Leaning on theback of his chair, he said, with the genial, off-handmanner that was peculiarly his own,—

“Now, Boniface, take the advice of a friend,and forget all about your best energies. Excusemy speaking so freely; but you asked my opinion,you know. Trust the lads and make them feelthat you trust them; like them as well as you canand show them all the liking that you feel. Thatis the main thing in dealing with boys. And then,if you could only be a little more sociable withthem, talk to them at table and when you meetthem around the grounds, till you know everysingle fellow for what he really is; then I promiseyou that they will do their share towards meetingyou. For my part, I’ll have a little talk withEliot and Howard and two or three more of them,and I hope your trouble will be mostly over.”And he went away, leaving Mr. Boniface toponder on his words.

CHAPTER V.

WAR IN THE COLOR-GUARD.

It was the hour for afternoon drill. The trumpetshad rung out in the quick, tripping arpeggiosof assembly and the companies had formed forroll-call, then marched to their places upon thebattalion parade-ground. In the centre of theline stood the color-sergeant, Frank Osborn, withhis senior corporals at either hand, Leon on hisright, on his left Winslow and Smythe, the “fiend”of the second class. Beyond them, to the leftand right, stretched the four companies of thebattalion, while still farther to the right stood theband.

From the first, Leon had been fascinated by theperfect order and regularity of the battalion drill,where every man and every piece were only well-adjustedparts of the whole, and where any triflingdelay or irregularity on the part of a single cadetwas enough to mar the work of an entire company.So heartily had he thrown himself into the trainingthat now, after six weeks of it, he was promotedto be one of the ranking color-corporals, and eachday proudly took his place beside Frank Osborn,who never looked half so handsome and dashingas when on duty, with the soft, bright folds of theflag drooping beside his dark oval face. And yet,with all his attraction for Leon, the younger boyfelt a certain distrust of this brilliant comrade,which prevented their daily association from everripening into anything like an intimacy. It wasnot that he was not always bright and companionable,quick to plan and bold to execute the frolicswhich seemed to add zest to his school life, andequally ready to take the consequences of his manysins. But, after all, there was a look about the imperiousyoung face, about the proudly arching lipsand the restless eyes, that told of his descent fromthe flower of Southern chivalry, a chivalry whichmight too easily become hot-tempered and wild, inspite of a firm and resolute control. Leon’s NewEngland training held him aloof from the gay,rollicking fellows who met in Osborn’s room totake counsel how best to shirk the hours of study,and to hold late suppers, after “lights out” hadsounded, and the Flemming world was supposedto be sleeping the sleep of the just. Max alone,of all the Arnolds’ friends, was frequently at oneof these revels; for with his eager activity, he wasalways ready for fun, in almost any shape thatoffered, and was filled with a boyish admirationfor Osborn’s lavish generosity and high-handedcarelessness of discipline. The consequences ofthe intimacy were often disastrous to poor Max,for while his friend contrived to emerge unscathedfrom scrape after scrape, Max was singularly luckless,and was continually finding himself reducedfrom the rank to which his brilliant scholarshipand excellent drill had raised him.

Of all the boys in the school, there was no otherset so closely bound together in all their tastes andpursuits, as the little group of seniors and juniorswho were most often to be found in the Arnolds’room, or with Max and Louis, across the hall.For the past two years their intimacy had beengrowing steadily. Other friendships had sprungup and died away, in the meantime; but theseseven lads stood firmly together, never quarrellingand rarely disagreeing, in spite of the wide differencein their characters. Instead of that, indeed,they were a mutual help and check to each other,so that steady Alex Sterne was stirred up by theirrepressible Max whom he vainly tried to keep inorder; while careless Jack and dandified Louiseach rubbed off a little of the other’s peculiarity,for though Jack laughed at Louis’s careful precisionof speech and dress, he unconsciously lost much ofhis own slang and disorder by his daily associationwith his friend.

To this little circle, Leon and Harold King hadbeen admitted, on account of their relationship toHarry and Jack; and except for the mere work ofthe class-room, they mingled little with the secondclass cadets, greatly to the disgust and envy ofthose boys, for the Wilders, as they were called,were the acknowledged leaders of the school.Not only did they number among them the bestathletes and brightest pupils, but with themstarted nearly every change in the public opinionof Flemming, and although the other lads mightgrumble a little at first, in the end they neverfailed to follow in their footsteps. None of theother cadets had cared to be on such intimateterms with the teachers, satisfied to drift alongfrom day to-day, in pleasant enough relationswith the doctor and his assistants, but regardingthem only as very insignificant parts of theirschool life, as compared with the ball-field or thedinner-table.

As the cadets were leaving the armory, thatafternoon, Max and Leon were joined by Osbornwho overtook them on the steps.

“Come up to my room this evening in study-hour,you fellows,” he said, in a tone too low tocatch the quick ear of Lieutenant Wilde whowas just ahead of them. “We’ll have some gruband some games.”

“Can’t,” said Leon concisely.

“Why not? Won’t the dominie let you?”asked Osborn, with a scornful curl of his lip.

“The dominie, as you call him, has nothing todo with it. I don’t choose to get myself into ascrape,” returned Leon loftily, for the slightingallusion to his brother irritated him more than hecared to admit.

“Just as you say,” responded Osborn indifferently.“You’ll come, won’t you, Max?”

“Dässent,” responded Max, with an indescribableflattening of the word. “I can’t afford toget a rep, for the paternal has promised me a newbicycle in the spring, if I’ll get up to a first lieutenancyby that time. Here ’tis November andI’m only a sergeant, so I don’t care to run anyrisks. Besides, I’m saving up all my energy forthe game, next Saturday.”

“You’re getting slow, Max,” was Osborn’s commentas he strolled off, leaving the others to goon alone.

“He’s up to something,” Max said regretfully;“and I’d like to be in it; but that Victor is toomuch to be thrown away, and Lieutenant Wildeis getting to watch Osborn’s room as a cat watchesa mouse-hole.”

“Osborn’s getting reckless, anyway,” answeredLeon. “He’s come out all right so many timesthat he’s beginning to believe his luck will followhim. Some day he’ll get left.”

“Hope ’twon’t be this time,” said Max; “for itmight mean extra guard duty next Saturday, andhe’s too good a half back to lose. It would ruinour chances, if he didn’t play, for we haven’t asingle good substitute. I tell you, Leon, you’rein luck. ’Tisn’t every fellow that gets in thecolor-guard and plays quarter back, the first termhe’s here. You owe some of it to the start Halhas given you, though.”

“Haven’t a doubt of it,” returned Leon, laughing.“By the way, do you know why Osbornhates Hal so?”

“He doesn’t hate him, exactly,” Max answered,as he paused with his hand on the knob of hisdoor; “he only knows Hal is down on him, andit doesn’t make him love the dominie, as he callshim, any too well.”

“Hal does say he’s outrageously fast,” saidLeon meditatively. “He’s full of his larks, but Idon’t think he’s a bad fellow.”

The next morning Leon was a little later thanusual in taking his place at the breakfast-table. Ashe seated himself, Max leaned forward to speak tohim.

“Osborn was skinned last night,” he said in alow voice.

“What?” And Leon looked up in surprise.

“Yes, the lieutenant called on him last night,and caught him playing cards in study-hour.’Tisn’t the first offence, and they say it means areduction for him.”

This was evidently an unexpected announcementto George Winslow who glanced up eagerly,as if in sudden exultation over the degradation ofhis superior officer. The quick motion did notescape the keen eye of Max, who went on with anincreased distinctness of utterance,—

“Yes, and if he comes down to Private Osbornagain, the boys all say ’t will be Corporal Arnoldthat will be taking his place as color-bearer. Areyou open to congratulation yet? What are youkicking me under the table for, Winslow?” heasked, suddenly turning to his neighbor. “If youwant anything, speak up and say so.”

“Beg pardon; didn’t know I hit you,” mutteredWinslow, discomfited to find that his suddenangry motion had not passed unobserved.

“Well, your shoes must be made of cast iron,then,” returned Max composedly. “It’s my beliefyou’re nervous, Winslow, and oughtn’t to drink somuch strong coffee.” And before Winslow couldrealize his intention, he had filled up his half-emptycup from the contents of the water-flask whichstood beside him. That done, he moved backfrom the table, leaving Winslow to growl in peace,with the certainty that, true to the nature of thegenuine bully, he would never dare attack anupper class man.

“What is it really about Osborn?” asked Leon,joining Max in the hall, a few minutes later.

“Why, Lieutenant Wilde walked in on himlast night, about half-past eight. He suspectedsomething was up, so he took them by storm. Hefound Osborn and Strong playing cards, and hejust walked them down to the doctor’s. I don’tcare for Strong; he’s no good, but I’m sorry forOsborn. But I’ll tell you, Leon, we were wellout of it.”

“I’ve never been in it much with Osborn,” saidLeon thoughtfully. “Hal won’t let me have muchto say to him; but I shall miss him in drill, forhe’s a good fellow there, and I shall hate to losehim.”

“Even if it gives you his place?” suggestedMax wickedly.

“’twon’t,” said Leon. “My chance isn’t asgood as Smythe’s; he’s sure to get it.”

“It’s a close call between you,” answered Max;“but everybody says that, if it comes to a promotion,you’ll get it. If you do, though, you may aswell prepare for a row with Winslow, for he’sdown on you already, and never will consent tohaving you put over him. He wanted to go forme, this morning; but he didn’t dare, for he knewI was more than a match for him. We had onelittle set-to last year, and that taught him a lesson.He’s queer, anyhow; he can’t stand it to belaughed at, so I just make fun of him wheneverI can.”

“I wish he were out of the way,” said Leon,with an anxious frown. “He makes me wild, andI’m afraid some day I can’t stand it any longerand shall pitch into him.”

“I hate fighting as badly as you do, Leon,” saidMax candidly; “but there are some fellows thatneed to be knocked down a few times to makethem endurable. The worst of it is, it’s likely toknock yourself down at the same time and landyou with the privates again. Winslow is justnaturally ugly, and he hates you because he saysyou laughed at him that first morning you sawhim. I don’t wonder; he’s enough to make a crocodilelaugh, sometimes.”

By noon, the rumors of Osborn’s disgrace wereconfirmed, and the question of his probable successorwas discussed on all sides. It was the generalopinion of the boys that the office would fall toLeon, though Smythe’s narrow, but literal scholarshipand slavish adherence to rules made him apossible candidate. Of Winslow, strange to say,there seemed to be no question.

Contrary to Leon’s expectations, Osborn, whenhe appeared at dinner, seemed in no way castdown by his late experience. On the contrary,he carried it off with his usual gay good-nature,and laughingly offered to bet as to his successorwho was not to be appointed until dress-parade,on the following day.

“Whoever ’tis, he ought to be grateful to mefor stepping down and out,” he declared with acareless laugh. “I’ve given somebody a chanceto go up, and I hope he’ll feel properly obliged tome.”

Late that evening, Leon went to LieutenantWilde’s room, to ask a question in regard to hislesson for the next day. As usual when he wasthere, he lingered for a time, talking of this matterand that, with the perfect good-fellowship whichmarked all the relations between LieutenantWilde and his pupils. When, after half an hourof lively talk, he stepped out into the hall, he wassurprised to come upon Winslow who stood a fewfeet from the door, apparently waiting for someone.

“Hullo, Winslow! what are you up to here?”he asked, for Winslow rarely went into his teacher’sroom.

But Winslow made no reply, and Leon wentaway down the hall, quite unconscious of thethreatening glances cast after him by his rival.He thought no more of the meeting until the nextmorning when he and Harold King were strollingabout the grounds, between the early guard-mountingand chapel, as the boys called the simpleopening exercises of the school. The two boys hadreached the foot of the hill and were just turningto come back, when Winslow abruptly appearedto them.

“What were you doing in Lieutenant Wilde’sroom last night, Arnold?” he demanded roughly.

“It’s none of your business,” returned Leoncoolly; “but I’d just as soon tell you. I went into ask him about to-day’s lesson.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Winslow doggedly.“You went in to talk up this color-guard affair.”

“What an idea!” said Leon, with a disdainfullaugh. “Nobody but you would think of sucha thing.”

“You did, then,” insisted Winslow, althoughwithout once meeting the clear, steady gaze of hisantagonist; “you went in there to try to get himto give you Osborn’s place.”

“Oh, come, Winslow,” remonstrated Harold;“don’t be a fool. That isn’t Arnold’s way.”

“You shut up, King!” returned Winslow brutally,“I’m not talking to you.”

“No; but I am to you,” retorted Leon, who felthis temper fast giving way. “I’ll thank you toclear out and let me alone; you’ve been in my waylong enough.”

“I’ve been there long enough to see that you’vetoadied to Lieutenant Wilde ever since you came;and if you think you’re going to sneak, and getpromotions away from better fellows than you are,you’re much mistaken.”

“What!” And Leon faced his foe with blazingeyes, and his lips quivering with excitement. “I’venever taken unfair advantage of any fellow in thisschool, George Winslow, and you know it.”

“That’s a lie.”

The insult was more than Leon could bear; andthe words were no sooner spoken than there cameone quick, decisive blow, and Winslow wentsprawling backward on the ground. Too thoroughlycowed to rise, he lay staring up into theflushed, angry face of his slender conqueror. Halffrightened at what he had done, Leon bent on oneknee to see that he had not materially injured hisfallen foe; then, when freed from any anxiety onthat score, he rose to his feet, saying haughtily,—

“Next time you want to tell any such storiesabout me, Winslow, just remember that what I’vedone once I can do again, and keep out of mysight, unless you want a worse thrashing than this.And now,” he added, with cutting sarcasm, “ifyou aren’t afraid, you’d better get up and getsomebody to brush your back off, for it’s almostchapel time, and being late might hurt yourchances of promotion.” And turning on his heel,he went in search of his brother to whom he toldthe story of the fight, with a strange mingling ofpleasure and shame as he recounted the insults ofWinslow and his speedy punishment.

“’Twas all you could do, Leon,” said Harryadmiringly, when his brother paused. “It had tocome, for he was going to walk over you till youput a stop to his impudence. The worst of it is,I’m afraid this ends your chance of promotion, forthe doctor is down on fighting. You’ll be welloff, if you get out of it without a week’s arrest.”

Leon groaned at the thought. Indeed, the ideaof a week spent in his room, only varied by goingto and from his lessons, was not an attractive one;and moreover, this was Wednesday and on Saturdaycame the long-anticipated football game. Therest of the morning was spent by Leon in alternatingperiods of hope and fear, which last was notlessened by seeing Winslow go limping up thesteps to the doctor’s door, and later by overhearinga summons to Harold King to go to the doctorat noon.

Soon after noon his own call came, and heslowly made his way to the doctor’s study, whichwas always the scene of interviews of a likenature. It was Leon’s first introduction to theplace and, as he glanced nervously about, it seemedto him that the very writing-table took on anaustere frown, and that the copy of a Verestschaginabove the mantel looked unnecessarily vengefuland destructive. Then he looked at the doctor,and felt an immediate relief. Though unusuallygrave, it was still the same kind, just, quietman whom he knew so well.

“Arnold,” said the doctor slowly, “I am toldthat you have been fighting.”

Leon looked at him without flinching.

“Yes,” he admitted; “I knocked Winslow over.”

“But don’t you know that it is against therules of the school?”

Leon bowed in silence.

“Then why did you do it?” asked the doctoragain.

The boy hesitated.

“Because there wasn’t anything else I coulddo,” he said at length.

“I can hardly believe that, Arnold. Fightingis thoroughly lowering and brutalizing, besidesdestroying the order of the school. Questions ofdiscipline must be left to me, not settled by eachone of you boys. I think you understood thatwhen you came here, although you have nowdisobeyed the established rule of the school. Isthere anything you wish to say for yourself?”

“Nothing,” replied Leon briefly.

In spite of himself, the doctor looked at the boyadmiringly. He had heard the story of the fightfrom Harold King, and he appreciated Leon’ssilence in regard to the provocation he hadreceived, his proud reluctance to lighten his ownpunishment by accusing a schoolmate. Memoriesof a like scene in his own school life rushed intothe doctor’s mind, and made him long to pardonthe young culprit whose look met his so squarely;but justice must be done, so he hardened his heartand said, as severely as he could,—

“Very well, Arnold, you have willfully brokenthe rules and been guilty of grave insubordination.Since you have no excuse to offer, I shall orderLieutenant Wilde to deprive you of your promisedpromotion, and put you under two days’ arrest.Now go.” And he waved Leon from the room,not daring to prolong the interview, for fear hemight relent.

“What are you going to do with such a boy?”the doctor said to his nephew that night. “Hejust stood his ground and wouldn’t give in, thoughhe knew he had excuse enough, if he would onlytell it. It’s no easy work to punish a fellow likethat, for you or I would have done just as he did,if we’d been in his place.”

“It strikes me that our color-guard is gettingdemoralized about as fast as it can,” Max observedto Louis, as they were going to bed. “WithFrank Osborn down, and Leon down, and Winslowhalf-way in disgrace, Smythe can have it all hisown way, confound him! But I’ll tell you onething,” he added vindictively; “I’ll make it hot forthat Winslow. He deserves to be court-martialledfor his pains.”

CHAPTER VI.

VICTORIOUS NINETY-TWO.

“If bread is the staff of life, butter is the goldhead to the cane,” remarked Max profoundly, ashe waved the butter-knife.

“I say, Max,” inquired Stanley; “how long didit take you to study that up?”

“I knew he had something on his mind,” addedAlex; “he has been unusually quiet all themorning.”

“None of your impertinence, Alex,” Max wasbeginning, with mock dignity, when Louis said,from his seat farther down the table,—

“He made it up last night, before he went tosleep. I was just dropping off when I heard himmumbling, ‘Bread—staff of life—butter—hm—butter?—um—yellow—no,gold.’ I fellasleep just then, and left him still studying onit.”

“You don’t appreciate really good jokes,” saidMax loftily; “and if you tell any more suchstories about me, I’ll leave you out of the nextlark I have on foot.”

“You don’t dare,” said Louis, laughing.

“What’s going on?” inquired Stanley curiously,for he had caught a knowing glance whichpassed between the room-mates, and felt sure,from Max’s suppressed excitement, that there wassome frolic on hand.

“Nothing more exciting than the game to-morrow,”answered Max evasively, as he moved awayfrom the table. “I only wish that Leon had beenordered for extra duty in the afternoon, instead ofFrank Osborn. I’m afraid our side hasn’t muchchance, unless two days of arrest have underminedLeon’s constitution. He’ll make trouble for us, ifit hasn’t.”

The boys separated for evening study-hour, andsoon afterwards quiet reigned over Flemming, forthe members of the eleven went early to bed, to beready for the event of the morrow, while the otherboys soon followed the example of their mates.Long before “lights out” had sounded and LieutenantWilde had made his round, Old Flemmingwas as dark and silent as a deserted house, lefttenantless even by ghosts. However, if any ghostlywanderer had been walking the halls of Old Flemming,that night at midnight, he would have beensurprised to see a door swing slowly open and twoboys step stealthily out into the hall, their shoesin their hands and a great, dark bundle under thearm of one of them. With long, noiseless stepsthey moved towards the head of the stairs, pausingoften to listen and peer into the velvety darknessaround them; then they stole down the stairs tothe outer door which they opened as cautiously asthey had done the other, closed it behind them,and passed out into the night. At the foot of thesteps leading from the drive up to the level of thearmory door, they dropped down on the groundand began to put on their shoes.

“All right so far, Wing,” said one of them in alow tone, as he laced up his shoe and tied thestring in a complicated knot. “If we can carrythis thing through, we’re in luck.”

“And if we’re caught, it will be bad for us,”returned Louis gloomily. “After all, though, thechances are with us, for nobody has ever tried anythingof the kind before now, and they won’t beon the watch to prevent it.”

“We’re all safe enough till we go in again,”said Max; “as long as we don’t break our necks,”he added provisionally, as he glanced up at thearmory which was dimly outlined against the starlesssky above.

“Fine night for us,” observed Louis. “Butcome ahead; we don’t want to waste any timetalking.” And he led the way to the buttresseswhich flanked the corner of a little wing near thefront of the building.

“I’ll go up ahead,” said Max; “and then youhand up the colors. Bother the fellow thatplanned this building!” he added petulantly.“I’ve rubbed all the skin off my knee, trying toget a purchase against this smooth stone. Whycouldn’t he have left it rough, I wonder.”

“He would, if he’d had the interest of ninety-twoat heart,” returned Louis. “But stop scoldingand hurry up there.”

Both the boys were as agile as monkeys, and bybracing themselves against the angle of the buttresses,they had soon climbed up to where theycould gain a slippery footing on the steep roof ofthe wing. Once there, their way was easier, for arow of small bars fastened to the slates, showedwhere the janitor went up to the ridgepole, in therare event of trouble with the lines for raising thecolors. At the ridgepole the boys came to a halt,and seating themselves astride the sharp comb ofthe roof, they began to untie the bundle they hadso carefully brought with them. The next moment,the roof at their feet was covered with somethinglarge and dark, which lay in loose foldsalong the tiles.

“Ready?” asked Max, after a moment of carefuladjustment.

“Ready,” answered Louis from his post fartherback on the roof.

“Let her go, then!” And there was a soundof rasping cordage, as the dark mass slowly roseinto the air.

“Catch hold of me, while I make this fast,” saidMax. Then he bent forward over the edge of theroof, for a moment. “Now,” he continued, as hecautiously rose to a perpendicular once more, “ifthey don’t stare to-morrow morning, when they goto put up the colors, my name’s not Max Eliot.”

“Won’t Paul be wild, though, to think thatnone of his men were bright enough to think ofit?” said Louis, with a chuckle, as he prepared todescend.

Max followed him at a little distance, and halftheir way was safely accomplished when Louisheard a sudden slip, followed by a heavy thud anda suppressed exclamation from Max.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, in the samelow tone in which all their conversation had beencarried on.

“Missed one of the steps and sat down,” repliedMax wrathfully. “I wouldn’t mind the thump;but I hit on one of these beastly nails and I feltsomething give out. If I’ve torn a hole in mycoat, it will give the whole thing away. I couldbuild a better armory than this, myself,” he added,as he scrambled to his feet again.

“Safe!” ejaculated Louis, when the door oftheir room had once more closed behind them.“We’ve put the thing through, Max, and I don’tsee how we can get caught.”

“Unless my coat tells the story,” said Max ruefully,as he pulled off the offending garment andfelt up and down the back. “Here ’tis,” he continued;“a great three-cornered tear, large enoughto put my head through. However am I going tomend it, so it won’t show?”

“You can pin it up,” said Louis hopefully. “Ifyou can just get through the morning, you can letit go that was torn in a scrimmage. But do goto bed, for we mustn’t be sleepy in the morning.”

Louis’s warning was unnecessary, for the excitementof their escapade and of the coming gamekept the boys from sleeping soundly during thefew remaining hours of the night; and the firstlight of the morning found Max, partly dressed,sitting on the edge of his bed, with his mouth fullof pins, as he tried to repair the damages wroughtby his fall.

“How does this go, Wing?” he asked, slippingon the coat and turning his back to Louis whowas still in bed.

“Like time,” responded Louis promptly andconcisely. “It’s all puckered up and looks worsethan the hole.”

“Then what can I do?” asked Max desperately.“I never could sew it up, even if I had the tackle;and it can’t go as ’tis, for ’t would tell the wholething. If I only had another fatigue coat! Helpme out, there’s a good fellow, for you’re in it asbadly as I am.”

“Let’s see,” said Louis, raising himself on hiselbow to contemplate the task before him; “mysister mends her gloves with plaster; why notdoctor up your coat the same way?”

“Good scheme!” said Max approvingly, as hedived into his pocket for a tiny silver case.

Then, possessing himself of the one pair of scissorswhich the room afforded, he settled himself tohis novel tailoring with such good success that hewas enabled to put in a prompt appearance at thebreakfast-table, with but little trace of his adventureof the previous night.

It was the unvarying custom of the school tohave the colors raised on the armory, every morningat the hour for guard-mounting; but on thisparticular morning, the eyes of the early stragglersabout the grounds were met by a new feature inthe landscape. From the top of the flagpole on thearmory, a flag was already waving in the morningwind; but instead of the familiar stars and bars ofthe national tricolor, there flaunted a huge bluecambric banner, inscribed in golden letters withthe legend: ’92 AND ’94. The new colors werepromptly hauled down, but not before most of thecadets had gathered around the armory to lookand laugh, and speculate as to the perpetratorsof the joke; but neither the boys’ speculations, northe doctor’s efforts to discover the offenders, eversucceeded in bringing to light the mystery of themidnight expedition of the loyal juniors.

The long-anticipated Saturday before Thanksgivingwas a cold, clear, bracing day, as if especiallydesigned for the annual football match.According to the regular habit of the school,lessons were over at eleven that morning, and alight lunch was served immediately afterwards.Promptly at two o’clock the procession formed infront of the armory, headed by the school bandwho banged and tooted away in their best style.Back of them walked the two elevens, gorgeousin their uniforms, the white jerseys of one sideadorned with a huge scarlet F. on the chest, whilethe others wore a blue letter modestly surroundedwith a halo of little golden stars. This impressivebody was followed by the twenty or thirtycadets who had no active part in the proceedings,but went merely in the light of spectators. LieutenantWilde and Mr. Boniface, walking arm inarm, brought up the rear with befitting solemnity.To the inspiring strains of “Marchingthrough Georgia,” the line moved off, turneddown the hill and marched twice around thedoctor’s house, while Mrs. Flemming and Gypwatched them from the front piazza, and MaggieO’Flarity, on the back porch, saluted them witha flourish of her broom and poker. Then, withthe doctor in their ranks, they started for the ball-field,while the band, with a delightful impartiality,changed their tune to “See, the ConqueringHero comes!” And the small village boys thatgarnished the fence, waved their shabby hats inpleased anticipation.

The doctor and Lieutenant Wilde took up theirpositions as umpire and referee, for out of lovefor their boys they cheerfully resigned themselvesto the somewhat doubtful enjoyments of thesehonorary offices; the spectators arranged themselvesas best they could, and the players took theirplaces for the struggle. The seniors realized thatthis was their last chance to cover themselves withglory, so far as football was concerned, and Leonwas burning with a determination to efface thememory of his recent disgrace; while, on theother side, the juniors, secure in their faithfultraining, viewed their opponents with scorn, andencouraged their young allies to do their best.Louis squared his shoulders, and stood verystraight, with the consciousness that his blue andgold finery was extremely becoming, and Maxtossed a stray pine cone at the nearest villageurchin, a tow-headed youth who dodged andchuckled in recognition of this especial mark ofattention.

At a signal from the doctor, the play began andthen—But why describe all the details of thegame to an audience of American boys who knowand love it so well, or to those older and wiser—andduller heads, to whom the whole subject isuninteresting, and its mysteries a sealed book?It is enough to tell that there were the usual groupingsof wildly excited lads, the usual mad racesacross the field, the usual wild onslaughts of therush line. Again and again Leon caught the ballfrom the snapper and passed it on to Paul for arun, again and again the fine punting of Maxsaved the game for the juniors; but the intermissionhad come and gone, and the issue was doubtful.Slowly, as if reluctant to leave the busyscene, the sun dropped towards the western hills,and the battle was in favor of the seniors. Thecritical moment had come, and the teams lined upfor a scrimmage, with the ball far towards thejunior goal. Very quietly and steadily JackHoward took the ball, though his face was whitewith the intense excitement of the moment, as hewaited for the captain’s signal to play.

“One—four—three!” commanded Paul.

For one instant he balanced the ball on its end,then snapped it back with suddenness and precision,rising again in time to block his man in theopposing rush line. With the same accuracy thathis centre had shown, Leon caught up the swiftly-movingball in the hollow of his right arm, andwith one quick swing, passed it on to the lefttackle who darted away down the field, only tobe met full in his course by the junior right tackle,who leaped upon him with a suddenness that fairlyhurled the ball from his grasp into the clutches ofthe junior men.

Again came the breathless excitement of awaitingthe signal to play. Then the cry of the juniorcaptain, “Five—six!” was followed by the answeringsignal from Stanley, to warn the snapback that he was ready. Swift as thought, theball rolled back to his hand, and went flying toLouis who, seizing an unguarded opening betweenthe end and tackle, sprang forward and went dodgingdown the field, half-way to the senior goal,before he could be stopped. There was a momentof deafening applause; then the tumult wasstilled, for all realized that the climax of the gamehad come.

“Seven—two!” commanded the junior captain.

Again, as the ball rolled back to Stanley, thelines were broken for a desperate, hand-to-handstruggle. Then a triumphant shout from theseniors was met by an answering groan from thefriends of the juniors. Stanley had passed the ballto the “scrub” who was substituting for FrankOsborn. Misunderstanding the captain’s signal, hehad fumbled in receiving it, and the seniors hadfallen on the ball.

For an instant, Paul surveyed the field. Inspite of their recent mishap, the juniors were playingfinely; still, when it came to a question ofbrute force, the advantage lay with the seniors,and he gave his orders accordingly. Massing theirmen into a wedge about the precious ball, theseniors ploughed their way down the field, offeringa resistless, impenetrable front to the baffledjuniors. Six yards, eight yards, eleven yards, onthey swept. Then Louis, who had been watchingfor his moment to come, all at once plungedthrough and over the human barrier, knocking theball from the hands of the man who was holdingit, and capturing it in the very midst of theenemy, amidst the jubilant shouts of his allies.Ten minutes more to play, on an almost evenscore; but the advantage of position lay with thejunior team, as once again the elevens lined up.

