 CHAPTER 17. IN WHICH THE PRODIGAL RETURNS. It is nigh upon four of the afternoon. Mr. Meadow is pacing up and down the front apartment of his suite of rooms, taking huge strides, occasionally striking his clenched hands upon an unoffensive table bordering the line of his route, and ever an end stopping to glance savagely out of window. Mr. Meadow mutters now and then between his clenched teeth words which are mostly profanity and severe criticisms of his lost nephew. In short, Mr. Meadow is very angry. I'll cow-hide the wretched little brat within an inch of his life if I ever get my hands on him. This remark with the adjectives a trifle stronger than he here set down, issued from his lips as the last drink of four came ringing through the air from a neighboring church, and Mr. Meadow made his periodical pause at the window-front. This time he gave a sudden gasp. His eyes bulged from his head, as far as the economy of his bodily frame would allow, and he did stare. He recovered himself by a strong effort, made a remark which shall not be repeated, then dashed down the stairway through the front door open with vicious and unnecessary violence, and—could that be Tom? The figure walking up the front steps looked more like a young beggar, and a very disreputable young beggar at that. Arthur Vane in his proper costume looked like a gentleman, in comparison with Tom's present appearance. Arthur's hat on Arthur's head had at least been in shape. On Tom's it was crushed as though it had been used as a substitute for a football. On Arthur the clothes, though patched, had been neat. On Tom they were splashed with mud, while one patch on the knee was torn, and a deep rent under the arm pit revealed what kind of a shirt Tom was wearing. But the wretchedness of his appearance did not end with his garb. His face was swollen and discolored, and his upper lip was puffed out to a ridiculous degree. Mr. Meadow had seen Tom in many a sad plight, but the limit was reached on this occasion. You brat! You vulgar little beggar! roared the uncle with an extra adjective. Come right in, and I'll lash you with a cow-hide. Tom paused half way up the steps and tried to smile. It was an awful failure. Probably he was willing to not to smile, but his upper lip, the most important part of his smiling apparatus, refused to do its duty. And so, instead of smiling, he succeeded in distorting his face still more. Thanks, uncle, he made answer, but I guess I'll not come in. I've been walloped enough. Have you been fighting? You vulgar little gutter snipe! continued the enraged uncle. Yes, uncle, answered the vulgar little gutter snipe, backing down a few steps in preparation to take to his heels. Shouldn't you rise? But I couldn't help it, honest. You whipped! Mr. Meadow was a sporting man. His weakness asserted itself, and Tom was quick to seize chance. See here, uncle, if you promise not to touch me, I'll tell you all about it. You young beggar, what did you do with your own clothes? Promise not to whip me, uncle, and I'll tell you all about it. Were you robbed? No, but all my money's gone, seventeen dollars and a half. Were you robbed? Promise not to whip me, uncle, and I'll tell you all about it. It's as good as a story. Mr. Meadow took a step forward. Tom is quickly moved down to the foot of the steps. Stay where you are, uncle, we're all run. Where did you go last night? continued Mr. Meadow less savagely, for the humor of the situation was making its impression even upon him. Promise not to whip me, answered Tom firmly. I'll see about that after I've heard your story. Honest, uncle? Yes, honest. Do you want whip me after I tell my story? I promise. Cross your heart, uncle. Couldn't found you, yes. All right then, and Tom ran up the steps with his usual spryness. No, uncle, let me wash first. I feel awful sticky. Mr. Meadow dained to supply the young gentleman with a basin of water. Tom threw off his coat, rolled back his shirt sleeves, and kept up a severe process of bathing for fifteen minutes without saying a single word. Well, snapped his uncle impatiently. Who won the fight? Oh, I've got to change my clothes yet. These things are spoiled from Cincinnati mud. Wherever there was a puddle, I was sure to step right into it. You see, uncle, I was chased. Who chased you? Two dogs, and—oh, wait, till I change. Mr. Meadow had to content himself for the next five minutes with grinding out remarks between his teeth, which, through a sense of decency, he did not wish to find way to Tom's ears. At length, Tom was apparently ready for his recital. With the exception of his face, he looked like the boy of yesterday and the day before. Well, now, let hear your story. Tom took a sponge from his release, wet it, and put it to his lip. Ah, he sighed in relief. That's just the thing. Did you hear me, sir? Oh, I beg your pardon. You wanted the story. That's what I said. And do you remember your promise, uncle? Yes, you brat. You even called names. Well, uncle, I'm not going to tell you my story. Then you can't whip me. And he removed his sponge and smiled hideously. Mr. Meadow bound it from his chair. Tom made for the door. Will you keep your promise? He asked with his hand on the knob. Yes, come in. I'll not touch you. Go ahead with your story. I promise not to whip you in any case. Ah, that's a bargain. You know, uncle. Papa doesn't want you to whip me, so I thought it was fair to get ahead of you. Well, last night. And Tom then narrated his adventures up to the moment of his leaving the Oyster House with five cents for car fare. And then, uncle, he continued, I thought how I could best please you. What exquisite consideration, growled the auditor. Wasn't it, uncle? I knew you wouldn't like me to come back without a cent in my pocket. And besides, I was afraid you might call me a lot of names and lose your temper. And you did, uncle. You swore dreadfully, and you said, Go on with your story, growl the affectionate young man. Tell me about the fight. I'm coming to it, sir. Well, then, I started to walk home along the street where those cars ran that we took yesterday. You see, uncle, I'd made it my mind to save that nickel. You have wonderful ideas about economy, snarled Mr. Meadow in parentheses. Well, when I'd walked about two squares, I came to an alley. It was an awful rough-booking place, uncle. There were three foes leaning against the house on the alley corner when I came along. Before I knew where I was, they got on the outside of me and shut me into that alley. I never saw a three-rougher-looking boy since I gave up going to fires. And did you knock them all down? Ha! The wonder is they didn't knock me down first. The middle fellow seemed to be the ringleader. He was the smallest, about my size. He had two teeth that stuck out so you could count them without trying. They were his higher teeth. Upper, you barbarian, correct it, Mr. Meadow? Exactly. They were larger teeth, larger than yours, uncle. I really do. Go on, will you? Why don't you give me a chance? This is in the grammar class. Well, the fellow with the big teeth said, Say, give me Charles Tabakar. And did you hit him? Tom looked at his uncle reproachfully. Do you think I'm a fool? I said I couldn't speak French and the other two giggled. Did he look so that I could count five teeth and sit in an awful savage way, just the way you were talking to me a minute ago, when? What did he say? Burst in the excited listener. He said, Give me Charles Tabakar. And then he used some words, something like what you. Go on, what did you do? I said, I don't talk German either. And then, before I could guess what he was up to, he gave me an awful whack on the lip and he struck out again. I dodged the second blow and I got so excited that, like a fool, I struck back with all my might, and he went sprawling. I struck him on the mouth, uncle, and when he got up he was spitting and coughing, and I could only count one tooth. And what did you do then? I couldn't do anything, uncle. The other two grabbed me tight, and well the fellow who used to have a loose tooth was choking and hopping round and swearing whenever he could get his breath. The other two went through my pockets and got the silk anchorchief Aunt Meadows sent me on my birthday, a small magnet, a pocket knife, a lot of string, a broken juice harp, and my last nickel. And didn't you make any resistance? I squirmed and wriggled round, and when they'd emptied all my pockets, I ran as fast as I could till I turned the corner. And then I began to feel awful bad about that nickel. It was real hard to have to come home without it, so I turned back quietly and walked into a drugstore on the opposite side of the street. I sneaked in while they weren't looking that way. The drugstore had a big window looking out so you could see into that alley for a whole block. I told the drugstore man that I felt sick, and that I'd like to sit down in his store for a while. He laughed when he looked at me and said, All right. Then I pulled a chair over to the window and watched those three fellows for over fifteen minutes. They were fussing just awfully about the anchorchief. The fellow with the tooth didn't get that. Then the halo rode about the knife, and the fellow with the tooth came near having it knocked out, and he didn't get the knife anyhow. They gave him the string and the jewels harp, and then they had an awful row about the nickel. They tossed it up and yelled, Heads and Tails, and shouted, And I don't know what all. So somehow or other the fellow with the tooth got that. You ought to have seen him. He jumped into the air and knocked his heels together three times and started out of the alley just as proud as though he were a millionaire. And what did you do? I followed after him quietly, and when he got off about a square from the alley on a big crowded street, I called up with him and touched him on the shoulder. He gave a little jump, but he didn't knock his heels together this time. See, here I said, Give me back my nickel, or I'll yell for a policeman. He put on a savage look and said, Don't you're full with me, or I'll fetch you a one on the ear. And I said, If you do, I'll loosen your other tooth and yell for the policeman, too. Now hand over, or I'll shout. He looked around, and sure enough there was a policeman turning the corner. He got pale, and handed over that nickel. That wasn't bad, coming at Mr. Meadow for getting his resolution to be starting an uncompromising with the young scape-grace. Then, of course, you started to find your way back. No, uncle. I began to think how bad Aunt Meadow would feel when she learned what had become of her pretty Christmas present, and how bad you'd feel about that old knife which you gave me the time you bought a new one. Don't be sentimental, grabbed Mr. Meadow in disgust. Tom stared. So I thought I'd go back and see what were my chances for the old knife and the pretty handkerchief. When I got there it all seemed to be arranged just the way I wanted. The two fellows were squatting down on a board, about twenty feet in the alley, playing at mumble-peg with my knife, and the fellow who was farthest had my nice handkerchief flying around his neck. They were bigger than I, but I saw a good chance. I didn't stop to stare, but came running up softly while both had their hands down watching their game, and grabbed that handkerchief and kept running right on through the alley without stopping to say anything. Good, said Mr. Meadow, unable to contain his enthusiasm. Go on. Well, they gave a yell, and before I got halfway down the alley there was a rushing out of people from back gates, and two dogs came flying at my legs, and a billy goat got right in my way and would have broken my neck if I hadn't jumped over him. The dogs barked and snapped, and the boys kept yelling, and the people kept crowding out, and just as I got to the corner of the alley, a lot of stunts and things came sailing after me, and a pebble or something hit me on the leg, and then I went into an awful puddle, came plump against a boy with red hair and sent him sprawling. Here Tom lost his breath. I don't know how I ever got out of that alley alive. The last thing I did was to kick a bullpup in the ribs. He howled like he was crazy, and then I was halfway up the street. I looked round then and found that they weren't chasing me. Then I got off some of the mud and started for home, and now, Uncle, I'm sorry and awful hungry. And Tom looked at Mr. Meadow pathetically. Hand over that nickel, young man. For the first time since his return the prodigal lost countenance. I haven't got it, Uncle. Oh, you spent that, too. No, sir, I—er—I gave it away. Tom had become very nervous and awkward. Whom did you give it to? No answer. Did you hear me? Through a poor fellow I met. Come on, Uncle, give me something to eat. Tom did not reveal the whole story. There was some modesty in his composition. When the boy with the tooth had surrendered the nickel