“Seven—four!” commanded the junior captain.

Once more the ball flew from Stanley to Louiswho made a rush towards a weak spot in the opposingline, then, seizing the moment when thesenior team had massed itself to protect the threatenedpoint, abruptly passed the ball to Max, whoshut his teeth together and punted as he had neverpunted before. Up and out flew the ball, far overthe heads of the rushers, and away sprang theboys after it, with Louis leading the juniors, andthe ends plunging along close at his heels. Atalmost the same moment, Leon and Louis reachedthe ball. Leon cast himself upon it, but Louishurled himself on top of Leon and knocked theball from his grasp. When they emerged fromthe pile of wriggling boys, it was Louis who heldthe ball and they were close to the senior goal.Three minutes later, the victory lay with thejuniors.

The conquering eleven were immediately seizedand surrounded by their schoolmates, for both thespectators and the defeated contestants united ingiving them hearty congratulations on their fineplay, although Louis was unanimously voted the realwinner of the game. There were a few minutesof breathless, noisy chatter; then the band struckup “Hail to the Chief,” and the procession reformed,to march back to Old Flemming for a jollysupper, presided over by no less a person than thedoctor himself, supported on either hand by thecaptains of the rival elevens.

“I say, Hal,” said Paul, stopping him on thepiazza; “where’s that young brother of yours?He played magnificently, and I want to tell himso.”

“I don’t know where he is,” answered Harry.“I haven’t seen him since the game. Perhaps he’sgone up-stairs for something; I’ll go and see, ifyou want.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Paul, turning away.“He’ll be down to supper in a few minutes, andI can see him then.”

But Leon failed to appear at supper-time, andwhen Harry and Paul went to look him up afterwards,they found him lying on his bed, looking alittle white about the mouth.

“What’s the matter, Leon?” exclaimed Harryanxiously.

“Oh, nothing much,” answered Leon, sitting upas he saw them enter; “only I twisted my foot alittle in that last rush. It felt sort of queer, andI thought I’d keep still to-night; but ’t will be allright in the morning, so don’t say anything aboutit.”

However, morning found the ankle so swollenand lame that Leon allowed his brother to askLieutenant Wilde to come and look at it. Slightas was his knowledge of such matters, LieutenantWilde unhesitatingly pronounced it a severesprain, and the village doctor, who appeared alittle later, confirmed him in the statement andordered the boy to give his foot a rest for somedays.

“When you boys get a little sense of yourown,” the old man remarked vehemently, whilehe bound up the foot with fingers as gentle as awoman’s; “when you boys get a little sense ofyour own, I say, you’ll leave off playing such anabominable game as football. It’s come now towhere it isn’t much but a prize-fight, and all it’sgood for is to bring in an income to us doctors.There! now you’re all right, but don’t you thinkof stepping on that foot for the next week. Thenwe’ll see!” And he took his departure, leavinghis patient looking rather forlorn.

“This is fine,” remarked Leon disconsolately,when he had gone. “Here ’tis Thanksgivingweek, and everybody going off. Between this andmy row with Winslow, I am rather down on myluck, just now.”

“Never mind, Leon,” said Alex, who chancedto be in the room. “Everybody says the doctoronly punished you because he had to, for the looksof it; and you can console yourself with thethought that the seniors are all saying that youdid more than any other one fellow to save thegame for them.”

“Yes,” added Harry; “and you’d better bethankful that you didn’t lay yourself up in practice.Plenty of fellows have done it before now,and there’s neither glory nor fun in that kind ofthing, you know.”

“Much good that does me,” returned Leonungratefully, though at heart he was proud of hissuccess. “I only hope daddy won’t think I’m ahard case. But when you fellows are off eatingturkey, think of me, starving here on husks, withonly Dame Pinney for company.”

But Mrs. Flemming was far too motherly alittle woman to think of leaving Leon for a lonelyThanksgiving with Mrs. Pinney, the housekeeper.Early the next morning, she knocked at Leon’sdoor, with a daintily-packed basket in one handand the latest boys’ book in the other.

“I just looked in for a minute,” she said; “toask if it wouldn’t be a good idea to have you carrieddown to our house, Wednesday morning, tostay till the boys come back, on Monday. LieutenantWilde will be with us, and we should alllike this chance to get better acquainted with you.Gyp is lamenting that we can’t have Harry, too;but I suppose his plans are already made.”

Accordingly on Wednesday morning Leon waswaited upon by a “lady’s chair,” formed of Jackand Alex, who marched down the hill to the doctor’shouse and deposited their burden in a reclining-chairwhich was cosily drawn up in front ofthe parlor fire, close to a little table covered withthe latest illustrated papers and a number of booksof travel and adventure, such as boys love. Fromthis luxurious retreat, Leon could watch hisdeparting friends with calm indifference; for washe not to spend five whole days in the house withthe doctor and Lieutenant Wilde, with Mrs. Flemmingto coddle him, and Gyp to amuse him to thebest of her small ability?

CHAPTER VII.

HOW LEON SPENT HIS THANKSGIVING.

The next morning Leon lay on the sofa reading,for at least the tenth time, the adventures of theimmortal Tom Brown, with as deep an interestin them as he had felt when first he made theacquaintance of that hero so dear to boyish hearts.The doctor and his nephew had gone to walk upan appetite which should do honor to the dinnerof state that Mrs. Flemming was superintendingin the kitchen, and Gyp sat on the floor in thecorner, robing the patient Mouse in the clothes ofher second-best doll.

“There! Doesn’t she look pretty, Leon?” sheinquired at length, triumphantly holding the catup to his view.

The usual melancholy expression of the poorold cat was now set off by a rosy silk bonnetcocked rakishly over one eye, while her long, lankbody was adorned with a green skirt, a pale bluesash and a white waist. Mouse, however, wasevidently accustomed to such finery for, exceptfor an increased droop to the corners of her mouth,there was nothing to show her disapproval of thistreatment. Leon laughed, as he dropped his bookby his side and, clasping his hands back of hishead, he turned to watch Gyp who was holdingMouse out at arms’ length, tipping her head fromside to side, as she critically eyed her pet.

“There’s one good thing about Mouse, Gyp,”he remarked lazily; “she’s a real good frame tobuild a cat on, if you ever want to do it.”

“I don’t know zac’ly what you mean,” saidGyp, with great severity; “but I ’most knowyou’re making fun of Mouse.”

She was silent for a few moments, while sheadded the finishing touches to the already elaboratetoilet of the cat. Then she seemed to repentof her sternness, for she dropped Mouse into achair and went across to Leon’s sofa, where shesat down on the edge of it and laid one chubbyarm across the boy’s shoulders, in a comically protectingfashion. She surveyed him for a moment,puckering up her small mouth, while her roguishbrown eyes grew gentle and the heavy curlsdrooped till they brushed his cheek. Then, as ifsatisfied that he was neither hurt nor angry, shewent on in a wheedling tone, as she nestled closerto him,—

“I’m so sorry you hurt you, Leon. Don’t youthink you’d like to tell me a story?”

“A story!” groaned Leon despairingly, for asthe youngest of the family, he knew little of children.“I’m afraid I’m not much good at stories,Gyp.”

“Why not?” inquired Gyp remorselessly.“Harry is. He says he used to have to tellthem to you lots of times, when you were littleand cross.”

Leon blushed, in spite of himself.

“What kind of stories do you like?” he asked,willing to change the subject.

“’Most any kind,” answered Gyp, reaching upto tuck the afghan around Leon’s chin and, atthe same time, slyly moving his book out of hisreach. “I like those best with ever so many wildanimals in them, eflunts and bears and things;but they must always be true ones, ’cause mammadoesn’t want me to learn ’bout things that aren’tso.”

“But, Gyp,” remonstrated Leon, in dismay atthis literary program; “I don’t know any truestories about wild animals.”

“I should think you could make up some,”answered Gyp logically. “I make ’em up, sometimes,and I’ll tell you one, if you want, by andby, after you’ve told me yours.”

“Tell me now,” urged Leon, hoping to gaintime.

“No, you must tell first, ’cause you’re company,”replied Gyp, with an uncomfortable regardfor the etiquette of the occasion.

“Hm!” sighed Leon. “Let me see, what shallI tell you about? Do you know old Jerry,Gyp?”

“Who’s he?”

“The old, old man with long, white hair thatcomes around here, sometimes, to see if we’ll givehim something to eat or some clothes.”

“Yes,” nodded Gyp. “I know him. Whatabout him.”

“I was going to tell you how I went to see himonce,” said Leon, moving to make more room forthe child. “It was about two weeks ago, andMax and Jack and I started off, one Saturday, togo to his house. He lives way up beyond the village,in the woods. His house is a queer little bitof a one, made out of rough boards, with a pieceof stove-pipe for a chimney, and a little narrowdoor, painted blue.”

“What’s that for?” inquired Gyp.

“Why, to go in at,” said Leon, rather surprisedat the question.

“No; I mean what for did he paint it blue?”persisted Gyp.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” answered Leon, withthe certainty that he was about to lose favor inGyp’s eyes, because of his lack of accurate informationupon this point.

“Well,” he went on; “we knocked at this bluedoor, and by and by we heard a man say ‘comein,’ and we went in and there was Jerry. He satthere smoking a pipe made out of a corn cob, andmending a hole in his boot with a piece of string.There were ever so many funny things there, fish-polesand box-traps and snares—”

“What’s that?” interposed Gyp.

“Oh, things to catch birds in,” explained Leonlucidly. Then he continued, “And there weresome cages on the wall, some with birds in, andsome with squirrels, and one had a snake. Andthere was a great black crow hopping around onthe floor, and three dogs, one yellow, and onewhite, and one black and yellow. And—and—and—”Leon hesitated.

“What did you do then?” demanded Gyp.

“We stayed a little while, and then we camehome again.”

“Is that all?” asked the child, and there was ascornful ring to her tone.

“I’m afraid it is,” replied Leon meekly.

“Well, I don’t think that’s much of a story,”remarked Gyp, with a frankness of criticism whichwould have done credit to a professional reviewer.

“You tell me one now, Gyp,” suggested Leon,feeling that his attempt at story-telling had resultedin dismal failure.

“Well, I will,” said Gyp, with perfect readiness.

Curling up one foot under her, she turned sothat she could face Leon. When she was settledto her liking, she began her tale which she emphasizednow and then by nodding her head, orsmacking her lips, with an air of relishing thegloomy details.

“Well, once, ever ’n ever so long ago, therewas a duck and a squan, and one day they weresitting on the bank in the sun to dry their feet,and the duck said, ‘I love you; do you love me?’and the squan said, ‘No, I won’t,’ and the ducksaid, ‘I’ll make you.’ So he ran at the squan, andthe squan ran away and jumped into the lake.The duck ran after her and, first thing he knew,he had tumbled in, right head first over heels.They began swimming round and round aftereach other, and pretty soon the squan was tired,so she turned into a crocodile with great, longteeth and claw-nails, and climbed out on the bank.Then the duck turned himself into another crocodileand went out after her; but when he foundher, she wasn’t there, for she made herself backinto a squan and was clear off in the water. Yousee, she was quicker ’n he was. He didn’t stop tochange, but went after her, fast as he could go,and when he came up to her, he pulled out thecarving-knife and cut her into four pieces. ‘There,’he said, ‘now I’ve killed you; that’s too bad.’But the pieces sank down to the bottom and whenthey hit the mud down there, they all grew togetheragain, so she could swim up. She cameup, just as quick, and pulled the carving-knife outof his hand, and she took the carving-knife, andstuck the points in and made little dents all overhim. So he died, and the squan pulled threepink feathers out of his tail, to show she’d killedhim, and then she went home to her little chickens.But she forgot the carving-knife, and when shesaw her chickens, she was so glad, that she droppedthe carving-knife right down on top of them andcut all their heads off, and so they were dead ascould be, every one of them; and when she knewthey were dead and she had killed them, she feltso badly that she went right off and was drowned,and that’s all there is about them.”

“Where’d you get all this story, Gyp?” inquiredLeon, much impressed by the tragic end of thetale.

“Out of my think-box,” responded Gyp, as sheslipped down from the sofa and ran to the door, tomeet her father and her cousin.

“Well, my boy; how goes it?” asked the doctor,as he moved up a chair and sat down besideLeon. “Has it been a long morning to you?”

“Oh, papa, we’ve had a real good time,” interruptedGyp, climbing on his knee and taking hisface between her hands, to enforce his attention.“We’ve been telling stories, and Leon has beentelling me about an old man that lives alone witha black canary and smokes pop corn; and pleasewont you take me to see him?”

“I wasn’t talking to you, chatterbox,” said herfather, laughing. “How is the foot, Leon?”

“All right—”

“Won’t you, papa?” Gyp insisted.

“Won’t I what, you monkey?”

“Won’t you take me to see the old man?”

“I tried to tell her about Jerry’s house,” explainedLeon; “and she’s a little mixed up aboutit.”

“Nothing unusual,” answered the doctor. “Isit Jerry that you mean, Gyp?”

“Yes, I want to go to see his bird.”

“Some day, perhaps, when you are older; butit is too far for you to go now, for you would getall tired out. Now you mustn’t tease any more,but run away and play with Mouse, because Iwant to talk to Leon.” And as Gyp walked away,he dismissed the matter from his mind although,as it appeared later, the young lady did not.

Dr. Flemming devoted the next half hour toentertaining his guest, and their pleasant, ramblingtalk of Tom Brown, and the football game,and the boys, and the winter sports of the schoolgave Leon an even greater admiration for thedoctor than he had felt before, and made him forgetthat he was a prisoner for some days. The doctor,on his side, was making every effort to makethe time pass pleasantly, for not only did headmire the straightforward manliness of his pupil,but he was anxious to remove the memory of theirrecent interview in the study when, against hisown will, he had been forced to punish the lad fora breach of discipline which, in the eyes of theschool, was more than justified by its cause. Hesucceeded so well that, when Lieutenant Wildecame into the room, he found them discussing theprospect for the spring regatta with the eagernessand good-fellowship of a pair of children; andLeon was almost sorry when Mrs. Flemming appeared,a little later, to tell them that dinner wasready.

“Now, auntie,” said Lieutenant Wilde, as herose; “as I said to you this morning, we don’twant this young man to eat his Thanksgivingdinner, in solitary state before the fire; so, withhis permission, I’ll escort him to the table.” Andbefore Leon had time to object, he was picked upbodily and carried out into the next room, whereLieutenant Wilde put him down in a chair betweenhimself and Mrs. Flemming.

It was one of the merriest dinners that Leonhad ever known, and the informality was decidedlyincreased by Gyp, who insisted that Mouse, in allher elegance, should come to the table and sit in ahigh chair by the side of her small mistress, whereshe was regaled on many a dainty morsel whichshe received and swallowed with a stolid unconcern,apparently quite unconscious of the fact thather pink bonnet had slipped off from her ear, andworked its way around until the eye on the otherside was in a state of complete eclipse.

Then they went back to the parlor again, andwhile Mrs. Flemming drew together the heavycurtains to shut out the gathering twilight andthe fine, soft snow which was beginning to fall,the doctor piled the sticks high on the andirons,and they watched the slow, curling tongues of blueflame work their way up among them, and thenall at once turn to the bright red blaze whichlighted all the room. To Leon, after two monthsin the large boarding-house, the quiet, homelikeair of the place was indescribably pleasant; andhe lay back in his deep chair, saying little, butwatching the flickering light and listening to theconversation around him. Lieutenant Wilde satbeside him, resting one elbow on the arm of Leon’schair. Suddenly he turned to the boy.

“Homesick or sleepy, Leon?”

“Not a bit of either,” declared Leon, laughing,“I’m as lazy and happy as Mouse herself.”

“But it will never do to spend Thanksgivingevening in this quiet fashion,” said Mrs. Flemming,starting up. “We must have lights, so wecan have some games.”

“Don’t do it for me,” protested Leon. “I’mhaving an uncommonly good time, now.”

“It isn’t for you, any more than for the rest ofus,” answered Mrs. Flemming. “We play games,the doctor and I, almost every evening that weare at home. It keeps us from getting old andstupid; and then I’m a great believer in homegames, anyway. If I had twenty boys, I’d keepopen house for their friends, and play games withthem all, whenever they felt like it.” And shewent away to see about the lights, while LieutenantWilde drew the card-table up to the fire, andthe doctor threw on fresh wood, preparatory tosettling himself for his evening game.

It was not strange that, after three or four daysspent in this pleasant home, Leon almost dreadedthe return to the regular hours and discipline ofOld Flemming. So heartily did the doctor andhis wife unite in making the boy feel at ease, thathe soon forgot he was a guest, and occupied muchthe position of a favorite son of the house; for thefamily life went on in its usual course, only wideningits boundaries enough to take him well insidethem, cordially welcome, yet free from all constraint.The doctor himself was enough to accomplishthis, now entering into games with the zestof a boy, now reading aloud interesting scrapsfrom his evening paper, now carrying off Leon fora long, quiet talk in the study that, somehow,lost much of its threatening aspect and became amere cosy den, under these new conditions.

On Sunday night they were comfortably establishedthere, alone, for Gyp was in bed and LieutenantWilde had gone to church with his aunt,when the doctor suddenly asked,—

“Did you know Winslow wasn’t coming backafter the recess, Leon?”

“No.” And Leon roused himself from his book.“What’s that for?”

“Several reasons, none of them those that youneed to know. I had a long talk with him beforehe went, however, and he finally admitted that hewas as much in the wrong as you were, in yourrecent trouble with him. I thought it only rightto tell you this, as long as you refused to bringany charges against him. But, after all, his faultdoesn’t do away with your own, and it’s only fairthat you should suffer the penalty for it. Nextto deceit, my strictest rules are against fighting,for if all the boys were to settle their disputes inthat way, good by to the discipline of the school,and then good by to the school itself. I know itputs a boy into a hard place when he is annoyedin such a way, for of course he doesn’t want tocome to me with complaints. Still, I have madethe rule, and I feel that I have the right to exactobedience from my boys. If they have the honorof the place at heart, they will see the reason forit. Isn’t it so, Leon?”

And Leon gave a hearty assent.

CHAPTER VIII.

MAX MAKES A TREATY OF PEACE.

“I don’t believe you fellows know how hardyou are making it for Mr. Boniface,” LieutenantWilde had said to the boys who were gathered inhis room one night, not long before Thanksgiving.“I told him so the other day when we were talkingabout it, for I don’t think any one of youwould be mean enough to try to break up hisclasses.”

The subject was unexpected to them all, andfor a moment they were speechless.

“Has he been complaining of us,” asked Jackscornfully, after the pause.

“Yes and no,” answered Lieutenant Wilde. “Isaw that something was wrong, and asked himabout it. He told me then, and not till then.You would all have been sorry for him, if you hadseen him that day, for he seemed to feel so keenlythat he was making a failure here. Now aren’tyou boys all of you loyal enough to the doctor tofeel that you must be polite and respectful to anyman he may choose to put in here over you?Any rudeness to one of his teachers is an insult tohimself.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” confessed Maxfrankly. “But Bony and the doctor are twodifferent people.”

“That may be,” responded Lieutenant Wilde,as he pulled off his spectacles and fell to twirlingthem by the slender, bent ends of the bows; “butMr. Boniface represents the doctor in his classes.And moreover, he’s come here a stranger, and youwho know each other and the place, ought to tryto make him feel at home, instead of forming aleague against him, to torment him with childishtricks that are more suited to Gyp than to cadetsof your ages. He is hired to teach you and ispaid for it, I know; but he has come here with astrue a wish to help you and be friends with you,as the doctor himself, but you all treat him like anenemy instead.”

“What makes him so queer and glum with us,then?” said Jack, as he leaned forward to give thecoals a vigorous punch.

“Don’t you know yet, Jack, that everybodyisn’t just like everybody else? Mr. Bonifacewould like to be pleasant and cordial with you;but he hasn’t the gift of it, as the doctor has—”

“‘And you, Brutus,’” put in Max with a wink.

Lieutenant Wilde laughed, but took no othernotice of the interruption, as he went on with hisplea,—

“Besides, Mr. Boniface has one quality thatI’ve heard you all admire in other people.”

“What’s that?” inquired Paul skeptically.

“Stick-to-ativeness, in plain Saxon. I’ve oftenheard you talk about it in the boys, when theywouldn’t give up in some game, or the gymnasium;and you all say that Louis, here, saved the footballmatch for the juniors in that very way. Mr.Boniface is doing just the same thing with hiseducation. He has had disadvantages and setbacksenough to knock down a dozen ordinarymen; but he has fought his way along till now,and in the very last battle—scrimmage, if youprefer—he is liable to be beaten and driven outof the field by a dozen thoughtless boys, whowould some day be sorry to be responsible forbreaking down a man’s courage and spoiling hislife’s plans.”

“I don’t think we any of us started to be meanto Bony, Lieutenant Wilde,” said Alex. “We’vesort of fallen into the habit of running on him,for we don’t any of us like him. He is prettybad in class.”

“I didn’t suppose he really cared so much,”added Max. “It’s mean to hit a fellow whenhe’s down. I can’t like him, though, LieutenantWilde.”

“Have you tried very hard, Max?” inquiredLieutenant Wilde, laughing.

“Uncommonly,” responded Max with fervor.“I can’t like him, I know; but maybe I can swallowhim like a very bitter pill, and he’ll be goodfor me.” And he rolled up his eyes at his teacher,with such wickedness sparkling in them that LieutenantWilde’s dignity broke down, and he joinedthe boys in their shout.

“But, Lieutenant Wilde,” remonstrated PaulLincoln; “why do you go for us about it? Wearen’t any worse than the other fellows.”

“Possibly not; but I doubt that. Even if youaren’t, though, I have spoken to you about it,partly because I know you better, and partly becauseyou are the most organized set in the school,and so have more weight and influence. If younine boys would make up your minds to stand byMr. Boniface, you could carry the school alongwith you, till he wouldn’t have any more troubleat Flemming. Why not do it? Every youngknight must win his spurs by helping the poorand oppressed. You won’t find many giants anddragons in your way, so why not lend a hand tohelp on Mr. Boniface? If you boys will treat himlike a man and a friend, you’ll be more than repaid,for he is only waiting for a chance to know youand help you. And in some ways, he’s the finestteacher we have ever had at Flemming.”

Jack shook his head incredulously; then hesaid seriously,—

“I’ll tell you what, boys, we ought to be willingto do as much as this for Lieutenant Wilde’ssake.”

“Thank you, Jack,” replied Lieutenant Wildequickly. “Start to do it for me, if you will; butthe time will soon come that you are doing it forthe sake of Mr. Boniface.”

The subject was dropped, but though no morewas said at the time, it was plain that the littletalk had had its effect, for matters were now goingon most smoothly. Alex and Stanley had alwaysbeen above any reproach of rudeness, although itmust be confessed that they had shown a keenappreciation of the mischief of the others. Harryhad gone over to their side, as a matter of conscience,and insisted upon Leon’s doing the same,while Jack Howard openly stated that he “stood upfor Bony just because Lieutenant Wilde wantedthem to.” For one reason or another, the otherlads had followed their example, even to Max who,like most impulsive, affectionate fellows, was easilyinfluenced by his friends for the time being, andnot even the persuasions of Frank Osborn hadbeen able to win him from his good resolutions.

The change in the situation was so marked thatit was small wonder that Mr. Boniface had confidedto Lieutenant Wilde his fear that it was toosudden and too good to last.

“Even Eliot is behaving like a model boy,” heremarked, the Tuesday night after Thanksgiving.“He is a likable fellow at times, too.”

“Max is a splendid fellow,” answered LieutenantWilde enthusiastically. “He’s freakishand thoughtless in his fun, often a little too muchso, but he is the soul of honor and, in my opinion,that covers a multitude of sins.”

“So it does,” assented Mr. Boniface a littledubiously, for he was reflecting upon how largean expanse it had to work in the case in hand.“Eliot is a truthful boy, I think; but what acomfort it would be, if all the boys were as steadyand as anxious to learn as little Smythe. Thatboy is a perfect wonder.”

“Yes,” said Irving Wilde, in a tone of deepdisgust; “he’s a wonderful little prig. He learnslike a poll parrot, and his only desires on earthare to show off what he knows, and to turn outhis toes at a proper angle, when he’s on parade.The boys call him the King of the Fiends, and it’smy private opinion that they’re about right. I’veno patience with him, and it just galls me to haveto promote him over the heads of much betterfellows than he. Let me take Max, with all hissins, and with proper training and influences, I’llmake ten times the man of him.”

“Well, I think I prefer Smythe,” replied Mr.Boniface.

“You’re welcome to him; I don’t want him,”answered Lieutenant Wilde. “Life is somethingbesides committing schoolbooks to memory; putthe two boys into the same emergency, and balancethe selfish conceit of Smythe against the quick,impetuous generosity of Eliot, and tell me whichwill do more to help on his fellow-men. Smytheis just the boy to put behind a counter, to sellribbons and tape and spools of thread; Eliot, if hekeeps straight, will be a man from whom we shallhear, sometime or other. In the meantime, he’sneither saint nor sinner, but a genuine, healthyAmerican boy, and taken at its best, there’s nobetter race in the world.”

The door closed behind him, and Luke Bonifacesat down to read, feeling unusually at peace withthe boys, even to Max himself. Fortunately heknew nothing of the mischief which was just thenbeing plotted by the boy, who was restless withthe concentrated impishness developed by his fourdays’ holiday. Had he suspected, his quiet, restfulmood might have been rudely disturbed; now,as it was, he could enjoy it to the utmost.

Next morning, the lessons were under full headway.In the large school-room, left in the chargeof Mr. Boniface, the seniors were having a recitation,while the members of the junior and secondclasses were deep in their work. Over in a sunnycorner by the window, sat Max, in his favoriteposition, with his bent head held firmly betweenhis hands, covering his ears from disturbing sounds.All at once, two or three of the boys near himraised their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously.A faint sickening odor began to be noticeable, andrapidly increased, filling the air and penetratingeven to the teacher’s desk, at the far side of theroom. In his turn, Mr. Boniface raised his headand looked wonderingly about, as if seeking thesource of this fragrance, whose mystery was onlyequalled by its pungency. Nothing was to beseen to account for the phenomenon. Althoughsome of the boys were beginning to choke, andLouis sat with his nose buried in his daintily-scentedhandkerchief, Max alone seemed undisturbedin his work, and paid no heed to thesensation in the room. At length it could beendured no longer, and Mr. Boniface said,—

“Please open a window, Campbell.”

Stanley rose to do his bidding. As he movedacross the floor, he glanced at Max, surprised athis unusual interest in his lesson; then, for thefirst time in his whole school life, Stanley Campbelllost all consciousness of where he was, andburst into an irrepressible laugh. Carefullyarranged on the knee of Max, in the full glareof the sunshine, lay a smoldering lump of india-rubber,mounted on a bit of iron, and above it,just where it would focus the rays of light uponit, was a powerful lens, for the moment convertedfrom a magnifier into a burning-glass.

In a moment, too soon for Max to remove hisapparatus, Mr. Boniface stood beside him. Silentlyhe stretched out his hand; silently Max put intoit the glass and bit of rubber, noting, with anaughty satisfaction, that his teacher winced asthe hot mass dropped into his palm. Then Mr.Boniface said quietly,—

“Come to my room at three this afternoon,Eliot.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Max, with unwonted meekness.

That was all. Mr. Boniface returned to hisclass and Max fell to studying with a will, thoughpausing now and then, while he turned over a leaf,to speculate as to what direful punishment wasin store for him. There seemed something ominousin the calm, collected manner of the teacher,and Max wondered if he were aware of thedoctor’s strong prejudice against corporal punishment.Like most boys, Max disliked the idea ofbeing whipped, not only on account of the hurt,but also because he had a vague idea that it tookfrom his manliness, and put him on a level withdogs and horses and very small babies. Still, hewould pay the penalty for his fun, and take theconsequences as easily as he could.

But Mr. Boniface was wily. He had watchedIrving Wilde’s methods with the boys, and hadcome to the conclusion that they were worthimitating. He was gradually schooling himselfuntil he had lost something of his old excitablemanner, and could more easily meet the littleannoyances that came to him, day after day. Nowat length he was to attempt his master-stroke andsee if he could win over his arch-enemy, for so heregarded Max. Directly after dinner, he wentout for a long, rapid walk in the clear, cold air,and came in with every sense so quickened andrefreshed from the hour of active exercise, that hefelt himself ready for the coming interview.

Punctually at three, there came a knock at hisdoor. For a moment the teacher’s courage failed.He could more easily face the whole examiningboard of a missionary association, than one solitary,mischievous schoolboy. But it was too lateto draw back, so, as cordially as he could, he toldMax to enter.

Max strolled into the room, with his handsstuck into his trousers pockets, and stood leaningagainst the table with a carelessness whichsomehow failed to agree with the little troubledlook in the blue eyes. Not only was Master Maxrather anxious to know what was in store forhim, but his conscience, too, was beginning to beuncomfortably active. His burning the rubberseemed not quite so funny to him as it had donein the time of it, or as it would have done if Mr.Boniface had been very angry, instead of so quietabout it. He shifted his weight from one foot tothe other and back again, while he listened tohear his teacher come to the subject in hand.

“Sit down, Eliot,” said Mr. Boniface, motioninghim to a chair.

Max obeyed, with an unhappy feeling that thislessened his chance of flight. He pulled his handsout of his pockets and carefully fitted the tips ofhis fingers together, bestowing a little extra attentionon the thumbs. Suddenly Mr. Bonifaceturned to him.

“Eliot, what am I going to do with you?” heasked.

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” answered Max,half-defiantly, half-meekly.

“I don’t know as I do, either,” said. Mr. Boniface,with a smile. Then he went on quite seriously.“Eliot, suppose we forget for a while thatwe are teacher and pupil, and have a little talk, asone man would to another.”

Mr. Boniface had struck the right chord. Atthis appeal to his manhood, Max straightened upsuddenly and looked his teacher squarely in theeyes as he went on,—

“You’ll admit, won’t you, Eliot, that you wereguilty of a great rudeness this morning? I wasdoing my best to carry on the work for which Iam here, and you deliberately and purposely triedto break up my class. Isn’t it so?”

“I—I s’pose so,” said Max, glaring down athis folded hands, as if they were in some way toblame for his present position.

“But why did you do it?” went on Mr. Boniface,pursuing his advantage unrelentingly.

“Fun,” answered Max laconically.

“Which was the fun,” inquired Mr. Boniface,“to sicken us all, yourself among the rest, with adisagreeable smell, or to interrupt the class for tenminutes and make the school work so much longerat noon? Whichever way you put it, Eliot, itstrikes me that the game isn’t worth the candle,as they say, and the trick reacts on you and theother boys, as much as on myself.”

Max raised his head at this.

“Honestly, Mr. Boniface, the other boys weren’tin it a bit. Nobody else had anything to do withit.”

“Is this your glass?” asked Mr. Boniface, takingit from the table and pointing to the initialsH. P. A. cut in the handle.

“That’s Hal Arnold’s,” answered Max. “Iborrowed it of him yesterday; but I didn’t tellhim what I wanted of it. I knew if I did, hewouldn’t let me take it,” he added, with an artlessconfession that he knew he was in the wrong.

“That’s as much as to say you knew you weredoing something to be ashamed of,” said Mr. Bonifaceslowly.

“I was; and what’s more, I believe I am a littleashamed,” answered Max honestly. “I did justwant to see if that glass would burn rubber, andit was a splendid place to try. The other fellowsdid look so astonished; didn’t they?” And Maxlaughed at the memory.

In spite of himself, Mr. Boniface laughed too.That laugh settled the matter, for it won Maxcompletely. The boy put both elbows on thetable, rested his chin in his hands and remarkedwith a frankness which took away the teacher’sbreath,—

“Mr. Boniface, now see here: I’m sorry forwhat I did, and I won’t do it again—if I can helpit. I’m willing to say I’m sorry before all theboys, if you want. It’s no use for me to promisenot to do that kind of thing again, though, for Ishall most likely forget and do something just asbad, in a week or two. You see, when you justcame, I sort of got into the habit of teasing you,and I’ve kept on. I promised Lieutenant Wildethat I wouldn’t any more, but I’ve broken mypromise. Now I’ll try again. You said we mighttalk together like two men, so I thought ’twasfairer to tell you this, than to keep saying it aboutyou.”

During this clear, but surprising statement, Mr.Boniface had looked first perplexed, then annoyed.At length his face brightened and, with a smileas cordial as Lieutenant Wilde’s own, he held outhis hand to the boy, saying,—

“Thank you, Eliot, for being so honest; now Iknow just how we stand. I don’t see but we meanto do the fair thing by each other, only, once ina while, we both make mistakes. Shall we shakehands on it, and try again in the future?”

What need to ask? As he put the question,Max’s brown hand lay in his and the pressure ofthe boy’s fingers upon those of the man told aneloquent story of a newly-gained friend. No direfulpunishment, no long, solemn lecture could havedone the work which this pleasant talk had accomplished,and as Max sat there, he was resolving, inhis boyish soul, “to stand by Bony” in the future.

Meanwhile in Louis’s room, the boys were restlesslylounging about, while they waited for thereappearance of the young sinner.

“He must be having a bad time,” said Jack,taking out his watch for the twentieth time in thelast half hour.

“I’m afraid Bony’s giving it to him strong,”added Paul.

“You don’t suppose Bony’d whip him, do you?”suggested Leon, in an awed tone.

“Whip Max? Nonsense!” responded Harry.

“Don’t you be too sure, Hal,” said Jack. “Bonylooks as if he’d be ready for anything when hisblood is up. He’s just made up his mind that heis not to be interfered with.”

“But Dr. Flemming doesn’t allow whipping,”said Alex. “Bony’s much more likely to reporthim. It’s mean to come down on Max, though,for such a little thing, when we’ve all been as badas he.”

“Or would have been, if we’d been bright enoughand had dared,” added Harry, unconsciously strikingthe two main causes of Max’s being singled outto be the one in disgrace.

“The truth of it is,” said Louis; “Bony has beenholding off, this long time, and now at last, afterwe’ve walked all over him, the worm has turned,so I shouldn’t much wonder if he was pretty severe.I only wish it hadn’t been Max. A little disciplinewouldn’t hurt Smythe or some of those fellows,they’re such sneaks; but Max—”

“Here he comes!” interrupted Paul excitedly.“Now we shall hear all about it.”

“Well,” remarked Max coolly, as he came intothe room; “this is quite an unexpected pleasure;but I am delighted to see you, gentlemen, I amsure.” And with a low bow of mock ceremony,he crossed the room and sat down on the bed.

The boys waited eagerly to hear him speak, forthey felt sure that he would have an interestingstory to tell; but Max held his peace. His cheekswere flushed, and his eyes looked a deeper, clearerblue than ever; but otherwise there was nothingto show that anything unusual had occurred. Atlength Louis’s impatience could be restrained nolonger.

“Say, Max, what did he do to you?” he askedanxiously.

“Who?” inquired Max, with a preoccupied air.

“Oh come, Max, that’s no go,” interrupted Jack.“Bony, of course. Is he going to report you?”

“Report me? No, indeed,” answered Maxcalmly.

“Did he scold you much?” asked Alex sympathetically.

“Scold me?” echoed Max. “Not a bit.”

“Well then, what the mischief did he do? Tellus, Max, for we’re dying to know,” said Harrypersuasively.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” answered Max slowly.“He treated me like a gentleman that had madea mistake, and I’m going to try to behave like agentleman, after this. Bony’s a good man, boys,even if he is queer; and I mean to stand by him.I’m ashamed of myself that I’ve carried on so,and I told him I was. That’s all there is aboutit.”

“I’ll tell you what,” remarked Harry, as he andAlex went away together; “Bony must have hada change of heart.”

“It’s much more likely that Max has,” respondedAlex Sterne.

CHAPTER IX.

IN THE STORM.

It was more than a week after Thanksgivingwhen Dr. Flemming came hurrying into theschool-room one morning, and spoke to Mr. Bonifacefor a moment. Then he turned to the boyswho were watching, curious to see the meaning ofhis unwonted excitement.

“I should like to ask if any one of you haveseen Gypsy this morning.”

No one answered, but there was an immediatesensation in the room, for from the doctor’s manner,they all saw that something was wrong withthe child, and merry little Gyp was the pet andplaything of all the boys.

“What is the matter? Is Gyp lost?” askedAlex, who had chanced to be standing near thedesk when the doctor entered.

“I am afraid so,” her father replied, knittinghis brow anxiously. “Her mother just sent upto see if she was here. Gyp went out to play,early this morning, and she hasn’t been seen sincethen.”

“Perhaps she may be with Lieutenant Wilde,”suggested Mr. Boniface.

“A good idea! Thank you, Mr. Boniface,”said the doctor gratefully. “Eliot, will you runup to the laboratory and see?”

Max rushed away, but was soon back again withthe discouraging report that no one there had seenthe child since the afternoon before, when she hadbrought Mouse to call upon her cousin.

The doctor took one or two hasty turns up anddown the room to collect his thoughts, for theidea of any harm coming to the child unmannedhim. Then he faced the boys again.

“My boys,” he said; “I must call on you foryour help. Mrs. Flemming had looked about thegrounds before she came here, and now there isno knowing how long the child has been gone.How many of you will help me to hunt for her?Any that are willing may leave their lessons andcome to me in the hall.”

With one exception, every cadet in the roomsprang up. The exception was Leon who wasstill unable to use his foot freely, and who satthere, gazing rather forlornly after his companionsas they hurried away, followed by Mr. Bonifacehimself. The boy had taken his sprained anklevery patiently; but now he was wretched enough,as he glanced about the empty room, and listenedto the voices of his friends outside. Then hehopped slowly over to the window and stoodthere, watching the boys as the doctor dividedthem into squads and sent them off, this way andthat. It was a bleak, cold day, with every promiseof snow. The upper limbs of the bare treeswaved and twisted in the wind like so many gray,beckoning arms, and the dead brown leaves wentscurrying across the frozen ground, in search ofsome sheltered corner where they might stop andrest. Leon watched the group of boys, amongwhom were Alex and Harry and Max, until itwas out of sight, then he looked up at the dull,lead-colored sky and shivered, for it seemed as ifhe could feel its chill, even inside the house. Butthere was no use in his staying there alone, so,picking up his cane, he hobbled over to his roomin Old Flemming and sat down to read.

For some reason, his book was unusually dull,and out from its pages the face of Gyp keptlaughing up at him, just as it had laughed downat him on Thanksgiving morning, when he lay onthe sofa and she told him her wonderful story ofthe duck. All at once Leon threw down hisbook excitedly. Strange he hadn’t thought ofit before! She had probably gone to see oldJerry. He recalled how interested she had beenin his blue door and his crow. That was doubtlessthe secret of the matter. For a moment herejoiced in the suggestion; but then he rememberedthat he was alone in the house, for even theservants had joined in the search. Careless ofhis foot, he sprang up and started for the door,thinking to go himself; but a dozen reckless stepsconvinced him that such a proceeding was impossible,and with an irrepressible moan of pain, hethrew himself on his bed and clasped his anklein both hands. There he lay for a long hour, forgettinghis throbbing, aching foot while he listenedfor any sound from below, and meanwhileglancing out, from time to time, at the heavyflakes of snow which were beginning to whitenthe air. What would become of Gyp, he wondered.It was more than four miles to the oldman’s house, a long walk for a little child, andthe road through the thick woods and along bythe lake was lonely, even to a grown person. Hefancied he could see the small figure trudgingwearily along, now and then starting at someunexpected sound, and throwing an affrightedglance back over her shoulder. And what if,as was highly probable, Jerry should be awayfrom home? Any one who has been anxious,alone and in pain, will realize how rapidly Leon’sfears increased, and understand the relief he feltwhen steps and voices were heard on the piazzabelow. He rose and, though the pain in his ankleturned his very lips white, he went to the window,threw it open, and called loudly,—

“Who’s there? Come to fifteen!”

He waited for a moment until he heard thesteps coming up the stairs; then he closed thewindow and dropped into the nearest chair, justas Harry, Louis and Stanley came into the room.

“Did you find her?” he asked impatiently,while they shook the snow from their shouldersand looked at him inquiringly, too breathless tospeak.

“Not yet,” said Louis. “We thought therewere too many of us together, so we came backto see if there was any news, and if not, to startout again.”

“What do you want of us, Leon?” addedHarry. “Tell us quick, for we don’t want tolose any time.”

“I think she’s gone to find Jerry,” answeredLeon, and then, while the boys rubbed their blue,cold fingers, he went on to tell them his reasonsfor such a supposition.

“I shouldn’t wonder if you were right,” saidStanley, when they had heard him out. “It’s agood idea, and we’ll start for there, straight.Between the wind and the snow, it’s an awfulday, and the child must be found soon, or she’llfreeze. But what makes you look so queer,Leon?”

“Nothing, only I hurt my foot a little. Nevermind me, but go along. Bother my ankle! Iwish I could go with you.”

“What crazy thing have you been doing,Leon?” demanded Harry sternly. “If you’vetwisted your ankle again, it will be no joke. Youknow what the doctor said.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Leon meekly; “I didn’tmean to. But you go on now, for the storm isgetting worse, every minute.”

Harry looked at him anxiously. He was afraidthe boy had done more harm than he would admit;but, in the meantime, as he had said, the stormwas increasing, and he felt that Leon’s clue wastoo valuable to be neglected. With a reluctantglance at his brother he turned away, andfollowed the other boys down the stairs and outto the road.

“This is a genuine blizzard, and no mistake,”remarked Louis, as the boys paused at the gate tobutton their coats tightly, turn up their collars andpull their caps well down over their eyes, beforeturning north, to face the cutting wind.

“I believe you,” responded Harry briefly.“That baby couldn’t stand this long.”

Then they were silent, for the wind blew thewords back into their teeth, and they needed alltheir energy to struggle onward against the drivingstorm. The walking was comparatively easyas yet, for the snow was soft and light, and onlya few inches had fallen; but it powdered thefences and tree-trunks and threw a bluish-whitelight over all the landscape, till it seemed as ifthey were passing through a strange and ghostlyworld. On they plodded, now facing the storm,now turning to walk backwards for a few steps,now stopping short to regain their breath. Theypassed through the village street; quite desertedit seemed to them, for even the hardy farmerswere staying inside their homes that day; thenthey came out past the last house in thestreet, went down the hill, crossed the brook atthe foot and struck out into the open country.For a mile the road was quite unsheltered; thenit wound along under the trees, gaining a partialprotection from the storm; then again it cameout on the shore of the little lake, across whichthe wind swept fiercely. They talked but littleon the way, so absorbed were they in reaching theend of their journey, for not one of the lads hadthe faintest doubt of finding Gyp curled up bythe fire in Jerry’s cabin. Leon’s suggestion hadseemed so probable to them that they had acceptedit as a fact, and felt quite sure that they would gotriumphantly back to Flemming, with Gyp intheir arms.

It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon whenthey came in sight of Jerry’s well-known bluedoor. Exhausted as they were, half-frozen andfaint with hunger, the sight of the cabin rousedthem until they broke into a run. Harry reachedthe door first, pushed it open and glanced in.Then he stopped short, and his face grew deadlypale. No Gyp was there; only old Jerry dozingcontentedly before the fire, with his dogs asleeparound him.

“She isn’t here,” he said faintly, facing theothers as they came up.

“Not here!” echoed Louis and Stanley, growingwhite in their turn.

“No one here but Jerry,” repeated Harry; andthe three boys stood gazing at one another, inblank dismay.

The rush of cold air had wakened Jerry, whoturned drowsily in his chair, caught sight of thewell-known uniform, and was on his feet at once,to show his respect for his guests.

“How do?” he remarked. “Flemming boys;Jerry knows. How do? Sit down.” And hebowed so low that his yellow-white hair fellforward over his wrinkled old face.

“We can’t stay, Jerry,” said Louis. “Whatshall we do, boys? It’s plain she isn’t here.”

“I don’t know what next,” said Harry wearily,as he took off his cap and wiped the melting snowoff the visor. “What do you say, Stan?”

“She may have been here and gone,” suggestedStanley rather doubtfully, for indeed it did notseem likely that the child would venture out intosuch a storm, for the second time.

“We can’t have passed her on the way,” saidLouis. “I’m sure I should have seen her,” headded, as if to reassure himself, for a vision oflittle Gyp, lying chilled and alone by the side ofthe road, had struck terror to his soul.

“Gyp has plenty of pluck,” said Harry. “Ifshe really made up her mind to come here, noamount of storm could keep her away. Let’s askJerry if she has been here. Do you suppose wecan make him know what we mean?”

“I’ll try it, anyway,” said Stanley.

This little conversation had been carried on ina hurried undertone, while the old man was stillbowing and beckoning to the boys to approach thefire. Stanley now turned to him and, followingthe direction of his hand, went up to the stove inthe corner.

“Jerry,” he began, “do you know little GypsyFlemming?”

Jerry shook his head in hopeless bewilderment.

“It’s no use, Stan,” said Louis, in a low voice;“you’ll never get it through his head, and we’reonly just wasting our time talking.”

“Wait a minute, Wing,” said Harry; “it’sworth trying. Go ahead, Stan.”

“Listen, Jerry,” said Stanley firmly; “a littlegirl with long brown hair, all curly, and a redcoat. Has she been here?”

The old man’s face lighted with a suddenthought.

“Jerry knows,” he said, while the boys eagerlypressed nearer him. “Little girl so high,” andhe measured with his hand; “long hair, red hat,red coat, all cold, came here this morning andplayed with Jim Crow.”

As Jerry paused, the boys were startled to heara hoarse caw from above their heads. Lookingup, they saw a black head and two bright, beadyeyes peering down at them from a beam of therough wall.

“That’s Jim,” remarked Jerry. “Jim knowsJerry, heard Jerry call.” And in proof of thestatement, the bird just then swooped down to hismaster’s shoulder where he stood, cocking hishead this way and that, as he lent a goblin-likeattention to the conversation.

“Where is she now?” asked Louis excitedly.

“Gone,” said Jerry, shaking his head, while thecrow bent forward and twisted his glossy neck untilhe could look into his master’s face.

“Where did she go?” inquired Harry.

“Jerry do’ know.”

“Hold on, boys; too many of us asking questionsat once will only rattle him,” said Stanley.“Now, Jerry, tell me when she was here.”

“Lit’ while ago.”

“How long did she stay?”

“Good while; got warm, played with Jim, thensaid ‘good by’ and went out, do’ know where.”

“I suspect that’s all we can get out of him,”said Louis. “We may as well go on, for if hecan’t tell time and doesn’t know which way shewent, we can’t gain much here.”

“At least, she’s been here,” said Harry thoughtfully;“and it can’t be so very long since she left,I should think. What shall we do next, Stan?”

“Let’s go on up the road a little farther,” advisedStanley. “If only ’twere not snowing sohard, so we could see her track! But that’s allcovered up.”

“Shall we all keep together, or shall we takedifferent ways?” asked Louis.

“Keep together,” said Stanley briefly. “It maybe that we shall find her somewhere that it willtake us all to see to her.”

Though the boys made no response, they realizedthe awful meaning of Stanley’s words, and itwas with a dull, heavy ache in their hearts thatthey sadly left the cabin. As Harry turned back,to pull the door together after him, he got sightof the crow who was hopping up and down on oldJerry’s shoulder, croaking and chattering in a perfectabandonment of mirth, as if in malicious enjoymentof their trouble.

Even the short time they had spent talkingwith the old man had made a great change out ofdoors. It was now snowing furiously, and theflakes, instead of falling, were driven straight beforethe wind which had increased to a gale, heresweeping the ground bare, there piling high whitedrifts which, to the boys’ excited imaginations,looked in the uncertain light like little moundsheaped over a human body. Twice they startedout into the road; twice they were beaten back,and stood breathless in the shelter of the cabin.Then Louis said, as he shut his teeth tightly together,to steady his voice,—

“This won’t do, come on.”

On and on they struggled, peering this way andthat, now and again stopping to call the child’sname, then pressing onward once more. At lengthStanley halted.

“You’ll have to leave me, boys,” he panted.“I can’t go on any farther.”

“You must,” said Harry decidedly. “It’s suredeath to stop here. Wing, you take hold one sideof him, and I will the other. Steady, old fellow;keep up your courage and try again. We’ll getto a house soon.”

Yielding to their encouragement, Stanley madeanother effort, and the three boys went on, arm inarm, floundering through the drifts which wereevery moment growing deeper. The road hadcome out into the open fields again, and it wasbecoming difficult to keep in the track, while, toadd to the danger of getting lost, the early wintertwilight was settling down around them and theycould see but a few paces ahead. Stanley’s stepswere growing more and more uncertain, and theother boys staggered under the weight of supportinghim. Their very eyelids were pressed togetherwith the sweep of the snow, and it waswell-nigh impossible for them to glance up, as theyplodded onward, with only chance—or a higher,unseen power, to guide them.

All at once, Harry stopped abruptly.

“Listen!” he exclaimed.

They listened and heard, close at hand, the welcomesound of a dog’s bark.

“There, Stan,” said Louis, trying to speak lightly;“we’re all right now. All we have to do is to followour noses till we get to the house, and thenwe can get warm and dry before we go on.”

They renewed their efforts, and twenty stepsmore brought them to the farmhouse, only twentysteps, but to the chilled and weary boys theyseemed like twenty miles. Without waiting toknock, and only intent on finding warmth andrest, they pushed open the heavy kitchen door andstumbled in, dazed with the rush of light and heatwhich met them. Two women sprang up as theyentered, leaving a small figure before the fire.The figure turned and calmly remarked,—

“Hullo, Harry! Come see my kitties.”

It was Gyp herself, sitting on the floor and contentedlyplaying with the cat and her family,perfectly unconscious of the alarm and sufferingshe had caused.

Too much exhausted to speak, now the stimulusof their anxiety was gone, the boys sank into thehard kitchen chairs, while Gyp ran up to them,with four or five squirming kittens gathered up inthe skirt of her little apron.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, pausing tosurvey them doubtfully. “Are you cold, or onlyjust tired?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Louisbent forward and caught the child in his arms,with her warm cheek against his cold one. Thedrops on his face were not all from the meltedsnow, and his lips were quivering; but he onlysaid,—

“Oh, Gyp!”

But fortunately boy strength and spirits areboth elastic, and by the time the lads had takenoff their overcoats and drawn their chairs up tothe stove, they had rallied and were themselvesagain. While their plump hostess and her rosydaughter trotted up and down, setting out a bountifulsupper for the unexpected guests, the olderwoman told them of Gyp’s coming.

“We was sitting here by the fire,” she explained,as she brought out a great mince pie to adorn thefeast, “when we heard a little knock, low downon the door. It was storming so that I was somesurprised, for I didn’t expect I’d see anybody to-day.I went straight to the door, and there stoodthis little shape, looking for all the world like agreat big snowball. We pulled her in and giveher some dinner and got her all het up, sos’t sheshouldn’t take cold. She told us she was Dr.Flemming’s little girl; but there wasn’t anybody totake her home, for our men-folks all went offafter cattle, this morning. But heart alive! didyou walk up here in all this storm?”

“So’d I,” put in Gyp; “at least, it didn’t stormtill I was ’most at Jerry’s. I meant to go homeagain; but I was mixed up and came here instead.I’m glad I did, though, for now I’ve seen thekitties.”

“What time did you start, Gyp?” asked Harry,taking her on his knee, while she helped herselfto his pie, unrebuked.

“Just when papa went up to school,” answeredGyp. “I wanted to get to Jerry’s in time fordinner; but he didn’t give me any. I had lots offun with the crow, anyway.”

“But, Gyp,” remonstrated Louis, half-vexed atthe child for being so unconcerned; “don’t youknow you were naughty to run away, and frightenpapa and mamma and all us boys?”

Gyp’s lip began to roll over, and she droppedher pie.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I only wantedto see the old man and the blue door that Leontold me ’bout.” And she burst out crying.

The boys looked at one another in dismay. Itwas easier for them to face the storm than Gyp’stears, and they hastened to console her with assurancesof pardon. The farmer’s wife came to theirrelief.

“Poor little tyke!” she said, taking the childinto her motherly arms; “she’s plumb tired out,and I’ll put her straight to bed.”

The supper completed the work the fire hadbegun, and when their hostess came back to thekitchen, she found the boys pulling on their rubberboots again and buttoning their coats.

“Whatever are you going to do?” she asked,in astonishment.

“We must get back now, as soon as we can,”said Louis, who had regained all his usual grace ofmanner. “Dr. and Mrs. Flemming will be anxiousto hear, and we must let them know Gyp is found.We’re much obliged for the supper, and if Gypcan stay here over night, somebody will come forher in the morning.”

“I suppose you’d ought to go,” she answeredreluctantly; “but even if you do, you sha’n’twalk, when we’ve got a horse standing in thestable. I’d like you to stop first-rate,” she addedhospitably, as she started in search of a lantern.

It was the work of only a few moments to harnessthe raw-boned old horse to the home-madesleigh; the boys were rolled up in blankets. Harrytook the lines and they were off, with the wind attheir backs, while the two women encouragedthem with shrill words of cheer, as long as theycould see the gleam of the lantern.

To both Mrs. Flemming and to Leon, the dayhad been a long one; and as one party afteranother came back, took a hasty meal and wentout again, the suspense became almost unbearable.With an utter disregard for the truth, thelads tried to convince the anxious mother that thestorm was not severe; but she was too familiarwith the heavy snows which visit the hill towns,to be deceived by their words. By afternoon ithad become impossible for her to keep still, andshe wandered restlessly from window to window,gazing out in the vain hope of seeing the familiarlittle red coat being borne home in triumph. Howcruel the darkness seemed to her, as it settleddown about the house! As the last light fadedaway, she felt as if it were taking all hope withit. When she could no longer see the outline ofOld Flemming, up the hill, she left the window,but still kept moving about the room, now stirringthe fire, now changing the position of the light inthe window, and often stopping to open the frontdoor and listen intently. One by one, the searchingparties straggled in, each one stopping at thedoctor’s to give the same report, “No news yet,”and then going on up the hill, to plan for theirnext departure.

Dame Pinny was ready for them with a hotsupper, and they gathered in the dining-room toeat and talk at once, for moments were precious.Harry, Louis and Stanley had not yet appeared;but the boys were expecting them at any minute,for no one but Leon knew where they had gone,and none of the boys had been up-stairs to seehim. In their excitement, nobody noticed that hedid not come down to supper.

The hurried meal was nearly ended, when thedoctor came into the room. At sight of his tired,haggard face, there was a sudden respectfulsilence.

“I want to thank you all for the hard work youhave done to-day,” he said, and it was plain thatit cost him an effort to speak. “And now I mustinsist on your not going out again till morning.My duty to your parents will not allow me toexpose you to such a storm.”

There was a murmur of dissent from the boys;but it was stilled as the doctor went on,—

“I am grateful for your good-will, but I shallforbid your going out again to-night. Besides, itis useless to attempt anything in such darkness.If Gyp is in some house, she will be perfectly safe;if not—”

He paused abruptly, rather than speak thewords. The short silence which followed, wasbroken by a sudden call from Jack Howard, whohad restlessly strayed to the door again.

In a second, the dining-room was deserted, andseventy anxious boys stood bareheaded on thepiazza, straining their ears to catch any soundabove the roar of the wind.

“It’s sleigh-bells!” exclaimed Max.

“Hush!” said Lieutenant Wilde, laying hishand on the shoulder of the lad who was madlydancing up and down. “Listen again.”

This time there could be no mistake. Thestrong north wind was bringing them the distantsound of bells, and with the jingling, were mingledshouts and whistles, cheers and cat-calls, all of anunmistakably joyous nature. The sounds camenearer and nearer, more and more distinct, untilabove them all, could be heard Harry’s voice callingout the welcome words,—

“Gyp’s found!”

And the ringing cheer from seventy throatsbore the news to the lonely, waiting mother.

CHAPTER X.

THE HOLIDAYS.

Unlike another young woman who sharedGyp’s taste for solitary and unexpected rambles,and who was punished by being put to bed untilshe was rested, justice descended upon Gypsy,and after the first hour of enthusiasm over thereturned prodigal, she was informed that she mustspend the rest of the day in her own room, whilefor a week she could not leave the house nor seeany one of the boys who came there. This was asevere blow to the small sinner for she had beenregarding herself as the lion of the occasion andexpected to be petted and admired for her enterprise,accordingly. However, she knew the firmnessof her mother’s discipline too well to rebel,so, with one longing glance out at the hill wherethe boys were coasting, she picked up Mouseand slowly retired to her room. Once there, shepassed the time by telling her furry companionthe story of her wanderings, dwelling with anunkind emphasis on the beauty and plumpness ofthe cat and kittens at the farm.

But not even Gyp’s imprisonment punished herhalf so much as did the sight of Leon, a weeklater, when she met him one morning, hoppingover to the recitation hall on crutches. Gyp wasa tender-hearted child, and fond of Leon, so theknowledge that her running away had been, evenindirectly, the cause of his fresh injury nearlybroke her small heart; and she tried, with all sortsof coaxing, wheedling arts, to make amends forthe suffering she had brought him. The fewquick steps which Leon had taken, on that memorableday, had done serious harm to his ankle thathad by no means recovered from the previoussprain, and his using his foot was now delayed forweeks instead of days. During the time thatGyp was shut up, he too was a prisoner; but,with no lessons, plenty of books to read, unlimiteddainties sent up the hill by the doctor’s wife andthe boys running in at all hours, a week spent inbed was rather luxurious than otherwise. It wasnot quite so much fun when, promoted to crutchesand allowed, after a day or two of experimentingon them about his room, to slowly work his wayover to his classes, he could watch the fun from adistance without being able to have a share in it.Still, he was somewhat consoled by the doctor’sassurance that he would be able to go home forthe holidays, and that he would be walking aswell as ever, long before winter was over. Withthat he was forced to content himself; and, thanksto a happy, sunny temper, he was enabled tomake the best of a rather bad matter, and bearthe trouble with such perfect good-nature that hewon the praise of all the boys and the sincereadmiration of his teachers, even to the phlegmaticHerr Linden who said approvingly, one day,—

“So, mein sohn, you haf a brave heart.”