to its proper owner, Tom who noticed the sullen face of the poor wretch lengthened in disappointment. In a flash the words recorded in the sole entry in his diary, vinegar never catches flies, recurred to him. He ran up to the boy, who, with his shoulders raised, and his head depressed, was creeping away and touched him lightly again. Keep off, cried the fellow with a snarl. You and me, quits. No, we're not, said Tom. Old fellow, you need this nickel more than I do. And he pressed it into the lad's hand. It's all I've got with me, but I wish it was more, and I'm sorry about that tooth of yours. As Tom turned away, he left the poor little wrench gasping, mouth and eyes wide open, and the little brain within pondering over the only sermon that had ever came home to it. Tom walked on, light of heart and happy. It can't do him any harm, he reflected. It may be it'll do him good. Then someone touched his shoulder. Say, exclaimed the toothless one, almost out of breath, for he had had some trouble in picking Tom out of the crowd. Say, Johnny, I'll never act that way again, never. Do you catch on? It was an order for Tom to improve the occasion by saying something pious and edifying. But Tom didn't follow the traditions of the book. He merely grinned, gave his penitent a hearty hand squeeze, and said not one word. This part of the story, as I said, he concealed from Mr. Meadow, but that gentleman inferred something of it, and was so pleased with his conference, that he gave Tom but a quarter of an hour's scolding, which he salvaged with a twenty-five cent piece and a good dinner. CHAPTER 18 In which Tom astonishes and horrifies his aunt. It is ten o' the night. Tom is just arisen from his knees, and seems to find some difficulty in divesting himself with his sailor shirt. He is gazing very hard at Mr. Meadow through a sort of lattice work formed by the bosom of his shirt, which is now concealing his little head. In this dramatic attitude he stands till Mr. Meadow gets into bed. Then Tom, with a jerk, brings the shirt back to its normal position on his shoulders, and says, Uncle, you forgot something. What? Why? You forgot to kneel down before going to bed. You didn't used to do that when we lived in St. Louis. Hop out and kneel down. Mind your business, young man. In answer to which, Tom sat down on a chair and began to whistle softly. Stop that noise and come to bed. Tom ceased his whistling arose, walked over to the sofa, and, throwing an overcoat about himself, lay back with his eyes fixed upon Mr. Meadow's astonished face. Then there was a long pause, during which the recumbent uncle and nephew looked at each other steadily. What are you staring at? Grab Mr. Meadow, raising his head, and leaning upon his elbow. I'm taking in your nightcap, Uncle. It makes you look so funny. Get off that sofa and come to bed. Not in that bed. Why not? You didn't say your prayers. Suppose the devil were to come around tonight. He might get things mixed up and take me for you. Then there'd be a pretty howdy-do. Tom was not entirely in earnest, but he spoke with venereal gravity. If you don't come to bed, sir, I'll report you to your father. Tom sighed. Mr. Meadow had hid upon the best means of subduing him. He arose from the sofa, slowly undressed, then going to his felice, took out a bottle containing holy water, which he proceeded to sprinkle over the bed, incidentally dousing the astonished captains of his uncle. Then with another sigh he retired. He intended to sigh for a third time once he had composed, himself for slumber, but he fell asleep before the time came for carrying out this pious intention. Tom was unusually docile on this occasion, but Mr. Meadow's threat was not an idle one. That very day a telegram had reached them, announcing the coming-on-the-morrow of Mr. Playfair and Aunt Meadow. The one person in the world whom Tom feared was his father, and he still remembered vividly, too, their painful encounter touched upon or rather glossed over in Chapter 2. Next morning, accordingly, Mr. Playfair and Miss Meadow arrived. Mr. Playfair unbent as far as to give his little boy a paternal kiss, but his aunt's greeting was so warm as to disarrange her toilet very considerably. Then holding her darling nephew at arm's length, she anxiously scanned his features. "'Tommy, dear,' she exclaimed at length, "'you must have received an awful shock.' No, I didn't, Aunt. It was just nothing at all. I fell down all of a heap and picked myself up as good as new.' Tom made light of the matter. He knew his aunt from of old, and he had no intention of being plied with family medicines for a week. "'Row down your stocking, Tommy. I must see where you've been burnt.' "'Did you take me for a tattooed man?' From the young gentleman, indignantly. "'Pull down your stocking,' said Mr. Playfair. "'And when Tom, with commendable promptness, exhibited the red mark as of a branding iron upon his calf, Miss Meadow pulled out her handkerchief and began to cry. "'Poor gentlelady!' "'Oh, I say, Aunt Jane, don't,' exclaimed Tom earnestly. He was a warm-hearted little fellow, and under a boyish mask of levity concealed the great love he bore his aunt. An answer to this remonstrance, she threw her arms about him again, and renewed the kissing and hugging till he blushed as a red, red rose. "'Why doesn't somebody take notice of me that way?' hurried Mr. Meadow, who felt that he was being ignored. "'I think I'll pull up my stocking,' said Tom, now really embarrassed. "'There is no use in making such a fuss about it. People that cook get burnt a lot worse, and don't say a word.' "'Tell me, dear,' resumed Miss Meadow, who, having had her cry out, was now, after the manner of her sex, thoroughly renewed. "'You're not quite well yet. You've lost color.' "'Gracious!' exclaimed Tom, turning his face to a looking glass. "'Aunt calls me pale when my face looks like for all the world, like, like a ham or better still an Indian in his war-paint,' interpolated the agreeable young man of the party. "'George, play fair,' Miss Meadow went on after bestowing a withering glance upon her only brother. Just look at your boy.' "'I have been looking at him these last five minutes, Jane. Can't you see that he's badly shaken?' He was pretty badly shaken when you got hold of him. But if you mean to say he's sick, I must give it as my opinion that he never looked better in his life.' "'Men have no feelings,' exclaimed Miss Meadow, with unusual bitterness. "'They can see