“What’s the use of having anything else, I’dlike to know, as long as it can’t be helped,” wasLeon’s comment, when he told Harry of the oldGerman’s praise. “It’s worth all the bother of itto be fed up as I am, and have all you fellows atmy feet, to say nothing of the lieutenant and oldBony himself. If ’twasn’t quite such splendidcoasting, I shouldn’t be in any hurry to get onmy feet again. I do hope daddy’ll let me comeright back after the holidays, though, and notmake me wait till I’m over it.”

A day or two later, several of the cadets werestrolling back from the armory where they hadtheir afternoon drill, now that the storms hadmade the parade-ground unfit for use. Leon waswith them, for he had been over to look on, alittle enviously, it must be confessed, for the drillunder Lieutenant Wilde had been his delight, andthis was the first time he had seen it since his lossof promotion, a month before. The boys cameslowly along, adapting their pace to his ratheruncertain one. As they reached the steps of OldFlemming, Leon dropped down there in the warmsunshine. The others followed his example.

“It doesn’t seem as if ’twere almost Christmas;does it?” asked Alex, turning up his collar tokeep out the wind, and then bending down to dothe same by Leon, who sat on the step below him.

During the past month, a strong intimacy hadsprung up between the two cadets, so far apart inage. Next to Harry, Leon adored Alex as asuperior being, and was never quite so happy aswhen in his society. Alex, on his side, had beenattracted from the first by Leon’s wide-awake mannerand frank, open nature. Then came the boy’saccident, and Alex had been completely won byhis pluck and uncomplaining endurance. He hadbeen most unselfish with him, giving up many anout-of-door frolic to stay with him, until evenHarry was half-jealous at times, and laughinglyprotested that Alex was cutting him out.

“Thanks, old fellow,” said Leon, turningaround, as he felt the hand on his collar. “Idon’t feel in any great hurry for vacation; I’mwell enough off here,” he added contentedly.

“You might petition the doctor to keep righton,” suggested Max wickedly, while he appropriatedone of Leon’s crutches to knock down anicicle near by.

“No,” said Leon meditatively; “I don’t knowas I mind going home for a few days for a change.What are you going to do, Alex?”

“Stay around here, somewhere,” answered Alex.“Vacation’s too short to make it worth while togo clear to Denver and back.”

“Not go home? H’m!” And Leon thoughtfullydrew down his lips and raised his eyebrows,in unconscious imitation of Mr. Boniface.

“Seems to me this has been an unusually excitingterm,” observed Paul. “With Winslow andthe football and Gyp’s getting lost and—”

“The Boniface rebellion,” added Jack, in alower tone.

“That’s mostly over now,” said Max. “Thereare a few little sneaks left that walk over him, butmost of the fellows either like him or let himalone.”

“How he’s changed!” said Paul. “He doesn’tseem like the same man that came here in September.He was a terror, then.”

“Perhaps the change is in us,” remarked Max,in a sanctimonious falsetto. “Maybe we’re gettinggood at last.”

“No danger for you, Max,” said Leon reassuringly.

“We didn’t treat him decently, though,” returnedMax, whose loyalty to Mr. Boniface had datedfrom the day of their long talk together. “Hewas queer and green and cross, and we made himmore so.”

“I like old Bony pretty well, now,” said Jack,as he stretched out his arms along the shoulders ofthe boys beside him. “He’ll always be too solemn;but he’s improved immensely, and he’s a first-rateteacher, anyway.”

“Even if we have been three months in findingit out,” said Alex, as he rose and then stooped tohelp Leon to his feet.

Two days before vacation, Leon was sitting inhis room, devoting one last hour to an approachingexamination, when Harry came in, with anenvelope in his hand.

“Here’s a letter for you from father,” he said, ashe tossed it over to Leon.

Leon caught it eagerly, tore it open and ran hiseye over the contents. Then he threw it downon the table.

“Good for daddy!” he exclaimed. “Here, Hal,you can read it; I’m going to find Alex.” Andhe went hurrying away.

Harry picked up the letter and read the fewlines it contained; then his face grew as brightas Leon’s had done, and he rushed off after hisbrother. The note was evidently in reply to onewritten by Leon, asking permission to bring Alexhome for the holidays; and it brought back a mostcordial invitation from both Mr. and Mrs. Arnold.But little urging was needed to make Alex consentto so delightful a plan, and, two or three dayslater, the Arnolds carried him home to Boston intriumph.

Three jolly stage loads left Hilton that morning,to board the train at the station eight miles downthe valley. Gathered at one end of the car, thecadets formed a noisy, gay group, now chatteringand laughing until the rest of the passengerssmiled in sympathy; now rushing to the door ata station, to give three ringing cheers for theschoolmate who was leaving them; now quiet fora moment while some member of the party pulledthe ever-present banjo from its green bag, andplayed a few strains of a rollicking college air.It is remarkable the effect a party of schoolboysgoing home for the holidays, can have on a carfulof people. Gradually the men leave their politics,the women their novels, and even the fretful baby,who has been wailing for the past fifty miles, stopsits tired sobbing, while they all gaze with growinginterest on the happy group who are by no meansimpressed by them in return. They catch at thenames, listen eagerly for the jokes which theyrepeat to each other in undertones, and quietlycompare notes on their preferences. On thisparticular day, opinions were divided, for the oldermen declared themselves in favor of roguish Max,the mothers beamed on steady Alex, the younggirls pronounced Louis “so elegant,” while Leonscarcely relished the verdict of one country damewho remarked to her daughter, with the full powerof her lungs,—

“For my part, I prefer the little lame one, he isso peart.”

Mr. Arnold met the boys at the station, andthey drove directly to the house, to be welcomedthere by Mrs. Arnold and Dorothy, her prettydaughter of eighteen. The next ten days weregiven up to holiday merry-making, and the fouryoung people were continually together. Dorothy,who was enjoying her first winter of social life,would gladly have drawn Alex into her gay circle,for she was by no means unconscious of the advantageof introducing a handsome, well-bredescort; but here Alex stood firm. Nothing wouldtempt him to forget that Leon was his host, andto leave him alone, for the sake of pleasures inwhich he could have no share. So the days passedin drives and a little sight-seeing for the sake ofAlex, who had never before visited the city, andthe evenings were given up to games and impromptutheatricals with the young people whodropped in, nearly every night. It was a pleasanthome party, for while Mrs. Arnold petted andcoddled Leon as only a mother can do, and Mr.Arnold and his older son had the long, quiet talkswhich so plainly showed the close intimacy betweenfather and child; in the meantime, Alexand Dorothy had established a frank, cordialfriendship, and indulged in a mild flirtation varied,now and then, by a merry war of words.

On the last evening of the vacation and as thefinal frolic of the holidays, the Arnolds and Alexwent to the theatre together. The people aroundthem smiled sympathetically at their bright faces,as Dorothy came in, followed by the three cadets,all in full uniform, and the tall young cadet turnedfrom the daintily-dressed girl, to help the short,slight lad at his other side.

“I say, Dorry,” remarked Leon, bending acrossin front of Alex, to speak to his sister; “I hopeyou aren’t easily puffed up. ’Tisn’t every girlhere that has a new frock and three elegant youngmen to take care of her, and one of them a crippledveteran of the last campaign, at that.”

Dorothy gave him a look of amused scorn.

“Three young men!” she echoed in disdain.“You’d better say two young men and one littleboy. You’re nothing but a child, you know, andonly allowed to be up so late as a special indulgence,just for this once.”

Leon’s answering shot was prevented by therising of the curtain, and from that time on, theythought nothing more of themselves or the audience,as they followed one of the most brilliantyoung actors of his day in his changing fortunes,now at the country farm, now in the excitementof London life, then back to the quiet home oncemore; now laughing almost convulsively at therustic’s struggles to attain the height of cityfashion, and now finding their eyes grow suddenlydim as he turned from his scoffing friends to welcomehis good old mother, in spite of her strange,eccentric garb. In reality, it was only for two orthree hours that they sat there; but as the curtainfell, it seemed to them that months had passedsince they entered the theatre, and that they hadlived through the scenes which had gone on beforethem, for with rare power and skill, the younghero avoided any professional manner, but withhis rich touches of fun, his grandly simple pathos,he stood in all their eyes, not as an actor, but asa living, human man.

They did not talk much while they were drivinghome through the quiet, snowy streets, for theywere thinking of the play, and of their parting,the next morning. But the stir of getting out ofthe carriage and going into the house had rousedthem all, so that four rosy, wide-awake youngpeople entered the parlor, laughing and talking ina blithe chorus. Mr. and Mrs. Arnold looked upto greet them, as they came in.

“You ought to have gone, mother,” Harryexclaimed. “It was too funny for anything. Ithought Leon would roll out of his chair, laughing.”

“After all,” added Dorothy, as she went up tothe fire; “funny as it all was, there was a cryunder the laugh, till I didn’t know whether ’twasmore funny or sad.”

“Come, Dot, stop your wisdom and give us asong to top off with,” demanded Harry, who stoodleaning against the mantel, looking down on hispretty sister with evident approval.

“I will,” said she, with her usual readiness;“and I’ll choose this one because, if anything canteach us to appreciate our homes and parents, itought to be the little story we have watched to-night.”

Dorothy spoke with a sweet, gentle seriousnessquite unusual with her, for she was much likeLeon in her bright, merry disposition, and inclinedto treat life as one long, happy frolic. Perhapsthe tender passages in the play had touchedher girlish heart, perhaps she had some dim realizationof what the future had in store for her.However it might have been, she threw aside herwraps, drew off her long, light gloves and, goingover to the piano, she sang the simple little songfrom “The Water Babies,” which stood as themotto for the play.

“Bee-youtiful, Dorry!” remarked Leon, fromthe easy chair, where he had thrown himself downwhen he came in. “If you’d only just put a littlemore feeling into the last part of it, you’d havemade me cry.”

“Don’t you mind his impertinence, Dot,” saidMr. Arnold. “I’ll try to keep him quiet, and yousing something else. No matter if it is late; itis our last night together for some time.”

So Dorothy sang on, giving them one old favoriteafter another, as they were called for; and toAlex, as he stood leaning on the piano with hischin in his hands, watching the group before him,it seemed that no home could be happier thanthis one, where parents and children were boundtogether in such pleasant, lasting intimacy. Itwas only an every-day home picture, it is true, butone telling an eloquent story of father and motherlove, of respect and honor from the children,well-deserved and freely given, of perfect understandingand good-will on both sides.

“Now,” said Dorothy mischievously; “I’ll stop,after I have sung one more for the benefit of theboys.” And turning back to the piano, she sang“Sweet Home.”

Her face at first was brimming with fun; butthe old familiar strains brought back her formermood and, dropping her tone of exaggerated sentiment,she sang it as simply and sweetly as a littlechild, while her hearers, forgetting to laugh atthe trite old lines, took up the refrain of the lastverse, and the sound died away in a happy chorusof “sweet home.”

No one broke the hush that followed, untilLeon said pensively,—

“I know I shall cry myself to sleep to-night,after Dorothy’s harrowing me up in such style.”

“You’d better take an umbrella up-stairs withyou, Dot,” suggested Harry. “Leon is right overyou, you know, and if the ceiling should leak,you’d get a ducking to pay for your song.”

“I wouldn’t go back, Leon, if I felt so badlyabout it as all that,” said his father. “I confessthat I hate to have you go, myself; I’d muchprefer to have you here, in charge of Dr. Bruce.”

“Don’t go, Leon,” urged his mother anxiously.“I’m afraid you’ll get a fall on your crutches, orstrain your foot again, in some way. You’d betterstay here at home, till you are over this.”

“Oh, mother,” remonstrated Harry; “Leon isjust as well off up there. We’ll take good careof him, I promise you.”

“One thing is certain,” said his father seriously;“that was the last game of football that either ofmy sons will play, with my consent. You needn’tgroan, Leon, I mean just what I say.”

“Yes,” added Dorothy a little inconsiderately;“we’ve had football enough for one family. Thissprain of Leon’s has spoiled all the fun, thisvacation.”

Leon flushed.

“Speak for yourself, if you please, Dorry,” hesaid almost angrily. “I’m sorry if I’ve been adrag on you; but, for my part, I’ve never enjoyedthe holidays so much. Have you, daddy?” Andforgetting his momentary temper, he laughed upat his father, who stood thoughtfully studyinghis son’s face.

Mr. Arnold roused himself at the question.

“The holidays have been a success, have they,sonny? Well, I’ve hated to see you hoppingaround in this way; but I’ve rather enjoyed it,after all, for if you’d been quite well, you wouldall have gone gallivanting off, and left the oldpeople alone at home.”

“This is more fun than gallivanting,” said Leonserenely. “I’ll leave that till Easter, or tillmother and Dot come up to Flemming, nextmonth. But I think I’ll gallivant to bed now, forI’m uncommonly sleepy. Come on, boys.”

He picked up his crutches, kissed his father andmother good night in the same way he had doneever since he was a little boy, and limped away,laughing and joking with his brother and Alex.As he passed the door, some impulse made himturn back to add merrily,—

“Good night again, daddy. This is positivelythe last time.”

How often both the words and the scene cameback to him, with the memory of that evening!

Bright and early the next morning, the ladsstarted on their journey, for they had prolongedtheir vacation until the last possible moment.The whole family drove to the station with them,and as the train rolled away, the boys’ last glimpsewas of handsome, kindly Mr. Arnold, waving themone parting salute.

The term opened on that morning, and nearlyall the boys were back, so the Arnolds and Alextook the little journey by themselves. It seemeda short ride to them all, for what with the pastvacation and the coming term, they had so muchto talk over that they were all rather surprisedwhen they came into the familiar station, and sawthe old stage waiting for them.

In spite of the good times they had been enjoying,it was very pleasant to Leon to go to supperin the great dining-room, and listen to the uproarof seventy-five boys all talking at once; and when,an hour later, he and Stanley and Max, with halfa dozen others, were gathered around the fire inLieutenant Wilde’s room, planning for a sleighingparty, it seemed as if the home he had leftthat morning, were thousands of miles and countlessweeks away. It was not that he cared lessfor his home than other boys do; but this happyschool life had already become so familiar to himthat he dropped back into it just as naturally as,ten days before, he had settled into his old homecorner.

But when at last he fell asleep, on that firstnight of the opening term, he found himself athome again, lying on the sofa, with his father byhis side. And his father bent over and said somethingto him. What the words were, he knewnot, nor yet the meaning; but he felt a strange,deep sadness creep over him, and then his father’sface faded away from his sight, and he was leftalone.

CHAPTER XI.

STANLEY CAMPBELL.

“Are you going to be busy this afternoon,Campbell?” asked Lieutenant Wilde, as they cameout from dinner one Saturday noon.

“Nothing special,” answered Stanley. “Is thereanything I can do for you?”

“I wondered whether you would be willing togo over to the laboratory, and help me get readyfor one or two experiments that I want to showthe class Monday morning. Don’t come, if you’veanything else on hand.”

“I haven’t a thing,” said Stanley eagerly.“Really, I’d like no better fun.”

“Well, I’m going over at half-past two. Willyou be over there? Or come to my room forme, if you like. I have a letter to write first.”And Irving Wilde turned away to go to his room,while Stanley joined a group of cadets who werestanding in the hall, to discuss their plans for makingthe best of a stormy Saturday afternoon.

Punctually at half-past two o’clock, Stanley andLieutenant Wilde were walking across the groundsto the recitation hall. It was a dreary, raw day,with a heavy rain beating down, splashing on thepaved walks and soaking the earth until littledark gray pools of snow and water lay here andthere, while an occasional patch of brown, deadgrass came up through its white covering. Butif it was cold and dismal outside, the little laboratorywas warm and comfortable enough to makeup for it, and Stanley gave his favorite inarticulategrunt of content as he hung up his dripping capand overcoat beside Lieutenant Wilde’s. It wasno hardship for him to have to help LieutenantWilde that day. The two were excellent friends,and the lieutenant had often admitted to himselfthat he found no one of the cadets more companionablethan this silent, slow boy of fourteen.Though Stanley might lack the brilliancy of Maxor Leon, and had to work far longer at his lessonsthan many another boy, yet he never stoppeduntil he understood his subject to its foundations,and knowledge so thoroughly gained was neverlost. No skimming over the top of things, nohasty cramming would satisfy Stanley Campbell.He must and would know his subject through andthrough, before it could make any lasting impressionon his mind. No matter, then, that when anytest came, he was found to lead his class. Suchboys as Stanley go far towards making the solidmen who are much more the real leaders of thenation, than the brilliant talkers and thinkers thatfloat lightly along on the surface of events but,like all other driftwood, lodge and stick fast whenthey come to a rock in their passage. And moreover,silent and unresponsive as Stanley was generallythought to be, Lieutenant Wilde and his intimateboy friends knew him better. True, the ladcould not talk easily, partly from shyness, partlyfrom utter inability to rattle off the random nonsensewhich was the delight of the other boys; but,under all his outward reserve, he kept up a stronginterest in the conversation, and his face wouldgrow merry or soften by turns, and often he wouldgive the speaker a quick glance of understandingat some little point, too slight to catch the noticeof his companions. But however silent he mightbe in general, he was always at his ease withLieutenant Wilde who saw and appreciated thereal fineness of his mind, and predicted a broadand honorable future for the lad.

“I haven’t so very much to do, after all; onlya few sulphur experiments,” remarked LieutenantWilde, with a laugh, as he began setting out anarray of flasks and beakers and rubber and glasstubes, on the long, broad desk which ran across oneside of the room. “I’m afraid, if the truth weretold, Campbell, I wanted your company more thanI did your help, this afternoon. Still, you maylight the gas there, if you will.”

Stanley did so, and then stood watching histeacher as he scientifically linked together hisflasks and tubes, now mixing innocent-lookingsubstances with a practised hand, now applyingthe flame to this compound, or adding a few dropsof acid to that.

“There,” he said, after looking closely at one ofthem for a moment; “that will begin to worknow. Bring up a couple of stools, Stanley; wemay as well make ourselves comfortable, for allwe can do at present is to watch this. I wantedto see that they were all in order for next time,and not have them fail me, as my chlorine experimentdid. Do you know,” he added, with an anxiousfrown; “I am a little suspicious of some of theselast chemicals.”

“Why?” asked Stanley, as he seated himselfastride his lofty stool.

“They don’t act just right, and I’m not at all surethat they are pure. Still, they came from the samehouse that always supplies us, and they must begood.” And Lieutenant Wilde bent his head, tolook more closely at the bubbling mixture.

“What if they aren’t pure?” inquired Stanley.

“Oh, they may explode; that’s the worst theycan do,” said Lieutenant Wilde, laughing at theboy’s dismayed face and involuntary motion awayfrom the desk. “You needn’t worry, Campbell,”he added reassuringly; “I think these are probablyall they ought to be.”

“I wonder how I’d like to be a chemist,”remarked Stanley thoughtfully.

“You have rather a gift for it,” responded LieutenantWilde, resting one elbow on the desk,while he twirled his glasses by their bows, in theother hand.

“I’m afraid I haven’t much gift for anything,”said Stanley, and there was a little tone of regretin his voice, as he went on, “I wish I could get atthings as quick as Max does. It seems as if heknew everything, without studying it at all. He’san awfully bright fellow, Lieutenant Wilde.”

“Yes,” assented Lieutenant Wilde absently.He was mentally weighing the two boys, as unlikeas boys could be.

They were silent for a few moments. LieutenantWilde could see that the boy had somethingon his mind. He moved restlessly on his stool,while he leaned his elbows on the desk in front ofhim, and fitted the knuckles of his left hand againstthe knuckles of his right, with a frowning precision.When he looked up, it was to meet histeacher’s steady, inquiring gaze, and his facesuddenly brightened, showing one little dimple inhis smooth, round chin.

“Well, Stanley?” said Lieutenant Wilde;laughing.

“Well?”

“You’ve something in your head; out with it!”

“How do you know?” asked Stanley ratherabruptly, surprised at being found out.

“How did I know? Why, everything aboutyou tells it, except your tongue, so that may aswell speak,” answered Lieutenant Wilde, smilingas he watched the boy’s face.

“I believe you do know everything, LieutenantWilde,” said Stanley. “You’ve told me so much,you’d better finish, and say what it’s about?”

“Is it about Max?”

Stanley nodded.

“There’s nothing wrong with him, I hope.”

“No, I don’t know as there is; at least, nothingspecial. No, there isn’t really,” answered Stanley,who had a curious habit of thinking aloud, wheneverhe was much absorbed.

“What is it, Stanley?” asked Lieutenant Wildequite seriously.

“It really isn’t anything; honestly, LieutenantWilde,” said Stanley, supporting his chin on hishands and looking straight into his teacher’s face.“I truly hadn’t any business to say anything, forI’ve most likely imagined it all; but you caughtme by taking me by surprise.”

“You’ve gone so far, Campbell,” said LieutenantWilde, as he moved to light the gas under anotherflask; “that it isn’t quite fair to Max not to talkit over and let me judge whether or not you haveimagined some trouble that isn’t there. Come,”he added persuasively; “you ought to be able totrust me with it, Stanley. Have you boys beenhaving a quarrel, or has Max been shirking hiswork?”

“Neither,” replied Stanley. “It can’t do anyharm to talk about it to you, Lieutenant Wilde;it’s only this, have you noticed how Max is gettingin with Osborn and his set, lately?”

Lieutenant Wilde suddenly became very grave,and frowned a little, as he sat with his eyes fixedon the rain-streaked window across the room. Oflate, Osborn and his friends had been causing Dr.Flemming more anxiety than all the rest of hispupils. Their increasing disregard of disciplineand reckless extravagance threw little credit uponthe school, while their influence upon the otherboys was far from helpful. As they did justenough work to keep their place in their classes,and were wary enough to avoid any open outbreak,there seemed to be no reasonable excuse forsending them away from Flemming. But thoughthe doctor always hesitated about open expulsion,since he knew well how difficult it would be for apupil whom he had dismissed, to gain admissionanywhere else, yet he was only waiting till theend of the year, to give them a quiet hint to leaveFlemming, in search of another school.

“I hadn’t thought of it,” Lieutenant Wildeanswered, after considering the matter for a moment.“Isn’t Max with your set, as much as heused to be?”

“I don’t know but he is,” replied Stanley; “only’tisn’t in just the same way. He’s all the timerunning off to see some of them. I’m not a bitjealous, Lieutenant Wilde,” and Stanley laugheduneasily; “but they aren’t a good kind of fellowsfor Max to be with.”

“That’s very true, Stanley,” responded LieutenantWilde quickly; “they’re the worst possiblefriends for an impulsive, good-natured boy likeMax, for he’s easily led, and before he knows it,they’ll get him into trouble. How long has itbeen going on?”

“All this term. He’s with us a great deal ofthe time; but he and Osborn are both training forthe ninety-two crew, and besides, since the boysstarted the quartette, that takes Louis and Leonand Paul and Alex, with Harry for the banjo, andit sort of leaves Max by himself. Then he doesn’thave to study nearly so much as the rest of us do;that gives him more chance for fun, and so hetakes up with them. They’re a jolly set and makeit lively for him; you see, they want to hang onto him, for they know he’s in with the Arnoldsand Alex and those fellows that won’t have anythingto do with them. I don’t think Max is toblame; but he may get into a scrape, for all that, forthey’re a reckless crowd, and Max is always readyfor a joke,” explained Stanley, not very lucidly.

Lieutenant Wilde stroked his silky moustacheand bit his lip thoughtfully.

“I don’t quite like it, Campbell,” he said; “andI am very glad you spoke of it. I’ll try to get aword with Max before long, and see if I can’tbreak it up.”

“Oh, don’t!” exclaimed Stanley hastily.

“Don’t you be afraid, I won’t say anythingabout you. I only want to caution him, as I haveall of you, over and over again, to be careful inchoosing his friends. Max is a magnificent fellowand would never mean to go wrong; but he is sofond of fun that he loses his head a little sometimes,and I will just put him on his guard, that’sall.”

There was a moment of silence, and then LieutenantWilde said, with one of his frank, boyishlaughs, as he put on his glasses and leaned forwardto survey the compound before him,—

“Do you know, Stanley, that I make myselfthink now and then of a Japanese juggler with hisballs, when he is throwing them up by turns, tokeep them all in the air. It’s just about the wayI have to do with you boys, first one of you, thenanother, to keep you going the way I want you to.It would be ever so much easier for me, if I didn’tcare about you and just let you go on in your ownway; but I hate to see you go wrong, so I have toput in my word occasionally. Perhaps we’re allthe better friends for it, though, and—I’ll see if Ican’t give Max a little start, to set him straightonce more. Now,” he went on, “I must see tothis. Will you just hand me the largest flask youcan find in that closet over there?”

Stanley slid down from his high stool and wentacross to the closet, while Lieutenant Wilde hastilypushed aside the low gas-burner, with its flaringjet of colorless flame. The boy stood behindthe half-open door, comparing two or three of theflasks before him, when he heard an ominous clickand a short, sharp exclamation from LieutenantWilde. The next instant, the room echoed witha loud explosion which jarred the windows anddoors in their casements, and set every flask andfunnel to dancing on its shelf; there was a rushof suffocating vapor that filled the room and,catching fire where it was densest, blazed up ina dull blue flame about the desk. Then camethat sickening sound, the thud of a heavily-fallingbody. For one moment, Stanley stood as if dazedby the report; but it was for only one. Then thisboy who was counted as slow by his friends,returned to his senses and, only conscious thatsome accident had occurred and that there wasneed of prompt action, turned to see LieutenantWilde lying senseless on the floor, below the deskwhich appeared to be enveloped in a mass of flame.It was but the work of an instant to leap forward,turn off the gas, then rush to the nearest windowand throw it open with an unconscious force whichshattered the glass; only an instant, but it showedthe stuff of which the lad was made, and provedhis ability to think and act quickly in an emergencythat would have paralyzed many an olderperson. From window to window he hurried,throwing them wide open to let in the cool outerair, then back to his teacher’s side, where hestooped to look at him closely and steadily, thoughhis heart sickened at the sight.

Lieutenant Wilde lay in the same crampedposition in which he had dropped when the rushof gas had stifled him; his eyebrows and moustachewere burned half off, and his face was cuthere and there with the bits of flying glass. Fora minute, the boy’s courage failed, but he quicklynerved himself again, when he remembered thatthey were alone in the building and that immediateaid must be summoned. No calling would do,for the boys were all inside the house, and thenoise of the storm would drown the sound of hisvoice. But, on the other hand, dared he leaveLieutenant Wilde? He might then be dying, oreven dead. Desperately he tore off his coat, rolledit into a sort of pillow and arranged it under theyoung man’s head. Then he rushed away, bareheadedand in his shirt sleeves, through the cold,drizzling rain, down to the doctor’s house.

The doctor met him on the steps, for he hadheard the explosion, and, seeing him coming inthis strange plight, he at once imagined someserious trouble, an impression increased at sightof the boy’s drawn, ash-colored face.

“Come quick—to the laboratory—LieutenantWilde!” panted Stanley breathlessly.

The doctor turned to his wife, who had followedhim out to the piazza.

“Send Maggie for Mr. Boniface,” he saidbriefly; “you stay here till I send you someword.” And he hurried away up the hill afterStanley, who had rushed back to the laboratoryagain.

When the doctor entered the laboratory, hisnephew had opened his eyes and was breathingwith short, quick gasps, as he lay with his headand shoulders supported on Stanley’s knees, whilethe boy bent over him, anxiously gazing down, inthe hope of receiving a glance of recognition. Inas few words as possible, Stanley told what hadoccurred, adding pleadingly,—

“I did what I could, sir, and then called you,”as if fearing he might in some way be blamed forthe explosion.

“I know you did,” said the doctor heartily, justas Mr. Boniface came in the room. “I don’tquite like the looks here, though,” he added, asLieutenant Wilde’s eyes closed heavily again, andhe gave a little moan. “Campbell, you’ve runenough, but I shall have to ask you to go andsend either Keith or Lincoln for the doctor, andthen tell Mrs. Flemming what has happened andto be ready for us to bring him down to the house,as soon as he can be moved. Tell her to keepyou there and look out for you a little,” he wenton kindly, as he noticed the hard, strained linesabout the boy’s white lips.

“Do you think he—?” faltered Stanley.

“I can’t tell yet,” interrupted the doctor, as ifunwilling to hear the words; “but if he comesout of this, he has you to thank. Go now, please.”

The news had already flown through the school,and as Stanley went down the hill, with his coatthrown carelessly over his shoulders, he was waylaidand questioned by group after group of hisschoolmates who had rushed out, anxious to learnthe truth, even at its worst. But Stanley onlyanswered with a word or two, and hastened on togive his messages for, now that the reaction hadcome, he felt strangely weak and sick.

The rest of the afternoon was to him like along, confused dream: the half hour of anxiouswaiting, when kind Mrs. Flemming, in the midstof her dread and her hurry, made him lie down onthe sofa and take the stimulant of which he stoodso sorely in need; then the sound of heavy stepsas the doctor and Mr. Boniface, Jack and Alexbrought the young man into the house and up tothe room which Mrs. Flemming had made readyfor him; then the quick trot of the doctor’s horse,as he came hurrying up the hill; all the stirthroughout the house, that comes with any suddenillness. Then followed the dreadful stillness,when the old doctor went into the room and thedoor closed behind him, and Stanley, Alex andJack sat on the stairs outside, listening oh! sointently for any sound that might tell them whatwas passing within. They did not speak, noteven to whisper a syllable to each other, but satsilently gazing at the opposite wall, in an agonyof waiting. No harm to one of their schoolmates,to Mr. Boniface, or even to the doctor himselfcould have moved them as did this sudden fear oflosing Lieutenant Wilde. They felt as if theyhad never before appreciated him; and in theirminds, they were going over and over again themany pleasant hours they had spent together,with a vague feeling that it all was ended now.

But someone was moving in the room, and nowand then a low voice could be heard. Then allwas still again; but presently the door opened andMr. Boniface came out. He was smiling a little,and to the anxious lads, his homely face lookedlike the face of an angel of light, as he came downto them and seated himself at Stanley’s side.

“It’s not so bad as we thought,” he said, in alow tone. “He was stunned by the explosion andhalf-suffocated with the gas; but he’s come to himselfnow, and the doctor says the worst is over.He’s badly cut with the glass, and burned; buthis spectacles saved his eyes, and the rest is painful,rather than dangerous, so it won’t be long tillhe’s as well as ever.”

As Stanley gave a deep sigh of relief, Mr.Boniface put his hand on his shoulder, while hewent on,—

“And the doctor, Dr. Rowe, I mean, says thatif this boy hadn’t kept his wits about him as hedid, we shouldn’t have had Lieutenant Wildewith us now. Nothing but his quick thought inturning off the gas and letting in more air, couldhave saved him. We can’t thank you, Campbell;but we can congratulate you, and admire you forthe part you have played. And now I must leaveyou to tell the others, while I go back up-stairs.Don’t let the boys make any noise outside, forthey want Lieutenant Wilde to get to sleep.”And he quietly left them.

“You’re the hero of the school, Stan,” saidJack, as the boys stood up, with a queer, dizzyfeeling, now that their anxiety was at an end.

“I knew you had it in you, though,” addedAlex, as they put on their caps. “There isn’tanother fellow in Flemming that would have doneas well, and I’m proud to call you a friend ofmine.”

And they went away to tell the good news.

CHAPTER XII.

MIDWINTER REVELS.

But my lady was not sleeping; quite the reverse.After the excitement of an evening spentin her brothers’ room, Dorothy was still lyingawake, thinking over the events of the day, whenthe boyish voice fell upon her ears. Rising cautiously,so as not to disturb her sleeping mother,she threw a heavy shawl across her shoulders andstole noiselessly across the room to the window.There was no moon, but the white snow below andthe clear stars above made it easy for her to distinguishthe scene before her. But for once,Dorothy’s eyes were heedless of the long lines ofhill and valley, as she bent forward to peer downon the lawn below. It was a most romantic-lookingfigure who stood there, banjo in hand; andthough the voice was quite unfamiliar, Dorothywas sure she could recognize the dark, oval faceand flashing eyes raised towards her window as,after a short interlude, the singer went on,—

“Boo-o!” shivered Dorothy, as the incongruitybetween the words and the frost which was nippingher bare, cold feet, flashed into her brain.“That must be the only serenade he knows, orelse they never have cold nights down south.But what’s the matter?”

A sudden sound like splashing water had succeededan abrupt pause in the serenade, and thenext moment, the air below was thick with flyingsnowballs that dashed against the singer’s backand shoulders, covering him from head to footwith a soft, light powder. However, he stood hisground valiantly, and with one proud glancetowards the spot where he supposed his unseenenemies to be, he strummed another short interlude,and began on the last verse,—

But a carefully-aimed ball, which struck theback of his neck, just above his upturned collar,was followed by a second volley so determinedthat the cavalier took to his heels, regardless ofhis lady, who stood peeping between the curtainsand laughing at the fate of her tuneful guest.She watched him until he had vanished in thedarkness, and then was about to creep back intobed again, when her quick ear caught a crunchingof the snow beneath, and in a moment more, shesaw four figures standing under her window, inplace of the one who had gone. A second glancetold her that the shortest of the group was leaningon crutches, and that the tallest had in his buttonholea flower singularly like the carnations shehad worn in her belt, that evening. Then theybegan to sing; but before she had time to recognizeher brother’s clear, high voice, and the deepbass notes of Alex, it had dawned upon her thatthe Flemming quartette had come to serenade herand, finding someone else upon the scene beforethem, had taken the quickest and surest means ofdriving away the intruder.

They were singing; and in spite of the beauty ofthe familiar strains, Dorothy smiled to herself, asshe thought of the undercurrent of meaning whichlay beneath the words. She knew that neitherof her brothers approved of Osborn’s evidentadmiration for her, and were probably exultingin this opportunity to drive their unsuccessfulrival from the field.

As the last words died away upon the still nightair, she hastily snatched from a vase near by, theflowers she had been wearing, softly opened herwindow and, with one quick sweep of her arm,dropped them directly at the feet of the tallestsinger. He stooped a moment to gather them upfrom the snow, then bowed low in acknowledgment,as the four voices took up the sadder,sweeter melody of the “Soldier’s Farewell.”

That was all: only a school-boy frolic, and three,at least, of the singers had no more thought ofsentiment than they would have done in listeningto the band on parade. But if it were all child’splay, why did Dorothy’s fair face grow suddenlywistful, under cover of the darkness, as she watchedthem move away down the road; and why wasshe conscious of her heart’s giving a quick throbof pleasure, when she saw the tallest cadet slackenhis pace and stretch out a hand to help support hisshorter comrade, as he limped slowly along overthe slippery crust? What a true knight he was,she said to herself; and then felt the hot bloodrush to her cheeks, at the thought of that unqualifiedpronoun, “He.”

True to their promise made to Leon in theholidays, Mrs. Arnold and Dorothy had come upto Hilton for a week, and Dorothy was holdinghigh carnival among the cadets. Captivated fromthe first by her pretty face and dainty gowns, theboys had besieged Harry with requests for introductions;and the acquaintance, once begun, wasfollowed up eagerly, as they came to know moreof her. Her frank liking for them all, and her evidentenjoyment of the little entertainments theyprepared for her, quite won their hearts, andDorothy soon had the Wilders at her feet, whileFrank Osborn, to Harry’s great disgust, insistedupon lavishing on her the countless little attentions,which he knew so well how to renderacceptable to a young and charming girl.

Mrs. Arnold was a model chaperon, and Dorothyenjoyed the week to the utmost, entering intoall the frolics with a heartiness which was, however,never quite so apparent as when Alex wasincluded in them. There were grand coastingparties in the clear, cold starlight, when Mrs.Flemming and Mrs. Arnold were each the centreof a little group whose members had been too lateto carry off Dorothy instead; there were longhours of skating, on the little pond at the foot ofthe hill; there was the daily expedition to thearmory with Leon, to watch the drill which wasnow in charge of Adjutant Sterne, while LieutenantWilde was still confined to the house, as aresult of his accident; and there were impromptuspreads and euchre parties in the different rooms,after evening study-hour. Day by day, Harrywas becoming more and more proud of his sister,while Alex and Paul and Louis and Jack and adozen more were eagerly contending for hersmiles.

The last evening of the visit was to be given upto a dinner at the doctor’s, although Mrs. Flemminghad said, rather apologetically, as she invitedher guests,—

“I’m afraid we’re hardly in good order for company.My nephew will be able to be down-stairs,but he doesn’t sit up much yet. Still, if you canexcuse his lack of manners, we shall all enjoy yourbeing with us.”

It was a pleasant, informal evening, and whenHarry, and Alex came to take the guests home,they found Dorothy sitting by the sofa, chatteringgayly with Lieutenant Wilde, who looked veryhandsome and manly, in spite of his undress uniform,and a most undignified strip of plaster runningdown his left cheek. It was the first timethe boys had seen him since his accident and,made to feel at home by Mrs. Flemming’s cordialwelcome, and her assurances that it was too earlyfor her company to break up, they establishedthemselves by the sofa, full of boyish solicitudefor his health, and eager questions as to his gettingout among them again.

Quite too soon the evening was over, and Dorothyfound herself bidding her hostess good night,then going out into the clear, frosty air, with Alexat her side. They walked on in silence for a littleway, then Dorothy said enthusiastically,—

“Such a pleasant evening! It has been a fitending to our visit here.”

“How did you like Lieutenant Wilde?” askedAlex. “Had you seen him before to-night?”

“No; this was my first glimpse of him, andI don’t wonder that he’s Hal’s hero. He’s everyinch a man and a soldier. But do you know,Mr. Sterne,” she added, with a laugh, “I’vebecome so used to uniforms, since I came up here,that I shall find it very hard to see nothing butplain black coats, when I go home. You’ve alldone so much to make me have a good time, thatyou have quite spoiled me.”

“We have the worst of it,” Alex assured her.“We have to settle down now for two months ofsteady grind, without the prospect of seeing a souloutside the school, till the Easter holidays. Yourbeing here has been a perfect blessing to us; Ionly wish it hadn’t been quite so short.”

“I’m glad it seems short to you,” she answeredfrankly. “It has been delightful, every momentof it; but I began to be afraid that Hal’s friendswould be heartily tired of entertaining me.You’ve certainly done it right royally, and I wishI didn’t have to leave Hilton in the morning.”

There was another little pause. Then sheadded, as they drew near the gate where Harryand his mother stood waiting for them,—

“One more word I want to say, Mr. Sterne,before we say good night and good by. Leon hastold me, and I have seen how kind you have beento him, since he hurt his foot. Let me thank youfor it all, please, and say how we appreciate it.”And she put out her hand impulsively.

Alex raised his cap, as he bent over the littlehand.

“It was nothing,” he answered simply. “I wasglad to do it for him—and for you.” And as hewalked back to Old Flemming, he was consciousthat the coming weeks would seem long andlonely to him, after the happiness of the last one;and he found himself looking forward to Juneand Commencement with an interest hitherto unknown.

It had been hard work for the Wilders to settledown to routine again, the day after the Arnoldswent home; and, as Alex had said, they had twomonths of uninterrupted work before them. Thenew term was, by this time, well on in its course,and the day was fast approaching when Leon wasto be allowed to give up his crutches and to usehis foot again, though with a little care at first.While athletics were out of the question for thepresent, it would be such a delight to be able towalk again, that he accepted the rest without athought of complaint. Lieutenant Wilde, too,had quickly recovered from his injuries and resumedhis usual place in the school where he wasmore than ever idolized by his boys, who knewhow near they had come to losing him.

In the meantime, January had drawn to a close,and Leon’s birthday had come. The Wilders,with whom he was a general favorite, had puttheir heads together to make the day merryenough to atone for any good times he mighthave lost, as a result of his sprain, and with Alexand Max at their head, the boys had not beenslow to plan the jokes and surprises which keptappearing from early morning until late at night.A long drive with the doctor kept Leon out ofthe way during the whole afternoon; and while hewas gone, the lads busied themselves in makingready for the spread which was to be the grandclimax of the day. The village store and thelocal bakery—pie-foundry, as Max called it—hadbeen ransacked, and the servants had receiveda generous bribe to do a little extra cooking, when,as if in furtherance of their plans, a huge boxhad arrived from home, and Harry had unpackeda tempting array of goodies, in the midst of theadmiring plaudits of the boys.

As seven o’clock struck, Harry appeared atLieutenant Wilde’s door, to escort his brother tohis room, for Leon had not been allowed to returnthere, after his drive in the afternoon. With dueceremony, he was marched down the hall, betweenhis brother and Lieutenant Wilde, and usheredinto the room which was strangely transformedfor the reception. The beds had been taken downand piled into Louis’s room across the hall, whileadditional tables had been brought in and arrangedin a row, to form one long one, which wasliterally covered with the feast that the lads hadcollected, to do honor to the occasion.

As Leon came inside the door, his guests roseto welcome him, and here the surprise was perfect;for instead of the usual unbroken array ofgray uniforms, there were several fine ladies presentto grace the feast. This idea had come fromMax, who had spent much time and shown considerableingenuity in devising the costumes fromthe material at hand. A short curly bang, agreat bath-sponge fastened to the top of his head,eyeglasses and a sheet gracefully draped into arobe and enlivened with a crimson portière, by wayof court train, transformed Miss Margaret Eliot,as she was introduced, into a very fair type ofsociety girl; while Harold King’s delicate faceand slight figure were set off by a red tablespreadfor a skirt, surmounted by a pale blue dressing-gownbelonging to Louis. Louis himself appearedin a trailing blue gown, garnished with as manywatch chains and scarf pins as the entire force ofthe Wilders could afford, while a stuffed owladorned one shoulder, a huge bunch of red paperroses rested on the other, and his head was coveredwith Dame Pinney’s second-best cap whichMax had in some way managed to coax her intolending. Stanley Campbell’s freckled face andshort, straight brown hair were unmistakably boyish;but Max had done his best to disguise thework of nature with a dark green skirt whosecambric breadths were insecurely basted togetherwith long white stitches, a gay orange and blueblazer and a broad straw hat, from which waveda garland of peacock feathers. However gorgeouswas the result, when Max had added the finishingtouches to his work, he had been moved to confessthat Stanley looked far more like an Indian on thewar-path, than the pretty girl for whom he wasintended. But proud as the boys were of theirown costumes, one and all agreed that Baby wasthe real success of the evening. Jack Howard’slong white cotton gown was tied in at the waistby a broad blue cambric sash, blue bows flutteredairily on his shoulders where a wide hem and theletters F. H. in indelible ink made their appearance,and a blue band caught together the longgolden curls of a wig that Lieutenant Wilde hadworn in some West Point theatricals.

“The gentlemen will please escort the ladies tothe table,” called Harry, who had been chosenfloor-manager of the occasion. “The hero of theevening can have first choice.”

Leon advanced a step, and appeared to be hesitatingbetween the overgrown infant and thejewelled Louisa, when Stanley’s wonderful headgearcaught his eye.

“Thanks, I’ll take Lo,” said he, bowing beforethe appalling vision.

“Very well, take your places,” commandedHarry, pointing to the head of the table; “anddon’t forget to look out for the leg of that endtable, because it’s ricketty. Lieutenant Wilde, it’syour turn next.”

Lieutenant Wilde chose Max, and the otherspaired off in turn, until they were all seated at thetable. It was a wildly hilarious party, and inspite of wooden plates, paper napkins and no serving,they enjoyed their supper as only hungry,healthy boys can do, though the maidens presentwere by no means left behind. And while theknives and forks were busy, the tongues kept pacewith them, and the jokes flew up and down theroom till the walls echoed with the laughter, andthe boys in the farthest corner of the house wonderedenviously “what on earth the Wilders areat.”

“My dear,” Dr. Flemming had said to his wife,that evening, “if you have nothing else to do,suppose we go up to see Irving to-night. Wehaven’t been up there since he went back.”

Mrs. Flemming agreed and, at a little beforeeight o’clock, the doctor and his wife climbed thestairs of Old Flemming, and knocked at theirnephew’s door. All was dark within, but on thedoor was a card: “In Number Fifteen.” Thedoctor read it.

“Fifteen? Let me see, that is the Arnolds’room.”

“How good of Irving to go in there!” said Mrs.Flemming. “I suppose he was afraid that Leonwould have a dull evening for his birthday, andhas gone in to stay with him for a while.”

“Leon has had rather a bad time this winter,”answered the doctor; “worse than any of us know,I fancy, for he has taken it so as a matter ofcourse, that he hasn’t had half the sympathy hehas deserved. Well, as long as Irving isn’t here,I suppose we may as well go home again.”

“Let’s go in to see Leon for a few minutes,”suggested Mrs. Flemming. “He would be sopleased to have you call on him, and now we arehere, we can do it as well as not.”

As they approached the door of number fifteen,they heard a burst of laughter from inside. Mrs.Flemming laughed too.

“Evidently he isn’t having a very dismal evening,”she said. “What can they be doing inthere?”

“That remains to be seen,” said the doctor, ashis knock interrupted a fresh shout.

There was a chorus of “come in” from severalvoices, and the doctor, throwing the door wideopen, appeared on the threshold, with Mrs. Flemmingat his side. There was an instant of perfectsilence, while the astonished boys gazed at thedoctor who was no frequent visitor in their rooms,and the doctor’s eyes roved from the loaded tableto the remarkable guests who were seated aboutit. However, before the pause had lasted longenough to be embarrassing, Harry came to hissenses and, shaking his head at Stanley, who wasplucking wildly at his feathers without being ableto remove them, he sprang up, went to the doorand invited the unexpected guests to come in andhave a share in the feast. The doctor accepted,with a manifest enjoyment of the fun, and whilehis wife was laying aside her wraps, two morechairs were brought in, and Harry led Mrs. Flemming tothe table, as Jack rose and offered hisarm to the doctor. If the fun had been great before,it was perfect and complete now, for theFlemmings entered into the frolic as heartily asdid their young hosts, tasting all the goodies andlaughing at all the jokes with as much enthusiasmas if they had been fourteen, instead of forty.They had not spent twelve years in work amongboys to no purpose, and they understood just howto meet them on their own ground without loss ofdignity or lessening of influence. Suddenly thedoctor rose to his feet, with a glass of lemonade inhis hand.

“I call on you all to drink a toast with me,” hesaid; “in honor of one of our boys who, althoughalmost the youngest present, has yet shown himselfa true knight and soldier, by his patience inbearing a trouble that would have made too manyof us fretful and unhappy. I drink to the healthand happiness of the guest of the evening, LeonArnold.”

A wild burst of applause and a clinking ofglasses followed the toast. Then came the cry,—

“Speech! Speech!”

But, for a moment, Leon was speechless. Theunexpected praise from the doctor had touchedhim keenly, and brought the hot blood to hischeeks and a lump into his throat. However, theboys were determined to have a response fromhim, so he controlled himself with an effort, stoodup and began falteringly,—

“I thank you all for the spread, and for thetoast, and for making my birthday such a jollyone that I shall always remember it. You’ve allbeen so good to me, since I sprained my ankle,that I haven’t minded it much, now honestly, and—and—and—”Leon hesitated for a minute,in the hope of further inspiration; then addeddesperately, “and please take some more grub.”

It was scarcely the ordinary form for an after-dinnerspeech; but it was sincere enough to makeup for any other faults, and the boys received itwith acclamation, while Mrs. Flemming said toHarry, as she helped herself to another piece ofthe birthday cake,—

“What a pity your mother and Miss Dorothycouldn’t have been here! But tell me, where didyou ever get such wonderful costumes for youryoung women?”

Harry laughed.

“You’ll have to ask Max about that,” he answered.“He’s taken possession of everything hecould lay his hands on, from the sheets off hisbed to the dame’s cap. He’s made us some prettyfair-looking girls, though,” he added, glancingcomplacently at Max who was coquetting withLieutenant Wilde, quite regardless of the factthat his top-knot had fallen off on the floor, backof his chair.

Just then the doctor leaned forward as if to saysomething, and there came a pause.

“Speech, sir?” inquired the irrepressible Max,turning his eyeglass on him.

The doctor laughed.

“Not exactly a speech, Max. I only want tosay, before I go, how much I have enjoyed myevening. And now, as long as I don’t often seeall the Wilders, as the boys call you, together, I’mgoing to take just a minute to talk to you. Someof you only have a few months more to stay here,and then your days at Flemming will be ended.I dread the changes as they come, for not eventwelve years of teaching have hardened me tohaving one class after another go away from me.You know you are all my boys, and wherever yougo in the future, whatever you do, you will stillbe ‘the boys’ to me, no matter how old and gray,or how famous and renowned you may become.And so I want my boys to always be as true andpure and high in their aims, as honorable in theirevery-day lives as they are to-day. I have beenlooking around at you since I have been sittinghere, and I am proud and glad to see that everyone of you looks me squarely in the eye, and holdsup his head like a man and a soldier. It’s not abad test for a boy, after all; and I’ve watchedyou closely enough to know that I am not deceivedin it. So remember, whether you go away fromFlemming this year or next, while you are hereand after you have left us, make up your minds tolive so that I can be proud of you; so that you aredoing honor to the old school; and, above all, sothat you may never shrink from looking yourmothers and sisters and, some day, perhaps, yourwives too, straight in the eye when you meetthem. Then I shall know that I made no mistakewhen I gave my boys the uniforms of soldiers, fora soldier’s first duty is to be true, true to himselfand to his Maker. That’s enough sermonizingto-night; but I am so happy in my boys now,that I must never be disappointed in them in thefuture.”

As the doctor paused, Max impetuously sprangup, waving his glass of lemonade with such recklessnessthat he splashed it in a sticky tide downover Lieutenant Wilde’s forehead and glasses.

“I say, boys,” he cried; “here’s three cheersfor the doctor and his wife, and may they live longenough to teach school till there isn’t a boy leftin the country!”

“That’s hard on you, uncle,” called LieutenantWilde, across the table. “Are you going to killthem all off as you go along?”

In the jesting that followed, the doctor and hiswife took their departure, leaving the boys toprolong the fun until “lights out” put an endto Leon’s birthday spread.

And when they did go to bed that night, therewas not one of them but lay awake for a fewmoments, thinking over the little talk the doctorhad given them, and resolving, in his boyish heart,to be worthy the trust a good man placed in them,worthy to be an honored son of Flemming Hall.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

“Oh, do hurry up, Wing!” said Max impatiently.

“Yes, in just a minute,” responded Louis.

“You’ve said that three times already, in thelast quarter of an hour; and besides, if you don’tcome soon, you’ll crack that glass, see if youdon’t.”

“None of your impudence, Max,” returnedLouis serenely, while he brushed his coat and thenturned his attention to his shoes.

“But you’ll be late.”

“Don’t care if I am. Girls are never ready,and I can’t go looking like an old clo’ man.”

“What’s in the wind?” inquired Harry, strollinginto the room without the formality of knocking.“I’ve heard Max hurrying you up for thelast hour, Louis; and Leon and I are gettingcurious to know what’s going on. What’s thewhyness of all this prinking, I’d like to know?”

“Louis thinks the fate of the nation is hangingon his getting his hair smooth,” returned Max.“He wants to put in a fine appearance, for he’sasked the girls to go to ride, this afternoon. Theworst of it is, he insists on my going too, forballast. Shouldn’t you think he’d be afraid I’dhoodoo him? I say, Wing, why didn’t you putyour hair in papers over night, to give it an aristocraticcurl?”

“It’ll have to go as ’tis,” replied Louis complacently,as, with his eye, he measured the pointsof his collar, to see that they were even.

“I don’t really see, myself,” continued Maxgloomily; “the use of playing the agreeable to agirl old enough to be your maiden aunt. One ofthese damsels is eighteen and the other is twenty-two;and they most likely regard you as a promisinginfant, Wing. Why can’t you be sensibleand leave them to Lieutenant Wilde and Bony?”

“I don’t care for little girls, myself,” said Louis,once more picking up his hairbrush. “If I’dknown you felt this way about it, I’d have askedone of the other fellows to go in your place, andleft you to play dolls with Gyp.”

“You didn’t dare,” chuckled Max; “you wereafraid they’d cut you out; but you knew therewasn’t any danger of my doing it. Now you seehere, you told me to be ready at half-past two.Here ’tis three, and we have to go up to the stableto get the horses. How soon are you going to beready, I’d like to know?”

“I’ll be ready to leave the house in exactly fiveminutes,” answered Louis.

“All right; I’ll be back by that time,” and Maxwent out of the room, leaving Harry and Louisalone.

“Look out for yourself, Wing,” advised Harry.“Max is up to some mischief, I know, for his eyesnever look that way when he’s innocent. He’llprobably do something to pay you for yourprinking, all this time.”

“What can he do?” asked Louis, looking alittle alarmed.

“Trust Max for getting himself up in someabsurd way, if you particularly want him to lookhis best. I never knew him slow to discover away to tease.”

“I wish he wasn’t quite so bright,” said Louis,laughing uneasily. “I want the girls to have agood time, as long as the doctor let me ask them.I’ve hired the only decent rig in Hilton, Searle’sbays and the double sleigh; and now, if Max doesanything to spoil it, I’ll cut his acquaintance, seeif I don’t.”

“Where are you going?” asked Harry. “Weought to know, so we can send an exploring partyafter you, in case you get lost or run away with.”

“Up the river, somewhere,” replied Louis, as hepulled on his overcoat and plunged his handsinto his sealskin gloves.

“The roads are abominable, that way,” saidHarry. “Why don’t you go south?”

“I’ll risk the roads,” said Louis. “Now, where’sMax? He’s the late one, this time.”

“Here he is,” responded Max; “sharp on theminute. Come on.” And he marched into theroom, trying in vain to look unconscious ofLouis’s expression of consternation and Harry’sevident amusement.

“Max, you sha’n’t! You aren’t going to!”began Louis despairingly.

“To what?” inquired Max innocently.

“To wear those—those things.”

“What, these?” And Max raised his hand tothe bridge of his nose, on which triumphantlyrode a huge, bulging pair of black goggles.

“Yes, those. Where’d you get them?” demandedLouis.

“They’re little Smythe’s. I borrowed thembecause the sun was so bright, and you’ve no ideahow comfortable they are,” returned Max, whileHarry laughed unfeelingly.

“But Max, you aren’t going out to drive withthe girls, with those things on!” protested Louis.“They make you look like a cuttle-fish, or anoctopus, or a—soft-shell crab. Do take them off.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Max solemnly. “Theyfeel very good, and Smythe wears them when hegoes to walk with Bony, so they ought to lookwell enough for you. Besides, my eyes feel verytired to-day. I studied two good hours this morning,and they aren’t used to the strain.”

“Max Eliot, you deserve to be thrashed!” saidLouis wrathfully. “But come on; I can’twasteany more time talking. You’ll have the worst ofit.” And he stalked out of the room, followed byMax who pulled off his goggles long enough towink at Harry, and then settled them in placeonce more, as he went down the hall.

Quarter of an hour later, a sleigh was drivenup to the doctor’s door, and Louis, after passingthe lines to Max, jumped out and ran up the steps.After a short interval, he reappeared, followed bytwo tall young women, helped them into thesleigh, and the party drove off, while Gyp gazedforlornly after them from the front steps.

It was a month after Mrs. Arnold and Dorothyhad gone home, and a fresh interest had come toFlemming for, two weeks before this time, theschool had been thrown into a ferment by the newsthat two nieces of the doctor were about to comeup from New York, to make him a visit. Guestsrarely came to Hilton during the winter months,and this second excitement, following so closelyupon the other, had roused even the least susceptibleof the boys; so it was surprising how manyof them had chanced to be out on the hill, onerainy afternoon, when the old stage deposited twowaterproofed figures and two large trunks uponthe doctor’s steps. There was but one subject ofconversation in the dining-room that night, as thecadets cast envious glances at the vacant chair ofLieutenant Wilde who, in virtue of his cousinship,was privileged to dine with the fair strangersdown the hill. Naturally enough, the Wilderswere among the first boys to be introduced to MissBernard and Miss Alice Bernard; and from thattime on, they vied with one another to make thegirls’ visit a pleasant one. However, Louis hadsoon distanced them all in the race for popularity,for a note had come from his mother, introducinghim to these daughters of an old schoolmate; andaided by this and by his easy, charming manners,Louis had succeeded in cutting out his mates.The young women, amused by the boy’s devotionand regarding him, as Max had suggested, as a promisinginfant, had accepted his attentions as franklyas they were given, so Louis had been the fourthin most of their good times with Lieutenant Wilde.

But the last day of their visit had come, andLouis had asked and obtained permission from thedoctor to invite his young guests for a long sleigh-ride.Now, at length, there was no LieutenantWilde in the way and, for the first and only time,Louis could monopolize the society of Miss Bernard,leaving her younger sister to the care of Max,whom he had repeatedly warned to be on his goodbehavior.

It would be hard to say why it is that everyboy passes through the stage of adoration for awoman years older than himself; but such is thefact, and now, for Louis, that stage had come.He was conscious of a wild thrill of pride andpleasure as he helped pretty Miss Bernard to herseat, and then tucked the robes closely about her,noticing, as he did so, the becomingness of hersealskin toque and jacket. And he too felt veryelegant and grown-up as he gathered up the reins,touched the horses with the whip, and went dashingaway down the hill and out into the main roadwhich led to the village. If only it had not beenfor Max and those atrocious goggles, Louis wouldhave been quite content.

“Do your eyes trouble you, Mr. Eliot?” Alicehad inquired sympathetically, as Max bent over toarrange the robe around her.

And Max had made answer, with perfect seriousness,—

“Very much, at times. You see, I suppose Istudy more than I ought, and it keeps them a littleweak. It’s very trying, I assure you.”

“I feel very sorry for you,” said Miss Bernard,turning to face the goggles behind her. “It mustbe such an interruption to your work, besidesbeing so very painful.”

“It is, very,” replied Max, in a tone so suggestiveof patient suffering that Louis had a momentarylonging to drop him out into a snowdrift, as hesaw the compassionate glance which Miss Bernardgave the young deceiver.