through a millstone, though, when there's a good-sized hole in it,' said Mr. Meadow, turning at his own wit. "'Now, Tommy, tell us all about that dreadful night. By the way, Charles,' she continued, addressing Mr. Meadow, "'are there any lightning rods in this house?' "'Two. "'Is that all?' "'I should think that's enough.' "'You can't have too many,' continued Miss Meadow. "'We might attach a lightning rod to Tom,' suggested Mr. Playfair, dryly. He'd present an interesting spectacle, going around with the lightning rods ticking out of his hat. "'George, Playfair,' exclaimed Miss Meadow, arising from her chair. "'If you had any heart in you, you wouldn't go adjusting on that subject, after such a terrific visitation. "'Oh, if you wish, my dear, we'll have both lightning rods removed from this house.' Miss Meadow gave him a look, such a look. Then turned to Tom, and with many a question, succeeded in extracting from her tortured nephew some account of the calamity. "'Wasn't he brave?' she exclaimed, when he had detailed his experience in crossing the creek, he might have been drowned. And Miss Meadow caught Tom to her arms again. "'If the boy had any sense at all,' said the practical father, he'd have felled around for that bridge to begin with, instead of risking his life. "'Yes, Tom,' added the junior uncle, "'you are a fool. By the way, that summing adventure of yours reminds me of.' Mr. Meadow was about to relate how he had once saved a drowning companion by reaching him a long pull from the bank when he was interrupted by Tom's extraordinary gesticulations. For Tom had at once raised both hands in air and set his fingers wriggling in a way that was little short of dazzling. "'What's the matter?' exclaimed the narrator. "'Ten times,' answered Tom, "'you've told us that story ten times in the last ten months. Give us something new.' Tom intended to be facetious, but his impertinence offended his uncle. He forthwith proceeded to narrate Tom's adventures in Cincinnati. "'During the recital, Mr. Playfair's brow clouded. "'I don't like it,' he observed at the end. "'Don't like what?' cried the aunt. "'Indeed, sir, you don't know what treasure you've got. Few boys would give all their money and the best suit of clothes and charity. "'Yes, and few boys who are supposed to be gentlemen would stay out all night and run into saloons to sell papers.' "'I forgot, Pa.' "'And,' continued the stern father, whose very love for his son made him a severe judge, "'it's very charitable to give away clothes and money, but whose were they?' "'You gave me the money, Pa, and besides, I only loaned it.' "'And then,' Mr. Playfair was resuming, the Miss Meadow came to the rescue. "'Now, George, the idea is holding your young heroic little boy after a separation of three months. You know you'd have been sorry if Tom had acted any way else.' "'No, I wouldn't, Jane. Tom should have gone back to his uncle in the theatre.' "'It wasn't much of a theatre, anyhow,' put in Tom, getting in return a savage scowl from his uncle. And Charles would have taken care of the boy without all this paper-selling and staying out all night. "'Well, Pa, I meant to do right.' "'What's that place they say it pays with good intentions?' asked Mr. Meadow. "'I'm sure you mean right, Tom, but you must be careful. "'Remember you're getting ready for your first communion.' "'Mr. Playfair, it may be remarked, was somewhat Jansenistic in his ideas. All during Mr. Meadow's account of Tom, he had been deliberating whether the boy were of a fit age and disposition for receiving the blessed sacrament. He loved his boy, but did not understand him. "'By the way, Jane,' he said, turning to Miss Meadow. "'If you wish to see your former schoolmate before dinner, we'd better start it once. "'Of course you'll come with us, Tom.' "'Hurrah!' cried Tom, regaining his spirits. "'But at this point Miss Meadow failed him.' "'Mr. Playfair,' she exclaimed dramatically, "'will you please look out that window?' "'I'm tired looking out that window, Jane.' "'And do you mean to say that you are willing to expose your son's precious life in the face of a blinding snowstorm?' Miss Meadow was carried into exaggeration by her anxiety for Tom's welfare. It was snowing quite briskly, but by no means in such a way as to mirror her strong epithet. "'But shock,' cried Tom, "'I hate a girl.' "'I don't see any particular risk,' said the father.' "'In his presence the pillotated state,' continued Aunt Jane firmly, "'it would be absolute suicide to let that boy put foot beyond the threshold. "'Do you take me for a wax doll?' "'I'm proud, Tom, but despite all protests Miss Meadow had her will.' Presenting her nephew with a box of candy and the history of Sanford and Merton, and cautioning him to avoid all droughts and keep his feet warm, the good little lady departed with Mr. Playfair and her amiable brother, leaving behind her a very discontinent young man indeed. Tom spent fully half an hour munching candy and reading the initial chapters of the story. He closed the book with a snap. "'Those English boys must be queer fellows if they go around preaching sermons the way that Sanford does. "'I'm glad he doesn't go to St. Mars. "'He makes me tired.'" Tom did the English boys in justice. "'Master Sanford, I am told, exists in fiction, not in England.' That was the last of Sanford and Merton for Tom. He presented the precious volume before leaving Cincinnati to the house cook. The ensuing hour passed very slowly. He gave most of the time to gazing ruefully out of the window with his nose flattened against the pain. The snow continued to fall and the street below had become carpeted in white. Tiring even of this he at length took to standing on his head and turning some results, and he was thus putting himself into a happier frame of mind when there came a ring at the door. Thinking that it was his father and aunt, he hastened to admit them himself. But instead of finding his relations standing without, he opened the door upon a very small boy with a very wheeze in face and a very large snow shovel. "'Hello, ah,' said Tom. "'Would you like to have the snow shoveled off your pavement, sir?' "'It isn't my pavement, and, besides, I'm not the lady of the house,' explained Tom. "'But, if you like, I'll go and ask her.' "'Thank you, sir,' said the very small boy. Tom returned presently with the news that the lady of the house would put her hired man at it later on. "'Thank you, sir,' and the little boy