But the clear, crisp air, the dazzling sun thatblazed and sparkled over the snowy crust and,above all, the pretty young woman at his side,soon restored Louis to his usual good-humor, andhe exerted himself to be as entertaining as possiblewhile they sped away up the valley. Miss Bernardresponded to his efforts, for both she and hersister had a genuine liking for this lad, who hadput himself and his resources so entirely at theirdisposal during their visit at the school, so theychattered away pleasantly like the oldest of friends,while an occasional burst of laughter from theback seat, showed that his friend was successfullyamusing Alice, who was as gay and full of fun asMax himself.

To the happy party in the sleigh, it seemed asif the sun were in an unusual hurry to hide himselfbehind the western hills, and it was with afeeling of unmixed regret that Louis turned thehorses’ heads toward home. The afternoon hadbeen so short and so full of enjoyment to the lad,and soon he would have left only the memory ofwhat Miss Bernard had just called their “perfectdrive.” To his eager young mind, it had allappeared to be created on purpose for his plans,the bright, cold day, the fine sleighing, even thespirits of the horses who arched their necks andtossed their heads with a pride far above theirorigin, as coming from a mere country liverystable. As the sun went slowly down towardsthe trees, the conversation had ceased, and MissBernard was leaning quietly back in her seat, gazingat the constantly-changing views of mountainand river. How pretty she looked, with the fresh,bright color in her cheeks, and the dreamy expressionin her eyes! If he were only a little older,Louis thought, and if—

“Wing,” said Max abruptly; “I don’t want tocomplain, as long as I’m only a guest; but mynose is simply congealed, and I know Miss Aliceis starving. Please remember that it’s almostsupper-time and wake up those horses; they’reonly just somnambulating.”

Alas for sentiment! There was never an opportunityfor it, when Max was within reach; andLouis roused himself from his reverie, to start upthe horses once more. Max’s sudden remark hadset them all to talking again, and they went brisklyon towards warmth and supper. With a sinkingheart, Louis noted how they flew past one familiarlandmark after another, now the upper cross-road,now Jerry’s cabin, now the lake and now the oldturnpike. Then, as the sun threw one last goldenbeam over the white landscape and then lazily sliddown out of sight, they reached the little bridgeat the foot of the long hill leading up into thetown.

Max breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now the sun’s gone, I think I can take off myglasses,” he said, as he pulled them off and depositedthem in his side pocket, blinking meanwhileat the sudden change.

“Don’t be in too much of a hurry,” Louis cautionedhim grimly.

“No,” answered Max seriously; “but it willbe dark soon, so I don’t think I shall need themany more. But, say, Wing,” he added, in a hollowtone, as he pointed to one of the tiny burial-groundswhich were scattered about the town;“aren’t you afraid to go past this spooky graveyardat this time of night?—Hullo! What’sup?”

How it happened, Louis never knew, for itwas all so sudden that no one of the party sawthe catastrophe coming in time to warn thedriver, or even to cry out; but the exclamationfrom Max found them all sitting in the snowby the roadside, in various undignified attitudes,and gazing stupidly after the sleigh which wentfrisking away from them on its side until, all of asudden, it righted itself and left the horses todraw it after them at their ease, as they trottedquietly away to their accustomed stable. Fortunately,except for the blow to Louis’s pride, noone of the young people was hurt in the least, andafter staring at the sleigh until it vanished in thedistance, and then turning absently to look ateach other, they suddenly came to their senses andsprang up, with a general laugh over their upset.

“But I say,” remarked Louis ruefully, while hehelped Miss Bernard to brush the snow from hershoulders; “here’s a go!”

“Well, no; I should call it a stay,” returnedMax unsympathetically, as he performed a similarservice for Alice.

“Oh, come, don’t laugh at a fellow,” imploredLouis; “but help me find some way out of thismess. Here we are two miles from home, not ahouse in sight, and almost dark; what’s the bestthing to do? Confound those horses!” he addedvindictively, as he drew off his glove, in order towipe his face which, in spite of the weather, feltuncomfortably warm.

“No use to wipe your eyes for spilt milk, muchless for spilt humanity,” said Max philosophically.“I don’t see but two things that we can possiblydo: either Miss Bernard and Miss Alice and I willsit here on the fence and wait while you run up tothe village for another team; or else we’ll all walkhome. Which do you prefer?” he asked, turningto Alice who looked like a feminine Santa Claus,with her shaggy black fur coat whitened here andthere with the tiny lumps of snow which hadfrozen into the curls.

“Walk, by all means; don’t you say so, Nell?”she answered, while Louis bit his lip, and turnedaway his head to hide his vexation over the unexpectedend to his drive.

Miss Bernard, too, declared herself in favor ofwalking, so they set off for home, while Alicegayly maintained that she had “always longed tobe tipped over just a little, for the fun of it.”Her sister, thoroughly sorry for the evident annoyanceof their young host, joined her in turning thewhole affair into a joke, so, in spite of the mercilessteasing of Max, the brisk walk homeward inthe short twilight was by no means the dullestpart of the afternoon, and it was a jovial partythat looked in on the astonished men at the stable,to assure them that all was well. Their comingwas only just in time, for the owner, alarmed bythe appearance of the empty sleigh, was bestirringhimself to drive down to the school, and informthe doctor of the probable accident to his youngcharges. Congratulating themselves that theyhad escaped this exposure of their absurd plight,they climbed into the sleigh which was still standingunder the shed, and were driven home intriumph by good-natured Mr. Searle, who promisedto say nothing of the matter, thus sparingLouis the mortification of being laughed at by thewhole school.

Mrs. Flemming had the daintiest of dinnersawaiting their return, and insisted that the boysshould stay and spend the evening. LieutenantWilde, too, was of the party; but Miss Bernard,anxious to restore Louis’s self-respect, for the onceneglected her handsome cousin, in order to devoteherself more exclusively to the boy at her side.Accordingly it was no wonder that Louis, as hewent up the hill in the starlight, had lost thememory of his brief mortification, in the thoughtof the pleasant hand-clasp which accompanied thewords,—

“Till we meet in the Easter holidays then, Mr.Keith.”

“I say, Wing,” said Max, ruthlessly breakingin upon his meditations; “did you hear whatLieutenant Wilde was telling me, on the way upthe hill?”

“No,” answered Louis, rousing himself from avague but blissful dream of the future; “No;what was it?”

“Nothing very important,” said Max wickedly.“He only just happened to mention that Miss Bernardis going to be married next month.”

“What!” And Louis was all attention.

“Yes,” pursued Max remorselessly; “she’s goingto be married to a man named Hiram Budge.Pretty name, isn’t it? Maybe she’d like to haveyou on hand, to act as one of the little boys thatopen the floral gates, to let the bride go through.”

This last thrust was more than Louis couldbear. Pulling off his coat, he tossed it into achair, with a carelessness quite at variance withhis usual methodical precision. Then, turning onMax, he picked him up, kicking and struggling,laid him carefully in his bed, piled the blanketsover him, threw the pillows on top of the blanketsand seated himself on the pillows, saying,—

“Now, Max Eliot, I’m going to sit here till youpromise never to speak of this day again, either tome or to anybody else, if I have to sit here tillmorning. Now promise.”

And Max promised.

Three weeks later, both the boys received thewedding cards of Mr. and Mrs. Hiram Budge;and not all of Louis’s remonstrances could preventMax from sending, as his gift, a silver bonbon dishin the form of a tiny sleigh.

CHAPTER XIV.

SERGEANT-MAJOR ARNOLD.

The winter term had passed rapidly, and againthe boys were within ten days of their vacation.The term had been a pleasant one; but in spite ofall their good times, Leon was eagerly looking forwardto his two weeks at home, for once more Alexwas to be with them, and the Arnolds were fullof plans for his entertainment, which it had beenimpossible for them to carry out at Christmas, owingto Leon’s temporary lameness. Every daysince Mrs. Arnold’s note of invitation to Alex hadcome, the boys had added to their program, whichhad become full and varied enough to satisfy themost difficult of guests, much more Alex, who wasready to enjoy it all, however simple. Dorothy,too, had carried her point, and invitations werealready out for a grand party, on the night afterEaster, at which, as a crowning happiness, LieutenantWilde was to be among the guests, going downfrom Hilton on the Saturday beforehand, and stayingat the Arnolds’, to come up with the boys,three days later. What wonder that even quietHarry was excited over the brilliant prospect;while at home, pretty Dorothy was planning awonderful gown of the pale, creamy yellow whichAlex had once chanced to say was his favoritecolor.

“It doesn’t seem as if I could wait, Hal!” Leonkept saying. “I almost know something will happento spoil it all.”

And Harry would ask in reply,—

“But what can happen, Leon?”

Old Flemming was deserted, one afternoon, forthe boys had just gone over to a dress-parade in thearmory; and they still stood grouped about thedoor, while they waited for Lieutenant Wilde’scoming, before taking their places. The cadetswere all in a state of ill-suppressed excitement, forCaptain Curtis, an old class-mate of LieutenantWilde at the Point, had suddenly appeared to him,and the boys were to have the honor of parade beforea soldier fresh from active service among theDakota and Montana Indians. None of the cadetshad seen the hero who had only reached Hiltonthat morning; but his fame had gone before him,and the boys, forgetful of his years, were picturinghim as a seamed and scarred veteran who wouldburst upon them in all the panoply of war, andwere conscious of a keen sense of enjoyment asthey put on their dress uniforms and hurried acrossto the armory to await his coming.

“Alex says he came east on furlough, after theSioux pow-wow, last December,” said Leon.

Leon’s sleeve was now decorated with the threestripes and block of his rank, for since he had beenable to resume his drill, six weeks before, his mentaland physical standing had kept him constantlyin the line of promotion, and Corporal Arnold wasnow Sergeant Arnold, with a fair prospect of rising,so soon as there should be a vacancy in theranks.

“How jolly! Then he’s seen Sitting Bull andhis men. I wish I could get in at West Point, andhave a chance for a little fun,” sighed Max enviously.

“Much fun it is!” said Jack. “It’s mostly livingin garrison on the plains, for we don’t get anIndian war every day. This man was promotedafter the battle at Wounded Knee Creek. He wasshot there; but he stayed round in camp, andwouldn’t give up and come home, till the Indianssurrendered. He’s been at home ever since, gettingpatched up again, and now he’s stopped over aday with Lieutenant Wilde, on his way back to hiscompany.”

“After all, it must be fun to be out there. Ishould think it would make Lieutenant Wildecrazy to go,” said Louis, whose ideas of frontierarmy life were largely derived from Captain King’snovels.

“Not much!” returned Jack scornfully. “I’drather be a first-class cowboy, myself. But herethey come.” And the cadets scurried into positionand saluted, as Alex came into the armory, followedby Lieutenant Wilde and a stranger.

At the first glance, the boys were a little disappointedin the appearance of this yellow-haired,blue-eyed young officer, who looked so like a boy,in his citizen’s dress; but there was something inhis soldierly carriage, in the firm lines about hislips which made them realize that they stood inthe presence of one accustomed to command, whilea long scar on his right cheek bore witness tohis having seen service, outside of the more ornamentalduties of garrison life.

As the companies formed for inspection, thestranger walked slowly across the floor and tookup a position where he could watch the cadetswhen, at adjutant’s call, they fell into line. Then,while the music sounded off and the adjutantreceived the reports, he closely scanned the facesbefore him, now and then giving a quick nod ofapproval at some well-executed detail of the drill.As the sergeants returned to position, Alex facedabout, saluted Lieutenant Wilde and reportedthe absentees. The lieutenant acknowledgedthe salute and added, according to the usualform,—

“Publish the orders, sir!”

Again Alex faced about to the battalion commanding,—

“Attention to Orders!”

There was no need for the command, for thecadets always looked upon this as the crowningmoment of the parade, and waited eagerly to hearthe promotions and appointments; while, on thisday in particular, they were all on the alertto do credit to themselves and their commandingofficer.

Some sudden memory of his own cadet daysmade the young captain smile to himself, as Alexread:—

“I say, Leon; you’re in luck,” said Harry, seizinghis brother’s arm, as they left the armory afterparade. “I didn’t suppose you were in for a promotionnow, anyway; and then it’s so jolly to getit under the eyes of an army officer, too. I heardhim asking Lieutenant Wilde which you were,for he said he met father in Helena, two yearsago. He remembered the name, because fatherknew all about Lieutenant Wilde; and he’s comingto our room this evening to see us.”

“I’m going over now to write to daddy,” saidLeon. “I want him to know about this rightaway, because he was awfully cut up about myrow with Winslow, even if he didn’t say muchabout it.”

“All right,” returned Harry; “I’ll be over byand by, to help get things into shape for the captain.”And he strolled away with Max andLouis, who were greatly elated over their newhonors.

True to his promise, Captain Curtis did callupon the Arnolds in their room, that evening;and for half an hour he held the boys in a stateof breathless interest, with his stirring tales offrontier life, in camp and in the field. He hadbeen detailed for service here and there in theWest until he was familiar with every phase of it,among the Black Hills or in the Alkali deserts, incampaigns against Sioux, Blackfoot or Apache.Two years before, while on a brief furlough, hehad met Mr. Arnold at Helena, and some slightfavors which the older man had done him, hadripened the short acquaintance into a friendshipthat made him doubly glad to meet the youngcadets. At length he rose, to return to LieutenantWilde’s room; but at the door, he turnedback to say cordially,—

“Don’t fail to tell your father how well I rememberour meeting at The Helena; and sayto him that the next time I come to Boston, Ishall surely call on him. I’m glad to have thechance to get acquainted with you for his sake,for he is a man whom every one must delight tohonor; and I am so much indebted to him that Ican only hope the time may come when I can dosomething either for him or for his sons.”

He paused while he shook hands with Harry;then he turned to Leon, whom he had been studyingclosely, during the evening.

“Let me congratulate you most heartily on yourpromotion,” he said. “So far as I can judge bywhat I have seen to-day, you deserve it, for you’vethe making of a soldier in you. Some day, perhaps,we may meet again in service out on theplains.”

“Oh dear! I wish he meant what he said, andthere was any chance of it,” said Leon, as theirguests took their departure.

“Why, you wouldn’t really like to go into thearmy?” And Harry looked at his brother insurprise.

“Wouldn’t I, though!” echoed Leon. “I’d likeit better than anything else. I believe I wasmeant for a fighter; not fisticuffs, like the time Iknocked Winslow over, but regular army service.I wonder if daddy would let me do it.” AndLeon gave his more peaceful brother a look whichwas anything but blood-thirsty, as Harry askedagain,—

“How would you like it to have to give upcollege and just go to West Point? Life thereisn’t anything but states-prison discipline.”

“Give me a chance to choose, and I’d show youwhat I’d do. But ’tisn’t so easy to get in at WestPoint, and I shall never get the chance. I shallmost likely end by being a minister, or a lawyer,or something else that’s poky.” And Leon wentto his desk, to add a postscript to his letter to hisfather, telling him of their call from CaptainCurtis, and of the captain’s answer to his ownunspoken longings.

Three days later, the Wilders had been out fora long walk up to the lake and back. It had beenan unusually merry walk, too, for the boys, excitedby the near prospect of vacation, were all full offun; while Max, in particular, had invented adozen different pranks to amuse and torment theothers, until Harry had suggested dropping himinto the lake and leaving him there, to meditateupon his sins. An hour before supper, they cametrooping home, as hungry and hearty as nine ladscould be, all laughing and talking at once. Asthey separated, to go to their rooms, Alex pausedat the stairway window long enough to see thedoctor walking hurriedly up the hill, with an openletter in his hand, and his head bowed, as if indeep and painful thought. For a moment, theboy watched him anxiously, for he knew that thedoctor rarely came to Old Flemming, and neverat this hour in the day, when he was usuallypreparing for dinner.

“I hope nothing’s wrong,” he said to himself,as he went on. Then he dismissed the matterfrom his mind, for Stanley Campbell had overtakenhim, with a question about the next day’splans.

Alex would have been still more anxious, couldhe have seen the doctor enter his nephew’s room,and heard the short, hurried conversation whichtook place there.

“Do it if you can, Irving,” said the doctor, atlength. “You can tell them better than I, for theboys are both so fond of you.”

Irving Wilde rose to do his bidding; but hisface was deathly pale, and his knees were tremblingbeneath his weight. He took off his glassesand wiped them, before he could see clearly. Forthe first time in his young life, he was to be thebearer of a sad message, and the thought unmannedhim. Then he shut his teeth together, musteredall his strength and said briefly,—

“I will. Let me take the letter, please.”

His uncle silently handed it to him; silently heturned away and walked down the hall towardsnumber fifteen. At the door he stopped, with hishand raised, just ready to knock. He could hearthe boys laughing inside the room, while he stoodthere outside, waiting to put an end to all theirfrolic. He longed to go back to his uncle, to beghim to take his place; but it was too late, he mustgo on. He rapped desperately.

“Come on in!” shouted Leon’s voice.

Slowly the knob turned and the door swungopen, showing Lieutenant Wilde on the threshold.The boys had turned to the door, expecting to seeone of their mates, Max perhaps, or Jack, come tocontinue the fun. At sight of their teacher’s wanwhite face, Harry sprang forward.

“Lieutenant Wilde!” he exclaimed in alarm.“What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

With an effort, Lieutenant Wilde rallied.

“No,” he said; “I’m not ill, so don’t be frightened.I only came to bring you a message fromthe doctor.” And he dropped into a chair, whilehis fingers closed upon the letter in his hand witha nervous pressure which left the nails white andbloodless. The boys watched him anxiously, surethat something was amiss.

“The doctor has had a letter from your home,”Lieutenant Wilde went on, after a moment, witha vain attempt to assume his usual quiet manner.

Leon’s hand was on his shoulder, and he feltthe boy’s fingers grow rigid, as they clutchedhim.

“Who is it?” he asked abruptly. “Some one isill, I know.”

Delay was useless, and Lieutenant Wilde answeredat once, feeling that it would be cruel towaste words.

“It is your father,” he said gently.

Again the boy’s thought had rushed on in advanceof the words.

“He is dead,” he said excitedly.

Irving Wilde could not speak. For his onlyanswer, he rose and put his arm around the boy.He was none too soon for with a cry,—

“Oh, Hal! Oh, daddy, daddy!” Leon reeledwhere he stood.

With the help of Harry, who until then hadremained speechless and dazed, Lieutenant Wildelaid him gently on his bed and sat down by hisside, with one hand on his, the other arm aroundHarry’s shoulders. There was comfort andstrength in his touch; but he sat there silent,while the twilight in the room slowly changedto darkness, for he knew only too well that, asyet, no words could comfort the sorrowing heartsbefore him.

At length Harry raised his head.

“Please tell us,” he said brokenly; “when wasit?”

Then Lieutenant Wilde told, as gently andquietly as he could, and pausing, now and then,until the fresh wave of boyish grief had spentitself, and he could go on with his sad story.

There was but little to tell, for in the hurry andconfusion of their sudden grief, the letter wasshort. During the early part of the evening before,Mr. Arnold had seemed to be unusually brightand full of fun. At about nine o’clock, he hadgone into the library to write to the boys; andhe had been away from the room for more than twohours, before they wondered at his absence. ThenMrs. Arnold went in to speak to him, only tofind that he had left them, never to come backto his pleasant earthly home. He sat there,leaning back in his chair, as one fallen asleep,with a quiet smile on his genial face which hadso rarely known a frown. Under his hand, stillstretched out upon the table before him, was asheet of paper, on which he had written,—

“My dear boys,—Only a week before youcome back to your old daddy again, but Leon’sletter, with its good news of his promotion andof your seeing Captain Curtis, makes me write toyou once more. Captain Curtis is a good man,and if either of you could be as true a soldieras he, I would gladly give my consent, though Ihad never thought of that life for my sons. Wewere all delighted over the news from Leon; infact, your daddy is thoroughly proud of both ofhis boys wh—”

Then the nerveless fingers had relaxed theirhold, and the pen had dropped. Mr. Arnold’slast thought on earth had been given to his boys.

CHAPTER XV.

ON THE LAKE.

The opening of the summer term found theArnolds back in their old places at Flemming, forit had seemed best not to interrupt their school life,much as Mrs. Arnold longed to have themwith her. She was not the woman to sacrifice toher own inclinations the best good of her children,and not even Harry’s entreaties to be allowed tostay with her and Dorothy, had moved her fromher original plan. Moreover the boys were tooyoung, she felt, to have their lives saddened bythe constant sight of her grief, so with the unselfishnessof the true mother, she gave them up oncemore, to go back to their happy school life amongthe New Hampshire hills.

And the change was good for them. The pastthree weeks had worn upon them both, and theyneeded the association with their old comrades torouse them from their sorrow. At home, everythinghad suggested to them their loss; theirfather’s easy chair, his favorite books, even thevery walls of the rooms seemed to speak of himand of his absence. Once back at Hilton, it wasdifferent. It was not that either Harry or Leonforgot their father or mourned for him any theless; but the reaction had come, as it naturallywould do, and the fresh every-day interestscrowded into their lives and, in a measure, replacedthe one absorbing thought of their trouble.

Hilton was very beautiful, that year, with theon-coming of the spring; and the seniors watchedit lovingly, with a tender regret that, for them, itwas the last opportunity to see the buds swell intofresh green leaves, to hear the songs of the birdsreturning to the Hilton woodlands. A year fromthat time, they would all be scattered, while thefamiliar life of the old school would be going onjust as usual, only without them.

One Saturday afternoon, early in May, FlemmingHall was quite deserted; not a face appearedat any of the windows, not a cadet was to be seenin any part of the grounds. It was the day ofthe annual regatta between the junior and seniorclasses, and the Flemming world had betaken itselfto the lake.

Lake Hudson, as the cadets had named it, inhonor of the river which rolls below the WestPoint bluff, lay two or three miles to the north ofthe village, in a small valley among the surroundinghills. It was a beautiful sheet of water, morethan six miles long, and only broken by one littleisland near the southern end. Learned professorswho had visited the spot, had examined it well,surprised at its lack of inlets, and had come to theonly possible conclusion, that it was fed fromunderground sources. This gave an air of mysteryto the little lake, which was heightened by ahollow, rumbling echo, to be heard at certainpoints along the shore, that suggested rockycaverns far below the surface. Lake Hudson hadhad its tragedy, too, like many another peacefulinland lake. The boys were all familiar with thesad story of the famous young musician who hadbeen caught in a squall one day, while fishing incompany with his older brother; how the boat hadbeen overturned, and the older man had clung toits side in safety, only to see his brother struggleand sink before his very eyes.

But the lake looked quiet enough to-day, in thewarm spring sun which lay over the water, turningit to a sheet of dazzling silver, broken hereand there into the tiny golden ripples which camenearer and nearer, to creep through the rushes bythe shore and splash up against the pebbles on themargin, with a gentle, lapping sound. Away tothe north, the valley opened out before the eye,showing ranges of hills growing more and moredistant until their green sides turned to a hazyblue, and then lost themselves against the hazierblue of the sky. The wooded shores sloped downto the road which ran along the very borders ofthe lake, affording scanty room for the throng ofcarriages which had gathered there, for the day ofthe regatta was a gala day for the surroundingtowns, and ever since noon, the quiet countryroads had been gay with the crowd that hadassembled from far and near to watch the contest.Soon after dinner, the cadets had left Flemming,to walk up to the lake, and a little later the doctorand his wife, Lieutenant Wilde and Mr. Bonifacehad driven away in the same direction.

The three-mile course lay along beside the westernbank, within full view of the road, and startedfrom a point about half a mile from the foot of thelake, near the southern end of the little island, totake advantage of a long, unbroken sweep of shorewhich afforded an uninterrupted view of the boats,as they moved along parallel with the road. Farout, beyond the line of gayly decorated stakeswhich marked the half-mile points on the course,the water was dotted thickly with the little boatsof every shape and color, in which the boys werepaddling about as they waited for the crews totake their position at the starting-line.

“Rah! F. L. E. M. M. I. N. G! Fszt! Rah!Rah! Rah! Rah!”

The Flemming cheer came up from the lake, ina stormy chorus, as the doctor, with a tiny moroccocase in his hand, stepped into the boat which wasawaiting him, and was rowed away towards theupper end of the course, where a stake, adornedwith the colors of the two classes, marked the goal.For a time, the Flemming was the centre of interest;then, as it slowly came round into positionand dropped anchor, every eye was turned back, tolook away to the southern end of the lake, wherethe crews were still hidden in the lee of the Flemmingboat house.

To the eager watchers, it seemed as if theywould never start out into sight; and theystrained their eyes to catch the first glimpse ofthe red and blue jerseys. In all the history ofFlemming regattas, there had never been so excitinga race as this one, for it was agreed on allsides that, in any event, it must be a very closevictory. Both crews were in perfect condition,for they had been in training for months, and hadtaken to the water so soon as the spring thaws hadcleared the lake of floating ice, and allowed themto go up for their daily pull over the course.Moreover, the seniors were resolved to wipe outthe stain upon their football record, while thejuniors were no less determined to maintain theadvantage they had gained, and leave untarnishedthe name and glory of the class of ninety-two.

Some trifling collision between two of the littleboats had directed the attention to the upper endof the lake, when an enthusiastic cheer from atiny blue boat, turned every eye towards the boathouse. Slowly the junior crew rounded the sideand came into view, followed, at a little distance,by the seniors, and both rowed lazily down to thestarting-point. The regular sweep of the oars, andthe almost mechanical precision of the motion ofthe backs, as they rose and fell in perfect unison,were the only hints they gave of their power, asthey came down towards their waiting schoolmates,who received them with loyal shouts,—

“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!”

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

But the shouts died away, as the crews tooktheir places. The light shells lay motionless uponthe water, while the rowers sat with their oarspoised in air, their gaze bent on Lieutenant Wilde,as he stood waiting to give the signal. Nota breeze stirred the air, and the lake was onlybroken by the tiny ripples that just roughenedits glassy surface. The very water seemed tofeel the hush of waiting, and to be holding itselfmotionless, like the human life around and upon it.

Then the shouts rang out again, for the signalwas given and each shell, answering to the suddentension of eight pairs of arms, leaped forward onits course. The race had begun.

The shells passed the first half-mile post inexcellent style. Ninety-two was leading by aboat-length, and rowing twenty-eight strokes tothe minute. The senior stroke was a little slower,and it was plain that both crews were reservingtheir best efforts until farther on in their course.Keeping pace with them, the carriages drove alongup the shore of the lake, while beyond the course,on the outer side, the little fleet of boats shiftedtheir positions and moved on, to keep their favoritecrews well in sight. There was little outwardshow of enthusiasm as yet, for the course waslong, and the boys were saving their throats forthe final demonstration; but they watched witheager interest the steady rise and fall of the shoulders,the quiet, even play of the muscles which thelight jerseys could not conceal, and the smoothstroke as the oars struck the water, cut their waythrough it, then were feathered in the air, beforefalling again for the succeeding stroke. In themeantime, occasional scraps of comment could beheard, tossed from boat to boat as the groups continuallyshifted and changed.

“Ninety-two has a fine stroke.”

“Wait till ninety-one gets after her.”

“I’ll wait; ninety-one won’t be in it to-day.”

“Don’t you believe it, she’s only holding offnow.”

“The blue’ll have it; she’s more than threelengths ahead.”

“Red’s spurting. There she comes!”

True enough, as they approached the one-milestake, the seniors quickened their stroke to thirtyto the minute, and little by little their bow creptforward, lessening their distance by half a length,just as they reached the second stake.

“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!”answered the friends of the seniors, in an encouragingshout, while the loyal adherents of ninety-twosent back the cry,—

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

The first mile stake once passed, the crewssettled to work in earnest. Ninety-two still keptthe lead, with a long, steady stroke which noteven the occasional spurts of ninety-one could pass.Three lengths, at the end of the next half-mile,showed that the juniors were more than holdingtheir own, and made their friends exultant overthe prospect of an easy victory. But the seniorsand their friends, whose eyes were fixed onCaptain Howard’s face, felt that the real test hadnot yet come; and they were content to wait, forthey believed that the juniors were using theirmost finished stroke, while ninety-one still heldherself in reserve. Even as they watched, thechange came, a change too slight to catch theattention of any but a trained eye; and as ninety-oneentered on the last half of her second mile,she slowly gained upon her adversary. Line byline, inch by inch she approached the leadingshell, not a spurt this time, but a steady gain,slow but resistless, and the crews swept past thesecond mile stake with but two and a quarterlengths between.

“Hold your ground, blue!”

“Hurrah for red and ninety-one!”

“Ninety-one gains!”

“She can’t hold out!”

“Ninety-two’s stroke’ll win yet!”

“Ninety-one! Rah!”

But the cries died away again, for the boys weretoo eager in watching the straining muscles, theset, resolute faces of their champions, to wasteany thought on mere class cries. Ninety-two waspulling magnificently, but ninety-one still continuedto decrease the distance. At the end of thenext quarter-mile, there was less than a boat-lengthbetween them, and both crews were putting forththeir best energies, as they came sweeping downtowards the goal. The next quarter-mile did itswork, and the senior crew were still gaining: alength, three-quarters, half, one-third, one-eighth,and the crews were side by side with scarcely teninches start for the juniors, as they entered upontheir final half-mile, amidst the deafening crieswhich rose from lake and shore.

All at once, there came a sudden stillness whichturned their jubilant shouts into a sort of low moan.The junior shell swerved slightly in her course,and for an instant her speed was checked. Thenext moment, ninety-one swept proudly past,leading her by two or three feet as she righted andresumed her stroke. The change was so sudden,that even the most distant on-looker realized thatsome accident had occurred, while the boys in thenearest boats had seen Frank Osborn’s oar snap intwo, under the strain he had placed upon it.