touched his cap and sniffled. Tom was touched. "'I say, little chap, why don't you take some candy?' "'Thank you, sir,' the small boy received the handful of caramels with a smile. "'How much do you charge for shoveling snow?' pursued Tom. "'Twenty-five cents is the regular charge, I think, sir. What's your charge?' "'I don't know exactly. I never tried before.' "'How does fifty cents suit you?' continued Tom, spreading his feet and with his arms a Kimbo. "'That's too much. Not for you, though. You're not used to the work, and it'll take you twice as long to do it as a fellow who is used to it. That's why I'll pay you twice as much.' This was Tom's first expression of opinion in political economy. The very small boy was presently working away with the will, while his smiling employer, standing in the doorway, looked on with undisguised interest. "'Where are your gloves?' asked Tom after a silence of at least five minutes. "'I ain't got any, sir.' "'Here,' cried the employer, returning from the hat rack with his own. "'Come up here and put these on.' "'Please, sir, I don't want them. Thank you.' He was the modest boy this week's in face. "'Who asked you whether you wanted them or not? You're in my employment now, and you've got to do what you're told. Hop up here and put them on. What's your name?' continued capital, as he handed labour the gloves. "'Fred Williams, sir? Call me Tom, or I'll discharge you. I like your name.' I knew a fellow named Fred once, and he wasn't a bad sort of a chap, though he was an awful blower.' Fred smiled in an ancient way, and descending the steps resumed his work. One moment later a snowball took him on the back of the head. He turned his face to the door, but Tom, who was grinning behind it, was out of sight. "'I did it,' said the honest but undignified employer, after a judicious interval, as he came running down the steps. "'Say, you aren't tired, are you?' "'No, sir.' "'Yes, you are. Let me catch hold of that shovel. I'll bet I can manage it better than you.' I gasped. The employee yielded, and Tom put himself to shoveling till his back ached. He had completely forgotten aunt Meadows and junctions. "'There,' he exclaimed, throwing a last shovel full into the gutter. "'Now that's done.' "'Here's your fifty cents, Fred.' "'Thank you, sir,' said Fred simply. "'It's for Mama.' "'Take some more candy,' said Tom. "'No, thank you. Goodbye, sir.' "'Hold on. Let's have some fun.' "'Frag grand. Just stand at that corner,' continued Tom, and we'll peg at each other. "'You'll have to get a chance at me, because I hit you when you weren't looking, you know.' "'I'd like to, but Mama's sick, and I want to help her. "'If I hadn't any more money,' said Tom, I'd get you to clean off some more sidewalks, but I'm dead broke.' The little boy was about to speak, on a sound, not unlike a scream, startled the two lads. "'Why, Tommy,' continued Miss Meadows, turning the corner with her brother-in-law, "'you'll catch your death of cold. Go into the house this very instant. Aren't your stockings wet?' "'Of course they are. I've been shoveling snow.' "'Say, Aunt,' he added in a low tone, as he brought his mouth to her ear, "'This little chap's got a sick mother. Give him a dollar, and I'll do anything you like.' "'You will? Then I'll give him, too.' Tom's promise cost him a hot mustard bath, but he bore it bravely for sweet charity's sake.' After supper, our hero actually did become ill. He felt an uneasy feeling somewhere within, and didn't know what to make of it. Like the young Spartan with the fox gnawing at his vitals, he tried to bear his misery with unchanged demeanor. Poor boy! A week's feasting, following hard upon a week's fasting, had been too much for him. Miss Meadows, who had been watching him all day with the eye of a detective, noticed a change in his color. There was no imagination this time. "'Tommy, tell me the truth,' she said. "'You are sick.' "'It's here, Aunt,' said Tom, laying his hand pathetically upon his stomach. Whereupon Miss Meadows put him to bed, placed a mustard plaster upon the place indicated, and seating herself beside her boy, held a watch before her to time his misery. In ten minutes he began wriggling. "'You've got to bear it, Tommy, dear.' "'I prefer the bellyache,' growled the impatient invalid. He attempted to move his aunt by groans, but she was obdurate. Then he begged for a glass of water, determined, once his aunt had left the room, to fling the wretched plaster out of the window. But Miss Meadows, with her eyes watching his every motion, balked over to the door and called out for water. "'I think, Aunt, you'd better take that rag off,' implored Tom, when the watch had gone seventeen minutes. "'I'm perfectly well, honest, and that thing's burning awfully.' But Miss Meadows mounted guard till twenty-five minutes had elapsed. He was cured. His aunt, bid on making assurance doubly sure, now produced a box of pills. However, when he protested, almost with tears in his eyes, that he never felt better in his life, Miss Meadows gave him. When she returned to the room, rather suddenly, a few minutes later, she was horrified to find the darling boy dancing about the room, apparently in an ecstasy of joy. "'Tommy, you reckless boy! What are you doing now?' "'I was celebrating,' he answered, somewhat disconfident at being discovered, and highly astonished at seeing that his aunt had a coil of rope in her hands. "'Celebrating what?' "'That old muster plastered. I feel so good that it's off. But I say, aunt, you're not going to tie me down. Are you?' "'No, Tommy, but get into bed, and I'll tell you all about it.' Curiosity gave Tom's obedience a generous amount of promptness. Then Miss Meadows gravely tied one end of the rip to the bureau. "'It's a heavy bureau, Tom, and it will stand the strain.' The astonished lad began to fear that his aunt was losing her mind. "'What strain?' "'Tommy, pay attention to me. If the house catches fire or gets struck by lightning, drop this rope out the window and climb down. You're good at climbing, you know.' "'Do you really think, aunt, that the lightning is chasing me around the world?' "'We don't know what may happen,' said the little woman. "'There are storms and fires all over the country. Now, good night, dear.' And she kissed the unromantic youth. Miss Meadows had not been gone five minutes when she remembered that Tom's water pitcher needed replenishing. She hastened back, and as she entered his room, gave a gasp. He was