“Nine-ty-one! Rah! Nine-ty-one! Rah!”shrieked the triumphant seniors, for they alreadyfancied the prize in their hands. Indeed, it seemedan impossibility that the junior crew, crippled bythe loss of an oar, and by having to carry theweight of a useless man, could regain its lostadvantage.

No one knew what was to follow.

For one instant, the junior shell lay motionlessas Frank Osborn rose, with a hasty word of warning,turned his handsome, scornful face towardsthe senior crew, in one flash of defiance, and thenjumped far over the side of the boat into the cold,blue water below, as the lifted oars fell again andthe lightened shell darted onward, amid the loudcheers that rose on every side.

The third quarter post of the last mile flashedpast them, and ninety-one was still leading by ahalf length. Ninety-two had recovered from hershock and, with thirty-four strokes to the minute,was cutting the water like a knife, close in therear, so close that Captain Howard made a finalspurt.

Ninety-two answered with another, gained alittle, lost a little, gained again, and for a secondthe boats stood bow to bow, and the goal was closeat hand. Not a cry rose from bank or boat; nothingcould be heard but the sound of the oars andthe labored breathing of the men, as the boatsswept past the stake, not eighteen inches apart.There was a hush, as the crowd drew one long,deep breath; and then came roar after roar, louderand yet more loud,—

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

“O. S. B. O. R. N! Rah! Rah! Rah!”

“Rah! F. L. E. M. M. I. N. G.! Fszt! Rah!Rah! Rah! Rah!”

“Nine-ty-two! Rah! Rah-oh-ah!”

The race was over, and the blue had won.Once more, ninety-two was triumphant; but thejunior captain was not half the hero in the boys’eyes that Frank Osborn was, when he was landed,dripping, from the boat which had picked him up,and stowed away in the doctor’s carriage, for aquick drive homeward in the sunset.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN THE RAVINE.

It was two weeks after the regatta, and againthe boys were on the water. Six of the Wildershad taken advantage of a pleasant Saturday afternoonto walk up to the lake, and take out theFlemming for two or three hours’ fishing. Forsome time they had been watching their lines witha patience which was but ill-rewarded, for theyhad only a meagre number of worthless little fishto show for their waiting. Now, at the suggestionof Max, they were about to seek a fresh ground,and with their light anchor still dragging, theywere slowly rowing up to the northern end of thelake, to try their fortunes in a deep, quiet poolwhich they had known of old. Suddenly Harrypaused on his oars.

“Halt! I say,” he exclaimed. “This place istoo cool and pleasant to leave; let’s lie off herefor half an hour and enjoy it. We shall have timethen for all the fishing we want.”

“Only four weeks more,” sighed Jack; “andthen where’ll we be?”

warbled Max sentimentally, from his seat in thebow. “We’ll be the seniors then,” he added complacently,“and you’d better believe we’ll showyou how to do things.”

“No use to put on airs, Max,” retorted Jack.“There’ll never be another class like ninety-one,and you may as well make up your mind to it.”

“Conceit, thy name is—Howard!” paraphrasedMax, dropping his oar and bending over the edgeof the boat, to paddle in the clear water.

“Oh, Hal,” asked Alex, all at once; “how comeson the poem?”

Harry groaned, as he lay down on the narrowseat and turned his face up to the blue sky above.

“It doesn’t come,” he said, “I’ve a few ideas,but I can’t make them rhyme. I don’t see why, inthe name of all common sense, you fellows put mein as class poet.”

“Probably because there wasn’t anybody else todo it,” suggested Max benevolently. “When wecome to our class day plans, though, we sha’n’thave any trouble over our poet, we have one allready and waiting to step into office.”

“Who is it?” inquired Leon curiously.

“Wing, of course,” responded Max. “Didn’tyou know he wrote poetry? He does, ever somuch, and grates his teeth, and his eyes roll likeanything while he’s doing it. Then he tears it up.I saw one bit of it, though. I’ve forgotten justhow it was; but it went something like this:—

“Max Eliot, you hold your tongue,” interruptedLouis, blushing and wrathful. “You make upstories faster than you can tell them.”

“What’s struck you to-day, Max?” asked Alex.“You’re even wilder than usual.”

“Aren’t we all Wilders, I’d like to know?But I feel unusually hilarious; I’m invited to agreat and glorious spread to-night, and it excitesme, don’t you see?”

“Who has a spread?” queried Jack idly.

“Frank Osborn. It’s his birthday, I believe;anyway, he’s going to have a great time of it.”

“Say, Max, I wouldn’t go,” said Alex persuasively.

“Not go! Why not, I’d like to know?” returnedMax.

“Osborn isn’t any sort of fellow for you to bewith,” Alex answered, with a troubled look on hispleasant face. “I thought your liking for himhad died the death, anyway.”

“So it had, for we had a little row; but that’sall over now,” said Max carelessly. “I don’tthink Osborn’s a bad fellow, though, Alex.”

“He’s not my style, and I don’t like him atall,” returned Alex; “I think he’s fast, and Ihate to have him think he’s going to get in withany of our set. I’d cut his acquaintance and lethim go, Max.”

“Maybe I will, after I’ve had a taste of hisspread,” answered Max, laughing. “You seniorsdon’t like him because he won the race for ninety-two;but it was a magnificently plucky thing todo, you know it was.”

“If you want my candid opinion of Osborn,”said Jack deliberately; “he’s a low-bred sneakand a disgrace to Flemming. He did do a pluckything when he jumped overboard; but he’s beeninsufferably conceited about it ever since, toocockahoop for anything.”

For a minute Max glared at Jack, with anangry gleam in his blue eyes; but Harry interruptedthem,—

“Oh, come now, you fellows, don’t get into arow. There isn’t room here. Besides, I’ve nevernoticed that the fish came down the lake to lookfor us, and if we’re going to try our luck up abovehere, it’s time we were starting.” And he tookup his oar, letting its blade fall into the water,with a splash which sent the drops flying into thefaces of the belligerent boys around him.

It had the desired effect of cooling their tempers;and the boys rowed away up the lake, the long,steady sweep of the oars sending the tiny wavesfar to the left and right of their track. The shadowsfrom the bank had grown long upon the water, asthe boys skirted the little island and then struckoff towards the eastern shore. As they nearedthe bank, Max rose and peered eagerly over thebow of the boat.

“Slow!” he commanded. “I want to be surewhen we get there. Steady! We’re in theshallows. Start her up a little; it’s more than tenfeet ahead.”

Forgetful of their anchor which was stilldragging, the boys at the oars made a suddenspurt. The little boat sprang forward for a fewfeet, then stopped with such suddenness that Maxwas sent plunging forward, into the clear, brightwater below. For a moment there was a panic,and as the boy disappeared under the ripples, hiscompanions sprang to their feet in alarm.

“Sit down!” commanded Alex instantly. “Doyou want to upset the boat, and give us all aducking? Max is all right; he’s a good swimmer,and here he comes up again, anyway.”

As he spoke, there was a miniature whirlpool ata little distance from the boat; and the forehead,eyes, nose, mouth and chin of Max slowly rose totheir sight. Then one arm appeared, as Maxmade a hasty snatch at his cap which was floatingpast him.

“Can you keep up a minute, till we get toyou?” called Jack.

“Keep up; I should say so,” answered Max,spluttering and wiping the water from his eyes.“I’m standing on the ground all right; but I can’twade over to you, for I’m just across that hole Iwas looking for. Told you I’d find it,” he added,with a triumphant chuckle.

“All right, we’ll come over to you,” said Leon.“You didn’t go out quite as gracefully as Osborn,but ’twasn’t so bad for a first attempt. Is it wetany, over there?”

“I should think ’twas, slightly,” returned Max,as he rubbed away the streams which were tricklingfrom his yellow hair. “If you doubt it, comein and see. Do hurry up with that boat, though,for I am nearly frozen.”

For again and again the boys had bent to theiroars, but the boat remained motionless.

“Confound the old tub!” exclaimed Jack.“What’s the matter with her? She can’t beaground, for I can’t touch bottom with my oar.Pull again, boys, and start her up.”

They did pull, but with no more result thanbefore, while Max, his teeth chattering from hischill, stood fifteen feet away, railing at theirefforts.

“It’s the anchor,” said Leon suddenly. “Weforgot and left it dragging, and it’s caught onsomething. Back her, some of you, till I getthis loose.”

“Anything you please, only do hurry up,” saidMax. “I’m getting a little damp about the ankles,and besides, I shall be late for the spread.”

“I shouldn’t much mourn about that,” saidJack, in an undertone, as he went forward to helpLeon in his efforts to free the anchor. “Fromwhat I’ve heard, Osborn is getting ready to havea high time to-night. Max,” he added, as a fewpowerful strokes sent the boat over to thedrenched and shivering boy, “now you tumblein here, and let us get you home as soon as everwe can. If you didn’t have more lives than a cat,Max Eliot, you’d be dead long before this. Now,boys, pile your coats over him, and we’ll run himhome in a hurry.”

Max came to the breakfast-table, the next morning,complaining of a severe headache for whichnot even his unpremeditated bath of the afternoonbefore, seemed sufficient to account. His unusualpallor and the dark lines under his eyes wereproof enough of his not being well, so no one wassurprised at his excusing himself from church, andspending the morning in his room. Soon afterdinner, however, he appeared at the door of theArnolds’ room, yawning and stretching, andinvited Leon to go out for a walk. In spite ofthe unseasonable warmth of the day, the clearMay sunshine was too attractive to be resisted, soLeon gladly enough laid aside his book and wentaway with him.

Half an hour later, Alex put his head in at thedoor.

“Do you know where Max and Leon are, Hal?”he asked.

“No,—wait a minute, though; I think theysaid something about going up to the ravine, but Ididn’t pay much attention. What do you want?”

“Nothing special,” answered Alex lightly. “Tothe ravine? Well, perhaps I’ll walk up that way,on the chance of meeting them.”

Alex went on his way; but instead of goingdirectly to the ravine, he paused irresolutely infront of the doctor’s house. Then he went up thesteps and rang the bell. The doctor himself cameto the door. He looked tired and anxious; but atsight of Alex his face brightened.

“Oh, Alex,” he said cordially; “I’m glad tosee you. Come in.”

“May I have a little while to talk to you?”asked Alex, with simple directness.

“Yes, indeed; I am always glad to have a callfrom you.” And the doctor led the way into hisstudy, where they could be free from interruption.

“Sit down,” he said; “and tell me about it.”

“It?” said Alex inquiringly.

“Yes, it,” returned the doctor, smiling. “Youlook as if something were wrong.”

“So there is,” replied Alex, anxiously knittinghis brows; “and the worst of it is, I don’t knowwhether I have any business to be here, it seems solike telling tales.”

Dr. Flemming bent forward and laid his hand onthe boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t you know, Alex, that I always want tohear all that concerns my boys, whether for good orill? I can rely on your sense of honor, I am sure, foryou have proved yourself far above the meannessof ordinary tale-bearing. If you wish, I promiseyou that whatever you say shall remain a secretbetween the two of us.”

“Thank you.” And Alex met the doctor’ssteady gaze without flinching. “Of course youknow how gossip flies, in a place like this, andwon’t be a bit surprised when I tell you it’s commontalk that you had an interview with Osborn thismorning.”

“I didn’t expect it quite so soon,” replied thedoctor quickly. “But go on.”

“Well, the boys all think it means expulsion forhim and his set; but very likely that’s wrong. Now,what I wanted to ask you was—” Alex stoppedfor a moment, then went on in a lower voice;“whether you knew Max Eliot was at the spreadlast night.”

The doctor started; this was unexpected news.

“Please understand the reason I’m telling youthis,” Alex continued hastily, as if to free himselffrom any charge of meddling with another’s concerns.“I knew you’d hear of it sooner or later,perhaps from Osborn himself, for he’s always spitedour set, and would like to hurt us through Max.But if you heard it that way, you would neverknow what a mere chance it was that Max wasthere. If he was in the scrape, it’s the first timehe’s done anything of that kind, for he isn’t a bitfast, like the others.”

“And what then?” asked the doctor kindly.

“Just this,” replied the boy, with a quiet dignityall his own; “if it should come to where you haveto punish the other fellows, please remember thatMax isn’t quite one of them. He’s gay and full ofhis pranks; but he’s not fast, and last night is thefirst time he’s ever been at one of their winespreads. He’s broken off with them lately, and wewere all surprised at his saying, yesterday afternoon,that the friendship was on again. But uponmy honor, Dr. Flemming,” here the blue eyes wereagain fixed on the master’s face; “on my honor asa Flemming boy, it is Max’s first offence, and Ihope you’ll be as easy on him as you can.”

The doctor closely studied the earnest face beforehim; then he rose and took one or two turnsup and down the room.

“Alex,” he said, as he came back to his chair;“I can trust you, and I am going to talk plainlyto you. The boys did have a very wild time attheir spread, last night, and one or two of themwere the worse for the champagne. For sometime I have been suspicious of their spreads, butthis was the first time I could prove anythingagainst them. This morning I saw them, andquietly told them not to come back here, after theclose of this term. I have been thinking formonths that this must come, but the year is sonearly over that I thought best not to make a publicexpulsion of it. I had no idea that Max wasthere, or he might have shared the same fate. Butif you can tell me on your honor that this is hisfirst offence, I will let him off this time. Maxisn’t a bad fellow, only too full of fun and a littleweak, too easily made by his companions of themoment. I will give him another chance, but Imust have a long talk with him. Can you see himthis afternoon, tell him what has occurred and askhim to come to me this evening?”

Alex tried to thank him; but he interrupted,—

“Never mind the thanks, Alex; they come tome in the perfect freedom you have shown in talkingwith me. If only all my boys had felt to meas you do, this miserable affair need never havetaken place. But don’t go; stay and tell me aboutyourself, for it’s a long time since I’ve had achance to talk with you.”

“I’d better not,” Alex answered. “I want tosee Max, if I can, before he gets wind of this.”

“Go, then; perhaps you’d better. I am gladyou came to me as you did, for if I had heard thatMax was there, and nothing more, I might havebeen unwisely severe.”

As Harry had suggested, Alex found the twoboys in the ravine. After the heat of the Mayafternoon and his rapid walk, the coolness aroundthem was a great relief, and Alex was glad to dropdown on the coarse, uneven turf by their side, andrest for a few moments, before beginning upon thesubject which was weighing so heavily on his mind.The ravine, as the boys called it, was a deep gorgein the hills, worn away by the swift mountainbrook that hurried through it, to seek the calmerwaters of the Connecticut and go with them to thesea. The brook was so narrow and the slant of itssides so abrupt that the branches of the trees oneither side mingled overhead to form one commonshade; while below them the water now plungedover a little precipice, now raced along the shallows,breaking into a lacelike foam over its rocky bed,now flowed smoothly and silently through thestill pools, so dark and deep, where trout love tohide under the shelter of the over-hanging ferns,then rushed away, to go on racing and plungingand eddying, over and over again, till it joined thequieter current of the mighty river, three milesand more away.

“Max,” Alex began abruptly, after the intervalof silence which had followed their greetings;“you went to that spread last night, didn’t you?”

Instantly Max was on the defensive.

“Yes, I did,” he replied curtly, as he threw astick into the whirlpool below him, and watchedit circle round and round in the swirling eddy.“What then?”

“I hear you had rather a lively time,” said Alex,trying to approach the subject so gently that Maxshould not be roused to anger.

“Well, as I said, what then?” said Max defiantly,as he tried in vain to meet the kind blueeyes so steadily fixed upon his own. “I don’tknow as it’s any of your business, if we did.”

Leon looked up in surprise, for in his ignoranceof the matter, he was at a loss to account forMax’s unwonted irritability.

“Perhaps it is my business,” Alex replied, andhe went on to tell of his talk with the doctor.

As Max listened, his face slowly lost a little ofits frown, and he rolled over on his back, to stretchhis hot hand up to Alex.

“You’re a good fellow, Alex,” he said, with anew and softer light in his eyes. “You’ve doneme a good turn to-day, and I know it.”

“Prove it by letting those fellows alone, in thefuture,” responded Alex quickly.

“I will, honestly, now. I didn’t stay as late asthe others,” confessed Max penitently; “I didtake some of the stuff, though, but when I sawhow ’twas going, I sneaked out and came home.I wish I’d come earlier, so I needn’t have hadthis abominable headache. Truly, though, Alex,I only took a little.” And his voice was almostpleading, as he spoke. “I’m sorry I did that, butit wasn’t enough to do the least bit of hurt.”

Once more the silence was only broken by therushing water below them, and the bird-songs fromthe branches above their heads. Then Alex spokeagain, but slowly and as if with an effort.

“Max,” he said, “I’m not over fond of pullingfamily skeletons out of their closets, and you fellowsall know that I’m not much given to talkingabout my own affairs. I suppose you all havewondered at my being here, when I’m so mucholder than the rest of you. I think I’ll tell youall the story now, for it can’t do any harm, and itmay save you a little something by and by.”

As he paused, there was a slight catch in hisbreath. Leon rose, as if to leave them alone.

“Don’t go, Leon,” he went on. “Except forthe doctor and Lieutenant Wilde, Hal is the onlyone here who knows this, so you may as well stayand hear it out, too. It isn’t a pretty story, butI’ll try to make it as short as I can.”

Leon dropped back into his former place besideAlex, who continued, with his eyes fixed on thewater below,—

“You see, in the first place you must rememberthat life in Denver isn’t much as it is here in theeast. Out there, everybody drinks wine, as a matterof course, and it comes into everything from abusiness contract to an evening call. You haveit here, I know; but not near so much. Well, myfather, when he went out there, was a gay, handsomeyoung man with a splendid reputation in hisprofession—he’s a doctor, you know—just thekind of a man to be popular and in demand in asocial way. Being in society out there means,almost as a matter of course, taking more or lesswine; and father was just like all the rest ofthem, only he couldn’t stand as much as someothers. From a little and a little, he went onuntil the little had come to be a great deal, andhe had grown to depend on it, as a daily need.Even then, his old patients stuck to him, for ’twasa saying that they’d ‘rather have Dr. Sternedrunk than any other doctor sober.’ But it hadgone too far to stop, and slowly—What’s the useof dwelling on it? Father finally reached thepoint where he was a common street drunkard,without practice and without money. I tell you,Max, those were bad times, and I remember themwell. They aren’t the kind of thing one wants tolive through, or to talk about, either. It went onso for several years, and then, eight years ago, thechange came. People said ’twas miraculous andwouldn’t last, and even we never knew whatstarted him; but all at once father braced up alittle. He had a few good friends out there,among the solid, true men of the city, and withtheir help, he scrambled up on his feet again.They wanted him to go away, and start freshsomewhere else; but he said no, he’d gone underthere, and there he’d come up, till he’d lived downthe past. There aren’t many men strong enoughto do it, and the fight was a terrible one; but nowhe has won back his old place in the city, and hisreputation is higher than ever. Still, it has madean old man of him; and it all started from justsuch light social drinking as you tried last night.”

Max had rolled over and turned his face awayfrom his friends. He lay very still.

“But that wasn’t the worst of it,” said Alex, ina lower tone. “As far as a man can do, fatherhas left the past behind him; but there is one sideof it that can’t ever be set right. I’ve a brotherabout ten years old; I don’t believe you everheard me say much about him.”

Leon shook his head.

“Poor little Jack! He’s had the hardest of itall to bear. He was born just in the most dismaldays, when father was at his worst, and motherwas overworked and worried till she didn’t knowwhich way to turn to get us food and clothes, forshe was too proud to ask help from her oldfriends. You ought to know my mother, Leon.Well, I suppose that affected Jack; anyway, hismind has never been quite right, so he couldn’t goto school or anything of that kind. He’s a dearlittle fellow, but he’ll always be like a baby; andfather has to watch him, year after year, and knowthat he alone is the cause of it, that Jack has totake the penalty of his father’s sins. That’s allthere is to the story; but if you’d lived throughwhat we have done, you wouldn’t want to playwith wine-drinking, for it’s easier to go down thanup, and where one comes up again, one hundredstay down. Besides, if you can bring yourself upout of the rut, you don’t know what harm youmay be doing to the next generation who aren’t toblame, but can’t help themselves and just have togrin and bear it. Keep out of it, Max, if youwant to be a happy man.”

There was another silence, a long one this time.Max did not move, so Alex beckoned to Leon, andtogether they stole quietly away, leaving the boyto himself.

The boys never knew what passed in the doctor’sstudy, that night. Max was gone for a longtime, and when he went back to his room at bed-time,his eyes were red and his voice unsteady.With scarcely a word to Louis, he went to bed,but not to sleep. Far into the night, he lay staringat the darkness, while Dr. Flemming’s lastwords still echoed in his ears,—

“But above all, my dear boy, you will never bea full-grown man until you have learned to standalone, without leaning on your friends. Wheneverthe question arises, make up your mind, oncefor all, where the right lies, and then go towardsit, even if your path leads across the bodies ofyour dearest friends. Right is always right; andI am here only just to help my boys to find it outand march steadily towards it. That done, I needno other reward. Now, bless you, my boy; andgood night.”

CHAPTER XVII.

COMMENCEMENT.

Quickly, far too quickly, the remaining weeksof the year had passed, and the commencementseason had come. Little had occurred to markthe four weeks, for the work of the school hadgone smoothly on to its close, without disaster orincident to mark the every-day routine. For aweek after the spread in Osborn’s room, the schoolhad buzzed with more or less incorrect reports ofthe affair; but, except for Alex and Leon, none ofthe cadets knew how near it had come to beingdisastrous to careless, mischievous Max. Then itwas slowly forgotten by every one but the disgracedlads, and by Max who had gone to workin earnest, anxious to prove to the doctor thathe was worthy of his continued confidence andfriendship.

The seniors, one and all, were busy with theirplans for commencement; and although theywere clinging fondly to all the old associations;yet in spite of it all, they were eager for the comingof the great day to which, for four long years,they had been steadily pointing. The juniors, too,caught something of their spirit, for the hourwhich transformed the senior boys into men,would in turn advance themselves into the covetedposition of seniors, to be admired and looked up toby the whole school; so that only the lower classeswere free from the excitement which reigned atFlemming, as the June days slowly passed away.

At last the time had come, and Hilton was filledto overflowing with the guests, who had assembledto watch the young soldiers march past their firstmilestone. The quiet village street was swarmingwith gray coats, and the elaborate gowns of statelymothers, and pretty sisters and cousins; whileportly fathers gathered on the piazza of the littlehotel, to exchange confidences in regard to “myboy,” with an ill-concealed pride.

Commencement week at Flemming always beganwith the anniversary sermon in the villagechurch which, once a year, was beautified withmasses of the pink laurel that softened the bare,barren walls of the dreary little place. The followingday was given up to the social pleasures of theivy-planting, and the evening hop at the doctor’s,together with the dress-parade which came in thelate afternoon.

On Sunday evening, the boys had gathered inthe Arnolds’ room, for a few minutes before“lights out.” They had been speaking of theyoung clergyman who had made the annual address,a simple, earnest appeal for a manly life,which had roused the boys to quick enthusiasm.

“I’d like to know that man,” Harry was saying;“he strikes me as being a friend worth having.”

“Yes,” answered Max pensively, and without athought of joking; “he must be a pretty goodman, for such a young one; for he made even mefeel sort of good.”

There was a moment of silence; then Harry saidrestlessly,—

“I do wish to-morrow would be over, for I’vebeen dreading this class-day circus for more thansix weeks.”

“I’ve seen his old poem, though,” observedLeon; “and it really isn’t so bad, considering Halwrote it.”

“Thank you, my patronizing infant!” returnedHarry, with a sweeping bow. “You’d better go tobed, on the strength of that. Let’s hope ’twill bepleasant to-morrow morning, for I don’t care tostand out in the rain and spout my production.”

“That would be a waterspout, with a vengeance,”said Max, before Louis could suppresshim and drag him off to bed.

The next morning was pleasant enough to satisfyeven Harry; and by half-past nine o’clock,the guests had assembled in front of the recitationhall, to await the coming of the boys. It was anattractive sight as they marched across the familiarlawn, with the band gayly playing at the head ofthe procession,—the last time that those same boyswould be marching together, under the green oldelms of Flemming. On the next day, the breaking-upmust come and the friends be scattered,some, perhaps, never to meet again.

There was an expectant hush as the seniorsgrouped themselves in their places, and JackHoward, as president of the class, made his littleaddress of welcome. Harry’s turn came next, andas he stood there waiting, he glanced down intothe front row of guests, where Leon had stationedhimself at his mother’s side and, back of them,Alex, moving slightly from his place in the ranks,had taken his stand beside Dorothy. The girllooked very delicate and pretty in her blackgown, as she gazed steadily and proudly up ather brother, then turned to speak to the tall cadetat her side, with a perfect unconsciousness of theenvious glances cast upon her by the less favoredgirls in the rear.

But Harry had stepped forward and, with oneanxious, troubled look down at the little homegroup, as if beseeching them to be as merciful aspossible in their judgment, he began to read. Asthe last words were spoken:—

and Harry moved back to his place behind Jack,there was a short silence, and then a burst ofapplause so enthusiastic that even modest Harrycould not forbear stealing one happy, exultantglance down at his mother and Dorothy. Then,when all was done and the ivy planted in its appointedplace, hosts and guests scattered, to passthe time as best they might, until four o’clockshould bring them together again at the parade-ground.In the meantime, the Wilders and theirfriends assembled in the Arnolds’ room, whereHarry received general congratulations for hissuccess of an hour before.

It was a very flushed and happy-looking Dorothywhom Alex escorted to the parade-ground, thatafternoon, after a long drive, and left in charge ofher mother, while he hurried away to change hisfatigue coat for the dress uniform which added somuch to the dignity of his appearance.

Then assembly sounded, and, at the sergeants’command, the companies fell into line on theirseparate parade-grounds. As the signal ceased,the order Left—Face rang out and the cadetsturned sharply in their places before being broughtto support arms, by order of the first sergeant. Afew moments later, the trumpets sounded thequick notes of adjutant’s call, and Adjutant Sterneand Sergeant-Major Arnold, with their markers,marched across to the regimental parade-ground,where they took up their positions, Alex to theright, Leon on the left, while company after companywas led forward by its captain, dressed inline and brought to support arms. As LieutenantWilde took his place, as commanding officer, at alittle distance in front of the battalion, the adjutantordered the captains to bring their companiesto parade rest, the butt of every piece fell to theground, its barrel grasped with both hands beforethe breast, and the cadets stood at parade rest,while the band sounded off, marching along theline from right to left and back again.

It was all so beautiful, with the warm June sunglowing down over the grounds and buildings,and touching with a golden light the uniformsand gleaming bayonets of the cadets, that thelookers-on were hushed in admiration. Not asound broke the stillness, but the gay notes of theband, not a motion disturbed the absolute quiet ofthe ranks, but the flutter of the stars and stripeswhich were softly stirred by the little breeze thatstole down from the hills. Dorothy’s eyes movedup and down the line, rested proudly upon Leon’sslim, straight figure, then turned to the oppositeside of the parade-ground, where Adjutant Sternestood resting his clasped hands upon the grip ofhis sword.

But the band had returned to its former position,and Adjutant Sterne stepped forward toorder the ranks opened, verify the alignment ofofficers and men, and bring the cadets to presentarms, before saluting Lieutenant Wilde, and makingthe report,—

“Sir, the parade is formed.”

“Take your post, Sir!” ordered LieutenantWilde, and Alex moved to his place behind himand at his left, as Lieutenant Wilde drew hissword and issued a succession of quick orders fromthe manual of arms.

The drill was a creditable one, both to commandantand cadets, for the months of training had accomplishedtheir work, and officers and men wereon their mettle to do their best, before the assembledguests. With the precision of well-adjusted partsof a great machine, the rifles were shifted up anddown, to right, to left, then dropped to the groundin order arms, as the adjutant once more advancedto receive the reports from the first sergeants anddrum major, who stepped forward to salute and report,then fell back to position, while AdjutantSterne saluted Lieutenant Wilde again, beforemaking the general report,—

“Sir! All are present or accounted for.”

Then came the concluding ceremony of theparade. At the order, Parade is dismissed, theofficers returned their swords to the scabbards,marched towards the centre of the line, then forward,to halt six yards away from the commandantand salute. For an instant they paused, with theirhands raised to their visors, while LieutenantWilde acknowledged their salute; then, at thesame moment, every hand fell to the side. Theofficers dispersed, the first sergeants marched theircompanies back to their own grounds, and ninety-onehad ended its last parade.

Evening found the doctor’s rooms gay withlights and music and dainty evening gowns. Outon the piazza overlooking the lawn, Dorothy washolding a sort of court, surrounded by a dozenloyal admirers; for the Wilders, one and all, hadagreed in pronouncing her the prettiest girl present.As she rested there, with the full moonshining down on her golden hair and white gown,Alex sat on the rail at her right, Louis stood ather left, toying with her great bouquet of whiteroses, and Harry, Jack, Max and Stanley were ather feet.

“It has been a successful day,” she said, andshe lingered over the words as if they held somenew, sweet meaning to her which, as yet, theothers could not know. “I wonder if any otherclass was ever quite so fine as ninety-one.”