not there. "'Tommy,' she called. "'Yes, ma'am.' The voice was from without. Ah, she saw it all now. As with a suppressed scream, she hurried over to the open window following the course of the rope. Tom was half-way down. "'You wretch, God forgive me. My dear Tommy, what on earth are you doing?' "'Testing your fire escape, aunt. It's immense.' He delivered this opinion as he touched a foot in the yard. No sooner had he relinquished his hold on the rope that Miss Meadows hauled it up into the window with feverish haste. "'I say,' he protested, how I get back. "'I'll open the door for you, Tommy.' "'But you spoiled all my fun. You would be jolly climbing up again.' Master Tom, nevertheless, re-entered by the side door, and slept without a fire escape that night. End of CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XIX Such were the quick and various remarks that came from the mouth of Tom Playfair. Some few days after his return from St. Louis, wither he had gone with father and aunt to spend his Christmas holidays. The events of the November night had made Tom extremely popular among his playfellows. All boys are at bottom generous-hearted. Selfishness is the crust of years, and the countless mean acts of certain boys are in nine cases out of ten, the result of thoughtlessness, and in the tenth case, the fruit of false ideals and effective training. So in the general chorus of praise for Tom, there was not a single dissenting voice. For some days past there had been talk in the small yard of building a snow-fort, and of inviting the boys of a large yard to attempt its capture. Various details had been discussed, until finally, with the rejection of some, and the acceptance of others, it was resolved to carry the matter into effect. "'Who will be captain?' queried Conway. "'Kenan,' stressed the pitch, he was captain last year. "'Not this time,' said George Kenan. "'One turn is good enough for me. I'd like to play second fiddle now and then.' "'It seems to me that our captain for this year ought to be Tom Playfair.' "'Playfair! Playfair!' was re-accurated on all sides, and with the least little touch of a blush on the part of Tom, and wonder's unanimity on the part of his playfellows, our hero was installed as captain of the small-boy snow-fort. With his usual energy, Tom said about constructing the ramparts of snow. His orders went flying right and left. He was an active superintendent. He inspected everything personally, and in doubtful points consolidated the experience of Donald and Kenan. "'I say, John,' he said, addressing Donald, when matters were well on their way. "'How long did you fellows hold the fort against the big boys last year?' "'About eleven or twelve minutes. They still marched on us last year. Before dinner we had got over five hundred snowballs ready. While we were in eating, some of the big boys stole them. That took all the spirit out of our fellows. "'By the way, we got to get even with them for that trick. "'I'm going to try to think out some schemes.' "'Yes, Tom. Last year they put us to route in eleven minutes.' "'Bishaw! That won't go. We're not going to allow them to clean us out in that style this year. "'Aren't you now? I don't know about that,' put in Kenan. Some of those big traps are just awful at throwing a snowball. Once Carmody pegged a snowball that took me square on the nose. It came in so hard that I thought at first that my nose was given through my head and would come sticking out on the other side. "'Yes,' chimed in John, and once last winter, when Ryan hit me in the eye, I saw so many moons that I thought I was a lunatic. "'That's excellent, classical pun. Excellent because so extremely bad. Was lost upon Tom. Was lost upon George, too, who at that moment was seemingly absorbed in thought. "'Tom,' he said suddenly, I have an idea. Come over by the playroom. I think you're just the boy that can carry it out.' There was inspiration in George's face. The two walked away together and held a long, animated, but whispered consultation. Presently they returned to John's side. "'Now, the question is,' began Tom, to find out who are the best throwers in the big yard. "'Let's see,' said Donald. There's Ryan, and Carmody, and McNef, and McCoy. He uses ice balls, too. He's a mean fellow. And Drew, and Will Cleary, and Ziegler. That's all I can remember. As George enumerated each name, he checked it off on his fingers and blinked his eyes. "'You left out two of the best,' put in John, Donald, Miller, and Arthur. "'Just nine,' said Tom, as he walked away. Donald perceived that something was on foot. His curiosity was aroused. "'Say, George, what scheme are you and Tom hatching?' "'We're going to steal all the snow in the big yard, so to deprive the big fellows of ammunition,' was George's grave reply. "'Oh, come on. What's the idea?' "'We're going to make a bonfire in the fort, so as to keep the boys warm and prevent the snow from freezing too hard.' John aimed a blow at George, which would have taken that young wag in the ribs, had he not ducked promptly. With a growl on the part of John, and a laugh on the part of George, the conference ended. Meantime the work went on with ever-increasing energy, so that as the sweet notes of the Angelus Bell announced the hour of noon, and the boys with bared heads paused from their work to renew the angelic salutation, one of the sweetest memorial customs of St. Mars, they bowed their faces and breathed their words in the presence of a fort graceful in its way, and strong as Boyish kill could make it. It had been arranged that the storming of the fort would begin precisely at one o'clock. Contrary to the general custom on holidays, there was much talking and little eating at dinner, and even the event of the favorite pie aroused but little enthusiasm. Truth compels me to say that not a few of the boys shortened their customary after-dinner visit to the Blessed Sacrament on this occasion. We are dealing with boys, not with angels. While twenty or thirty of the stronger lads busied themselves in expecting and strengthening the fortification, the others gave themselves to the manufacturing and storing away of snowballs. These they placed within the entrenchments, which I forgot to mention, were situated in the angle formed by a wing and a portion of the main body of the old church building. Precisely at fifteen minutes to one o'clock, Tom, assuming an air of coolness which bellied his real feelings, presided himself to the second