“That’s an amiable remark to make, Miss Arnold,”protested Max, from his place on the floorat her feet. “Here you have the three finestminds of ninety-two under your very eyes, andstill you declare for ninety-one. That’s not fair.”

“But you couldn’t expect me to forsake myallegiance to ninety-one, when it has been givingme such a good time,” she answered contentedly.“And besides, haven’t I a brother in this year’sclass, and hasn’t he done us all proud to-day?”

“Only wait till our turn comes next year,” saidLouis, as he slyly abstracted a rose from the greatbunch in his hand.

In a moment, the eye of Max was upon him.

“No poaching on those preserves, young man,”he called. “Miss Arnold, I advise you to lookout for your bowpot, for Louis is helping himselfto it.”

“You’d better pass them around, Miss Arnold,”suggested Jack, laughing up at Louis who wasgazing sentimentally at the flower in his hand.“That will make it even, and prevent our comingto blows later.”

Dorothy laughed, as she held out her hand forthe flowers.

“Give them to me please, Mr. Keith,” she said.“Soldiers don’t usually wear posies in their buttonholes,when they start out into battle; but I willdecorate you all, in honor of the happiest day Ihave ever spent.”

“What’s going on?” inquired Leon, strollingup to the group. “I demand my share of thebooty too, Dot, so pass over. What’s the meaningof this unusual generosity?”

“Your sister is giving her colors to her true andlawful knights,” answered Alex lightly, as, in histurn, he bent down while Dorothy fixed the large,full-blown flower in his buttonhole.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Leon. “Well, ifthat’s the order of the day, mother’ll have to dothe same by Bony, for he’s stuck to her like a burr,all the evening, and he’s quite playing the societyman. See there!”

As he spoke, Leon pointed in at the open window,opposite which sat Mrs. Arnold, with theyoung teacher at her side. Mr. Boniface wastalking with an animation and an earnestnesswhich lent an unwonted ease to his ordinarily stiffmanner. Harry surveyed them approvingly.

“I knew ’twould be so, when I introduced himto her,” he said. “Trust my mother for alwaysfinding out the softest side of people and gettingat it, in spite of their hard shells.”

Just then there was a general movement of thepeople inside the parlor, and Mr. Boniface rose,offering his arm to the woman at his side. Amoment later, Lieutenant Wilde appeared in thedoorway.

“Miss Arnold,” he said; “may I take you in tosupper?”

For a moment, Dorothy’s eyes rested on himadmiringly. Lieutenant Wilde was unusually resplendentthat night, for he was in full armyuniform and the lights shone out on his blue coat,and glittered and winked over the brass buttonsand epaulettes which were so becoming to thefirm, manly figure and handsome face. Then thegirl rose and passed her hand under the arm ofAlex, who stood ready at her side.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Wilde,” she saidgently; “but Mr. Sterne had asked me before.”

Again, the next morning, they all gathered inthe little church, for an hour or two. Then, justas the golden noontide had come, the doctor spokehis few last earnest words, and the class of ninety-onehad marched from quiet Flemming, out intotheir wider field of service.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FORWARD—MARCH!

The next evening the Wilders were gatheredon the steps of Old Flemming. It had been ahurried, confused day, for the morning had beendevoted to departing friends, and the afternoon topacking, since they were to leave Flemming Hallearly the next morning. Now all was done, andthey had gone down from their forlorn, dismantledrooms, to enjoy the still, warm night.

“I believe this has been an unusually moonycommencement,” said Louis thoughtfully, as hewatched the white light on the lawn and buildingsbefore him.

“It most certainly has,” responded Leon fervently,while he stepped on Alex’s toe, undercover of the shadow around them.

“I wish we could be as lucky, next year,” saidStanley. “Most likely we shall have a rainyweek, to make up for this.”

“Never mind if we do,” said Max consolingly.

“We don’t need the help of the weather, as thisyear’s fellows do. We can stand on our ownmerits.”

“What are you all going to do, this summer?”asked Paul.

“Our plans are only just made,” Harry answered,as he took off his cap and ran his fingers throughhis hair. “We’ve been so unsettled since father’sdeath that we haven’t known what to do. Motherdidn’t feel as if she could go back to the old placein Lenox this summer, so we’re all going abroadfor the season. Jolliest of all, Alex is going withus.”

“Alex! Why didn’t you tell me, old fellow?”asked Stanley, turning to his friend.

“I only knew it myself yesterday,” Alex answered;“and it didn’t seem worth while to discussan uncertainty.”

“I wish I could go too,” sighed Jack enviously.“Where shall you go, Hal?”

“England, mostly. Leon and I both want togo to Eton and Harrow-on-the-Hill and Rugby,and see the places it tells about in Tom Brown.Mother and Dot care for the Cathedral towns, andthen we shall take in France and Germany. Weshall have to be back by the time college opens, sowe can’t do much. It won’t make much differenceif Leon is a week or so late, coming back here.Lieutenant Wilde has just decided to go over onthe steamer with us, so we shall have quite aparty, just by ourselves. Where are you going tobe, Paul?”

“Home, through July; then Jack and I aregoing camping in the Adirondacks for a month.”

“What a mixed-up set we’ll be, in a year ortwo!” remarked Jack. “When we’re scatteredthrough all the different colleges, we shall comeback here as rivals, to fight our battles. If you goto Columbia, Paul, and Alex and Hal to Harvard,and I to Cornell, that’s something of a break up.Where shall you go, Max?”

“Yale, every time,” responded Max promptly.

“Louis?”

“I’m not sure yet; but most likely Yale.Father is a Yale man and he wants me to follow inhis footsteps. What do you do, Stan?”

“I’m going to Cornell for the electrical engineering,”replied Stanley. “Give me the red andwhite for my colors!”

“We’ll be patriotic, at least, with our red, whiteand blue,” said Max, laughing. “We sha’n’t haveany stripes, though, for we’re every one of usbound to be stars.”

“Gyp has been in her element this afternoon,”observed Harry, after a pause. “She’s been wanderingback and forth between our room andLouis’s, with Mouse in her arms, offering all mannerof suggestions to help us in our packing. Shewanted me to give Mouse the sash of my tennissuit for a parting gift, and was quite disgustedwhen I refused to bestow it on her.”

“Mouse came near being a dead cat this afternoon,though,” said Louis. “I had my trunk allshut and locked once; but I heard a dismal, lonesomelittle noise inside, so I suspected somethingwas wrong, and went on an exploring expedition.There was Mouse, carefully put to bed in thedeepest box of my trunk-tray, on top of all mycollars and cuffs. Gyp had stowed her away inthere and forgotten all about her, till I rooted herout. She was so distressed, that I gave her thatlittle old lambswool rug of mine, and sent her offhome, to put Mouse to bed.”

“Mouse is getting old,” remarked Alex; “andI’m afraid that, if we come back here next June,there won’t be any Mouse to welcome us.”

“She ought to be perfect through suffering,long before this,” said Leon. “With the bestintentions in life, Gyp has tormented the very hairoff her head. I don’t know what she will do,when Mouse dies.”

“Do you know,” said Paul reflectively; “Ibelieve this has been the jolliest year we havehad. I shouldn’t have been half so sorry to leaveFlemming, a year ago, as I am now. We nineboys have had uncommonly good times together.”

“Especially after the football game,” suggestedLeon maliciously.

“You did get rather the worst of that, Leon;but then, you did by far the best work on our side,and I’d be content to make such a record as youdid, on almost any terms,” said Jack admiringly.“But do any of you lads know what Bony isgoing to do, next year?”

“I’m afraid he’s getting ready to leave,” saidMax regretfully. “I’m no end sorry, for now Iknow him, I like him. He’s a good man, throughand through, and it will be a long time before weget anybody to fill his place.”

“That’s true,” assented Louis; “but it took uslong enough to discover it.”

“I told you, in the first place, he was like anolive,” retorted Max. “He’s puckery, the first youget of him; but if you keep at him, you’ll wantmore and more. I do wish he’d stay another year,to finish us off.”

Just as he spoke, the boys caught sight of twofigures coming up the hill from the doctor’s house.

“Is it a farewell-session of the Wilders?” calledIrving Wilde’s voice.

“Yes, and we only need you to fill up the number,you and Mr. Boniface,” said Alex, as hemoved to give them a place on the steps besidehim. “We were just talking about you, Mr. Boniface,wondering if you were to be here anotheryear, or not.”

“And devoutly hoping you were,” added Max.

Mr. Boniface turned to him gratefully.

“Thank you, Max,” he answered. “I don’treally know, myself. I had expected to go awayat the end of this term, to finish up my studies;but the doctor is urging me to stay at least onemore year. If I thought I could do good workhere and be of any help to you boys, perhaps—”,he hesitated, then went on; “but whatever comes,I know that I shall be better through all my life,for having come to know and care for my boys,here at Flemming Hall.”

Lieutenant Wilde broke in upon the pause thatfollowed.

“Well, Leon,” he asked; “what do they say toyour news?”

“He hasn’t told it yet,” interposed Harry.“He’s been waiting till he could have the floor,and make his announcement with proper effect.Go it now, Leon; we’re ready.”

“What’s up with Leon?” asked Max curiously.

“Tremendous honors are showered upon the infant,”answered Harry. “Speak and tell us,Leon.”

Leon laughed; but even in the moonlight, theboys could see the quick color come into hischeeks, and his voice trembled a little with excitement,as he said,—

“You fellows all remember Captain Curtis,Lieutenant Wilde’s friend that was here in March.He knew daddy, and after daddy died, he wrote tous. I answered the letter, and since then he’swritten to me three or four times. Last SaturdayI had another letter from him, and he’s offered toget me in at West Point, when I’m old enough.”

“What!” And Max started up eagerly.

“Yes, isn’t it fine? He has a cousin that’s congressmanfrom Pennsylvania, and their districtwill have a vacancy the summer after I’m seventeen.Captain Curtis says he can get me theappointment, if I want it. Daddy would havebeen willing, I know, so, if nothing happens, sevenyears from now, I shall be Lieutenant Arnold, ofthe United States Army. Don’t you all envy me,though?” And Leon smiled complacently aroundat the group.

“Just my luck!” sighed Max. “Another fellowis always sure to get the blessings I deserve.Why couldn’t Captain Curtis have taken a likingto me? Still, I’m no end glad you have it, Leon,for it’s just the thing for you.”

For an hour longer they sat there, now talking,now silently watching the moonlight as it laycaressingly over the doctor’s house, and over theirlittle group as they lingered on the piazza, wherethey had so often sat before. It was far past theirusual bed-time, yet no one of the boys made themove towards going into the house. The nextmorning would end it all, so why not prolong theevening as far as they might? But, little bylittle, the light talk of past frolics and futurehopes and plans had died away, and they sat therequiet. Perhaps they were growing sleepy; perhapsthey were thinking of the morrow, and of thedays and years to come. Then, all at once, Leon’sclear, high soprano voice took up the air of one ofthe Harrow songs which Lieutenant Wilde hadbrought back to them after a vacation tour toEngland. It was a song that the boys knew andloved, both for itself, and for that vague feeling ofromance which overhangs all that pertains to lifeat an English public school. Often and often hadthey sung it together, when driving, or rowing onthe lake, or when, as now, they sat on the OldFlemming steps; but never had it meant to themall that it did to-night, on the eve of their parting.One after another, the boys joined in the chorus,until the sound swelled on and upward, as if tocarry out to the waiting world their promise fortheir future lives:—

Listen:[MP3][MIDI]

Clear and true, the last notes lingered upon theair, and then slowly died away into the stillnessof the summer night. Then Jack Howard’s voiceled off in one parting cheer:—

“Rah! F. L. E. M. M. I. N. G.! Fszt! Rah!Rah! Rah! Rah!”

TOM CLIFTON; OR, WESTERN BOYS IN GRANTAND SHERMAN’S ARMY. By Warren Lee Goss,author of “Jed,” “Recollections of a Private,” etc. Fully illustrated. 12mo,$1.50.

Mr. Goss has the genius of a story-teller. No one can follow the fortunes of TomClifton and his friends either in their experiments in farming in Minnesota or in theWestern army, without the deepest interest. It is the best boys’ book of the year,and has, besides, permanent value from a historical standpoint.

FAMOUS TYPES OF WOMANHOOD. By Sarah K.Bolton, author of “Poor Boys Who Became Famous,” etc. Lives of MarieLouise, Queen of Prussia, Madam Récamier, Jenny Lind, Miss Dix, etc.With Portraits. 12mo, $1.50.

Mrs. Bolton here gives in an entertaining style vivid pictures from the lives ofsome notable women who have won undying fame in art, philanthropy, and otherfields of usefulness.

MIXED PICKLES. By Mrs. Evelyn H. Raymond, author of“Monica, the Mesa Maiden.” Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.

Under this mysterious and alluring title Mrs. Raymond describes the queer andamusing adventures of a number of bright German boys and girls and their cousinsin a quiet Quaker farmhouse.

THE RIVERPARK REBELLION, and A TALE OFTHE TOW PATH. By Homer Greene, author of “TheBlind Brother,” “Burnham Breaker,” etc. 12mo. Illustrated. $1.00.

The first is the story of an episode in a military school on the Hudson, and itsimply glows with life and energy. In the “Tale of the Tow Path” Mr. Greenetakes the reader out of the usual environment and shows him new scenes describedin his own inimitable way.

IN BLUE CREEK CAÑON. By Anna Chapin Ray, authorof “Half a Dozen Girls,” “Half a Dozen Boys,” etc. Illustrated. 12mo,$1.25.

Miss Ray transports to the Rocky Mountains a party of her happy, wholesomeboys and girls, and depicts photographically their pleasures during a summer in amining camp. The story is full of atmosphere and life.

THE CADETS OF FLEMMING HALL. By Anna ChapinRay, author of “Half a Dozen Girls,” “Half a Dozen Boys,” etc. Illustrated.12mo, $1.25.

Schoolboy life has not been often depicted in colors that will more surely delightthe reader than in this volume. It is a story full of enthusiasm, with exciting adventures,genial fun, and of high purpose.

THE MOTHER OF THE KING’S CHILDREN. By theRev. J. F. Cowan, author of the “Jo-Boat Boys.” With an introduction bythe Rev. F. E. Clark, D. D. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.

A book of much merit, quite above the average, and will do good wherever read.Especially will it deepen an interest in practical religious work.

LITTLE ARTHUR’S HISTORY OF ROME. By HezekiahButterworth, author of the “Zigzag Books,” etc. A companionvolume to “Little Arthur’s England and France.” Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.

No one better understands the requirements of the young than Mr. Butterworth,and his book will foster an appetite for classical studies.

SHORT STUDIES IN BOTANY FOR CHILDREN.By Mrs. Harriet C. Cooper. Fully illustrated. 12mo, $1.00.

Many teachers and parents have found that Botany may be made attractive to veryyoung children. Mrs. Cooper’s little volume contains a practical demonstration ofthis.

A SCORE OF FAMOUS COMPOSERS. By NathanHaskell Dole, formerly musical editor of the Philadelphia Press and EveningBulletin. With portraits of Beethoven, Wagner, Liszt, Haydn, etc. 12mo, $1.50.

No pains have been spared to make this volume of musical biographies accurate, and atthe same time entertaining. Many quaint and curious details have been found in out-of-the-wayGerman or Italian sources. Beginning with Palestrina, “the Prince of Music,”concerning whose life many interesting discoveries have been recently made, and endingwith Wagner, the twenty Composers, while in the majority of German origin, still embracerepresentatives of England and Italy, Hungary and Russia, of France and Poland.Free from pedantry and technicalities, simple and straightforward in style, these sketchesaim above all to acquaint the reader, and particularly the young, with the personality ofthe subjects, to make them live again while recounting their struggles and triumphs.

FAMOUS ENGLISH STATESMEN. By Sarah K. Bolton,author of “Poor Boys Who became Famous.” With Portraits of Gladstone,John Bright, Robert Peel, etc. 12mo, $1.50.

Mrs. Bolton has found a peculiarly congenial subject in her latest contribution to theseries of “Famous” books. Nearly all of the English statesmen whose biographies sheso sympathetically recounts, have been leaders in great works of reform; and with manyMrs. Bolton had the privilege of personal acquaintance. She has given succinct, yet sufficientlydetailed descriptions of the chief labors of these statesmen, and the young readerwill find them stirring and stimulating, full of anecdotes and bright sayings.

THE JO-BOAT BOYS. By Rev. J. F. Cowan, D.D., editor of“Our Young People,” etc. Illustrated by H. W. Peirce. 12mo, $1.50.

The shanty boats which shelter the amphibious people along the banks of the Ohio arecalled Jo-Boats, and Dr. Cowan has chosen this original environment for the earlierscenes of his remarkably lively and spirited story. It will appeal to every boy who has aspark of zest in his soul.

AN ENTIRE STRANGER. By Rev. T. L. Baily. Illustrated.12mo, $1.25.

The heroine of Mr. Baily’s naïve and fascinating story is a school-teacher who is fullof resources, and understands how to bring out the diverse capabilities of her scholars.She wins the love and admiration of her school, and interests them in many improvements.It is a thoroughly practical book, and we should be glad to see it in the hands ofall teachers and their scholars.

THROWN UPON HER OWN RESOURCES; OR,WHAT GIRLS CAN DO. By “Jenny June” (Mrs.Croly). A book for girls. 12mo, $1.25.

Mrs. Croly, the able editor of The Home Maker, in this book for girls, shows in herpractical, common-sense way, what chances there are open to young women, when thenecessity comes for self-support. The wise, prudent words of one who has had so muchexperience in dealing with the problems of life will be welcomed by a large class ofreaders.

LED IN UNKNOWN PATHS. By Anna F. Raffensperger.Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.

A simple, unpretentious diary of homely, every-day life. It is so true to nature that itreads like a transcript from an actual journal. It is full of good-humor, quiet fun, gentlepathos, and good sound sense. One follows with surprising interest the daily doings, thepleasures and trials of the good family whose life is pictured in its pages.

HALF A DOZEN GIRLS. By Anna Chapin Ray, author of“Half a Dozen Boys.” Illustrated, 12mo, $1.25.

A book for girls displaying unusual insight into human nature with a quiet, sly humor,a faculty of investing every-day events with a dramatic interest, a photographic touch,and a fine moral tone. It ought to be a favorite with many girls.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE. A Story of theArmy of the Potomac. By Warren Lee Goss, author of “Jed.”With over 80 illustrations by Chapin and Shelton. Royal 8vo.Cloth, $3.25; seal russia, $4.25; half morocco, $5.00.

Among the many books about the Civil War there is none whichmore clearly describes what took place among the rank and file of theUnion Army, while on the march or on the battle-field, than the storygiven by Mr. Goss in this volume.

It is one of the handsomest, as well as one of the most valuable works inAmerican war literature.—Boston Globe.

No volume of war history has given the reader more graphic descriptions ofarmy life.... The writer speaks from knowledge and not from theory.—ChicagoInter-Ocean.

... It may seem strange, but it is true, that I have had comparatively littletime to devote to war literature, but I derived much pleasure from the perusalof this book. Its raciness of style, accuracy of statement, and often pathos ofthe story, so much interested me that I devoted a whole evening to it. It is allthe more pleasant because from my own knowledge, I believe it to be a fair representationof the spirit of that great body of patriotic men, the private soldiersof the Union Army; and I hope it may be largely read, not only by old soldiers,but also by other citizens, young and old.

Yours truly,

W. S. Rosecrans.

JED. A Boy’s Adventures in the Army of 1861-’65.A Story of Battle and Prison, of Peril and Escape. By WarrenLee Goss, author of “The Soldier’s Story of his Captivity at Andersonvilleand other Prisons,” “The Recollections of a Private”(in the Century War Series). Fully illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

In this story the author has aimed to furnish true pictures of scenesin the great Civil War, and not to produce sensational effects. Theincidents of the book are real ones, drawn largely from the writer’spersonal experiences and observations as a soldier of the Union duringthat war. The descriptions of life in the Southern prisons areespecially graphic. It is one of the best war stories ever written.Boys will read it with avidity.

Of all the many stories of the Civil War that have been published it is notpossible to mention one which for sturdy realism, intensity of interest, and rangeof narrative can compare with Jed.—Boston Beacon.

A book that every boy in the country will want to read the moment he seesit, and it is as instructive as entertaining.—Brooklyn Union.

A thrilling story of bravery, endurance, and final success.—Boston HomeJournal.

For sale by all Booksellers. Complete Catalogue sent to any addressupon application.

1 TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS

By Thomas Hughes. With 53 illustrations engraved by Andrew, carefullyprinted from beautiful type on calendered paper. 12mo, cloth, $2.00; full gilt,$2.50. Edition de luxe, limited to 250 numbered copies, large paper, Japanproofs mounted, $5.00.

Praise or comment on this classic would be a work of supererogation. Everyparent sooner or later puts it in his children’s hands. We can only say that thepresent edition is by all odds the best that has ever been offered to the Americanpublic. Printed from large type, well illustrated, and handsomely bound, it makesa book worthy of any library.

2 FAMOUS EUROPEAN ARTISTS.

By Mrs. Sarah K. Bolton, author of “Poor Boys Who Became Famous,”etc. With portraits of Raphael, Titian, Landseer, Reynolds, Rubens, Turner,and others. 12mo, $1.50.

In this handsome volume, Mrs. Bolton relates sympathetically, and with her usualskill in seizing upon salient points, the lives of Sir Joshua Reynolds, Turner, andother artists, whose names are household words. The sketches are accompanied byexcellent portraits.

3 FAMOUS ENGLISH AUTHORS OF THE 19th CENTURY.

By Mrs. Sarah K. Bolton, author of “Poor Boys Who Became Famous,”etc. With portraits of Scott, Burns, Carlyle, Dickens, Tennyson, RobertBrowning, etc. 12mo, $1.50.

During a recent visit abroad, Mrs. Bolton had the opportunity of visiting many ofthe scenes made memorable by the residence or writings of the best known Englishauthors, and the incidents which she was thus enabled to invest with a personalinterest, she has woven into the sketches of Tennyson, Ruskin, Browning, and theother authors of whom she writes. These two companion volumes are among thebest of the famous “Famous” Series.

4 GOSPEL STORIES.

Translated from the Russian of Count L. N. Tolstoi by Nathan HaskellDole. 12mo, $1.25.

Count Tolstoï’s short sketches of Russian life, inspired generally by some pregnanttext of Scripture and written for the masses, perhaps even more than his longerworks show the man’s real greatness. Sixteen of these, selected from various publications,are here presented in a neat and attractive volume.

5 PHILIP, or What May Have Been

A story of the First Century. By Mary C. Cutler. 12mo, $1.25.

An appreciative notice of this story contains the following words:—“Reverence,accuracy, a chastened feeling of perfect sincerity, pervade this book.... We haveread it through, and can confidently recommend it as in every way fitted to give theold familiar facts of the gospel history a new interest.”

6 HALF A DOZEN BOYS.

By Annie Chapin Ray. 12mo, illustrated, $1.25.

This is a genuine story of boy life. The six heroes are capital fellows, such asany healthy lad, or girl either for that matter, will feel heart warm toward. Thesimple incidents and amusements of the village where they live are invested witha peculiar charm through the hearty and sympathetic style in which the book iswritten. It is a book quite worthy of Miss Alcott’s pen.

THE EVERY DAY OF LIFE. By the Rev. J. R. Miller,D.D., author of “Silent Times,” “Making the Most of Life,” etc. 16mo, gilttop, parti-cloth, $1.00; 16mo, white and gold, gilt edges, $1.25; levant morocco,flexible, gilt edges, $2.50.

Hearty words of love and sympathy designed to help and cheer those who areweary with the treadmill of daily cares and perplexities.

WORDSWORTH’S POEMS. (Selections.) Illustrated inphotogravure by E. H. Garrett. Printed on fine deckle-edge, laid paper.12mo, cloth, ornamental design. Gilt top, cloth box, $2.50; full leather, gilttop, $3.50.

This is the selection made by the late Matthew Arnold and includes the cream ofWordsworth’s verse. Mr. Garrett, the artist, has here found a peculiarly congenialfield, and his admirable drawings in the interpretation of the text will be fullyappreciated.

WALTON’S ANGLER. New edition. Complete in two volumeswith all the original 86 illustrations of Major’s edition and photogravurefrontispieces. 2 vols. 16mo, cloth, gilt top, $2.50.

Even those who do not fish love the quaint style of the “divine Izaak,” and thereis no better edition than Major’s, or this reproduction of that time-honored classic.

POLLY BUTTON’S NEW YEAR. By Mrs. C. F. Wilder.12mo. Unique parti-cloth binding, .75.

Miss Polly Button, reduced in fortune, makes herself a power in her church byapplying her Christianity to every-day life.

EQUITABLE TAXATION. A series of Prize Essays byWalter E. Weyl, Robert Luce, Bolton Hall, and others. Introductionby the Hon. Jonathan A. Lane. Biographical sketches and portraits. 12mo, .75.

Nothing is more evident than that there is a crying need for change in our unjusttax laws. A most stimulating and valuable book.

DAILY FOOD. New illustrated edition, with 12 photo-engravings.18mo. Parti-cloth, gilt edge, .75; 18mo, lavender and gold, gilt edge, .75; 18moFrench silk, gilt edge, $1.25.

Thousands of this little classic have been sold. The present edition is mostattractive in appearance, neatly printed from new plates, exquisitely illustrated, andhandsomely bound.

A PLEA FOR THE GOSPEL. By the Rev. George D.Herron, author of “The Message of Jesus,” “The Larger Christ.” 16mo,parti-cloth, gilt top, .75.

The author’s previous volumes have been hailed by men of all denominations asthe work of a writer intellectually and spiritually cast in the mould of Maurice, Mulford,and Brooks.

MONICA, THE MESA MAIDEN. By Mrs. Evelyn H.Raymond. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.25.

Monica is a Spanish girl of Southern California, who lives in a quaint old houseof adobe, surrounded with vines and flowers. She meets with strange adventureswhich result in the unravelling of a complicated chain of destiny.

LES MISÉRABLES. By Victor Hugo. Translated by IsabelF. Hapgood. New edition. Complete in two volumes, with 32 full-page illustrations.12mo. Cloth, gilt top, boxed, $3.00. White back, fancy paper sides,gilt top, $3.00.

TENNYSON’S POEMS. New edition. Complete in twovolumes. Illustrated with two photogravures and numerous wood engravingsby the best artists. 2 vols. 12mo. Gilt top, $3.00; white back, fancy papersides, gilt top, $5.00.

T. Y. CROWELL & CO.,—New York and Boston.

“The most interesting books to me are the histories of individuals and individualminds, all autobiographies, and the like. This is my favorite reading.”—H. W.Longfellow.

“Mrs. Bolton never fails to interest and instruct her readers.”—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

“Always written in a bright and fresh style.”—Boston Home Journal.

“Readable without inaccuracy.”—Boston Post.

POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.

By Sarah K. Bolton. Short biographical sketches of George Peabody, MichaelFaraday, Samuel Johnson, Admiral Farragut, Horace Greeley, William Lloyd Garrison,Garibaldi, President Lincoln, and other noted persons who, from humblecircumstances, have risen to fame and distinction, and left behind an imperishablerecord. Illustrated with 24 portraits. 12mo. $1.50.

GIRLS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.

By Sarah K. Bolton. A companion book to “Poor Boys Who BecameFamous.” Biographical sketches of Harriet Beecher Stowe, George Eliot, HelenHunt Jackson, Harriet Hosmer, Rosa Bonheur, Florence Nightingale, MariaMitchell, and other eminent women. Illustrated with portraits. 12mo. $1.50.

FAMOUS MEN OF SCIENCE.

By Sarah K. Bolton. Short biographical sketches of Galileo, Newton, Linnæus,Cuvier, Humboldt, Audubon, Agassiz, Darwin, Buckland, and others.Illustrated with 15 portraits. 12mo. $1.50.

FAMOUS AMERICAN STATESMEN.

By Sarah K. Bolton. A companion book to “Famous American Authors.”Biographical sketches of Washington, Franklin, Jefferson, Hamilton, Webster,Sumner, Garfield, and others. Illustrated with portraits. 12mo. $1.50.

FAMOUS ENGLISH STATESMEN.

By Sarah K. Bolton. With portraits of Gladstone, John Bright, RobertPeel, Lord Palmerston, Lord Shaftesbury, William Edward Forster, Lord Beaconsfield.12mo. $1.50.

FAMOUS EUROPEAN ARTISTS.

By Sarah K. Bolton. With portraits of Raphael, Titian, Landseer, Reynolds,Rubens, Turner, and others. 12mo. $1.50.

FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS.

By Sarah K. Bolton. Short biographical sketches of Holmes, Longfellow,Emerson, Lowell, Aldrich, Mark Twain, and other noted writers. Illustrated withportraits. 12mo. $1.50.

FAMOUS ENGLISH AUTHORS OF THE 19th CENTURY.

By Sarah K. Bolton. With portraits of Scott, Burns, Carlyle, Dickens, Tennyson,Robert Browning, etc. 12mo. $1.50.

STORIES FROM LIFE.

By Sarah K. Bolton. A book of short stories, charming and helpful. 12mo.$1.25.

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., Publishers, New York.