prefect of the large yard. Mr. Beakley, he said politely, raising his cap, could you please tell me who was the captain of the big boys? Captain, repeated Mr. Beakley banteringly, they don't need a captain to rat out you little fellows. Maybe they think they don't, Mr. Beakley, but I hope they'll change their minds. Well, if there isn't any captain, could I please have a talk with some of the leaders? Certainly, not the least objection, answered the prefect in an encouraging tone, for he perceived that Tom was strangely timid and embarrassed. And, eh, eh, Mr. Beakley, continued Tom, blushing and hanging his head, could I please have the key of your classroom so as we can go up there and fix our plans? It won't take more than two minutes. The prefect handed Tom the required key. Oh, thank you, Mr. Beakley, and please, sir, will you ring the bell for the assault to begin as soon as I come down? Yes, anything else on your mind? Yes, sir, just one thing more. I want to see Carmody, Ryan, Macneff, McCoy, Drew, Wilk Leary, Ziggler, Arthur, and Miller. Are those the leaders? I think so, sir, answered Tom modestly. You have their names pat, probably you'll find most of them in the reading room, and a few in the playroom. Tom sought them out at once. They were not a little amused at his proposition to hold a meeting, but good-naturedly yielded and followed him over to the classroom building. I say, sir, Tom, as they trudged up the stairs, how long do you expect us to hold the fort? If you hold it for five minutes, you'll be doing well, volunteered Miller with a grin. Perhaps you may hold out for 15 minutes or so, remark Carmody, with a view to encouraging the young captain. Well, I'll tell you what, sir, Tom, if we stand it out half an hour, will you agree in the name of the big fellows to give up the fighting and allow the victory to us? Of course. I should say so. Yes, sir, came the general chorus, and as they spoke, Carmody winked solemnly at Ryan. Will Cleary put his finger to his eye, and a general grin passed from face to face. Well, said the object of the subdued and ill-concealed merriment, as he unlocked the door of Mr. Beeky's classroom, if you walk in, it will settle everything in less than no time. Tom stood holding the door open with the key in the lock, waiting in all innocence and politeness for the wily leaders of the large yard to enter. All entered, still grinning. Suddenly Tom sprang from the room, and the door banged after him, while coming close upon the slam, great at the owing-nose sound of the key turning in the lock, followed by the quick powder of light-feet down the stairs. The hard-hitters of the large yard were prisoners. 20 Storming of the snow-fort, Mr. Beeky talks at cross-purposes with the senior students. Oh, Mr. Beeky, shouted Tom a few minutes later, bring the bell, please. We've got everything fixed the way I want it. And I came near forgetting it. Won't you please time us? The fight isn't to go beyond half an hour. If we lasted out half an hour, we win, you know. With which words, Tom started off at breakneck speed for the fort, and such progress did he make that he was within a few yards of entrenchments when the college bell gave the signal for the beginning of the hostilities. The sound of the bell, coupled with Tom's appearance, drew shrill, hearty cheers from the little boys, as standing, snowballs in hand, they impatiently awaited the onset. By way of echo, a hoarser, deeper sound came from the large yard. It was the battle cry of the large boys, confidently moving to victory. Scarcely had these raucous cheers been fairly heard. When their authors, thus far screened from the eyes of the small boys by the intervening building, appeared in full view, as they came rushing around the corner of the little boys' dormitory. Fourth with, a few balls began to fall harmlessly about the fort. They might as well send off skyrockets, remarked Conway. Boys, said Tom, don't throw a single ball till I give the word. Be sure not to forget. All you have to do for the present is to keep your eyes open and dodge every ball. Thicker, swifter, oftener, straighter came the snowballs, nearer and nearer the attacking party. Hi, hi, come clear out of that, little chaps, shouted Fanning, who was well in the front of his party. Come and put us out, came the answer from Conway. Come on, boys, continued the energetic aggressor. Let's charge them. Inspirited by Fanning's advice, the large boys gave a rousing cheer. Now, give it to them, bawled Fanning, as they came within about fifty feet of the fort. In prompt obedience to this order, a shower of snowballs made the air white, and two of the small boys, each holding his hand to his nose, marked their way to the infirmary with a trail of crimson. Woop-la, now's our time, cried Tom, as the large boys stooped for a fresh supply of snow. Fire! As ball after ball whizzed into the ranks of the besiegers, their expressions of enthusiasm, so multitudinous before, shaded off into blended expressions of astonishment and uneasiness. Finally, however, astonishment, pure and simple, stamped itself on their face. For before they had fairly begun to dodge the well-directed balls of the small boys, the shrill cry of Charge came from the fort upon their startled ears, and Presto! There issued at a run twenty-five of the small yards chosen sharpshooters. Whizz, whizz, whizz, whizz. This was too much. Amidst the shouts and taunts of the small boys, the crash of cymbal, beat of drum, and blare of trumpet, all perloined from the music room, by the ingenious Conway, the large boys of St. Mara's turned tail and fled. Not all, however. And the confusion of onset, fanning, and a few of the unterrified, resorted to a maneuver. Quietly slipping aside, they allowed pursued and pursuers to pass, then suddenly advanced upon the fort. For the smaller boys inside were thrilled with the martial spirit of their leaders. They fought bravely. Still, the issue could hurriedly be looked upon as doubtful. Slowly but inevitably, the hope of the large yard advanced. Fanning's voice was becoming, course with joy. He hoped that in a few moments the works of the enemy would be his, but he reckoned without his host. He was still urging his men on, forgetful of the sharpshooters in his wake, when Tom's voice rose above the den. Hold the fort, for we are coming! bawled the young Sherman, and as he spoke he laid his hand on Fanning's shoulder. Do you surrender, continued Tom? Fanning, with his contingent, turned, only to find that he was hemmed in by twenty-five warriors bold. Never, shouted Fanning, as with a vigorous shove, he tumbled Tom over into the snow. We'll die first. Then die, said Keenan, and forthwith twenty-four small boys fell upon the unterrified, outnumbering them. I must say, three to one, brought them to the earth, bound them, dragged them behind the entrenchments, oblivious in the meantime of the galling fire of the main body of the enemy, who were content to remain, however, at a safe distance. From that moment the fighting on the part of the large boys was tame, deprived of their most skillful throwers, whose absence they had not noticed at the beginning of hostilities, and without the leadership of Fanning, they displayed masterly in activity. Whenever the junior students issued forth for charge, they had a capital opportunity of observing the elegance and variety of the senior students' coattails. In the meantime, the prefects and several of the professors stood looking on. Among them was Mr. Beaky. He had a quick eye, and it struck him presently that a number of the large boys were absent. Where could they be? His suspicions were aroused. Perhaps they had taken advantage of his being a new prefect. He had arrived at St. Mars but a few weeks previous to slip up to the village. Perhaps, dreadful thought, they might come back to college intoxicated. Mr. Beaky was familiar with stories of boarding schools, and he remembered some sad cases of youthful intemperance. He gave a sigh, took out his notebook, and ran over the list of the boys. His face grew longer as he read and compared. Yes, all the leaders, the very boys whom Tom had asked for, were missing. This is too bad, he muttered to himself. They are the last boys I was suspect of acting under hand. I do hope they won't do anything to disgrace the college. They are all good boys, and it would be a pity to have even one of them expelled. It's a pity I don't know the boys better. But perhaps they're about in some corner or other. I'll make sure of that point first. Just then, Tom, on a grand triumphant charge, came sleeping past him. Regardless of the flying missiles, Mr. Beaky caught up with him. Play fair, he cried, raising his voice above thin. Do you know anything about Carmody, Ryan, and those other boys you asked leave to speak to? Where are they? Mr. Beaky's face as he spoke was clouded. Tom judged the expression to be one of vexation, and inferred, boylike, that the prefect was not at all pleased at seeing his boys routed. I'll tell him the story, thought Tom, after the battle when he's not so excited. If I tell him now, he'll give me a big scolding. So he replied demurely, Mr. Beaky, won't you please excuse me? But really, I'd rather not tell. This answer confirmed Mr. Beaky's worse suspicions. There is no doubt about it, he muttered, as he made his way out of the thick of the fight. These boys have stolen away to the village. But I do hope they'll not drink anything. Mr. Beaky took out his watch. He started. It was two minutes beyond the half hour agreed upon. Hastening to his own yard, he rang the bell. A great scream rose from the throats of a hundred small boys, as, in the full flush of victory, they charged their vanquished seniors for the last time. It was a disgraceful rout. No sooner had the bell sounded than Tom quickly powdered to the classroom building, stealthily hastened up the staircase and under cover of the cries of victory without and the growling of the prisoners within unlocked the door. He then hurried away and trusted Mr. Beaky's key to the care of a large boy and returned to his proper yard, there to receive congratulations and fight his battles all again. In the classroom, which he had just left, however, there were no congratulations exchanged. Carmody and Ryan were sulking in a corner. Ziggler was elaborately writing, thult again on the blackboard. Will Cleary was whistling the last rose of summer, and through the manner of a dirge, while Miller paced up and down between the benches like a caged tiger. Cun found it, burst out McNef. I was never so badly taken in since I came here. You haven't been here so long. You're young yet, was Ryan's consolatory reflection. This is a pretty howdy-do, growled Cleary. Every mule in the yard will have a laugh on us. I'll paralyze the first fellow that laughs at me, said McCoy. Just imagine the grin on Fanning's face, mother Carmody. The task of imagining Fanning's grin seemed to be attended with some difficulties, for it induced a silence that lasted for several minutes. Isn't that little wretch ever coming back to unlock this door? Quite Arthur at length. The fight's been over nearly an hour. Hasn't anyone got a button-hook? They're a soul in silence. Well, come on, continued Arthur, let's go to the window and catch some fellow's eye and get him to open up for us. For goodness sake, cried Ryan. Don't. They'll be laughing enough at us as it is. But if the fellows once know we're here, they'll march up in procession to let us out. Well, said Ziggler, I don't propose to stay here forever. I wonder, couldn't I squeeze through the transom? You might try, said Carmody, encouragingly. And who knows, but the key is still in the lock. You'll be just like that brat of a small boy to leave it there and forget all about it, small boys or nuisances. While Carmody was speaking, Ziggler had taken off his coat and vest. Now, boys, give me a lift, he said. Eager hands came to his help, a trifle to Eager, perhaps. For Ziggler was hurried through the aperture in such wise that he came down on the other side on hands and knees. You're a lot of lunatics, he volunteered as he arose. You'd think I was insured for a fortune, and he had two or three next to break. There isn't any key here. Try and break the door in, suggested McCoy. All right, get away from the door then, returned Ziggler. He stepped back a few paces, and then made a violent rush at the door, catching and turning the knob as he threw the whole weight of his body against the woodwork. The door flew open, and Ziggler flew in. His flying progress was arrested by Cleary. He was rendered breathless, and brought to the floor with his friend on top. All the two unfortunates were roofily picking themselves up. The others broke into a ringing laugh. Shut up, roared Ziggler. When he could command his breath, you're a lot of fools. You might have known that door was unlocked. That's a fact, decedent Carmody. It's funny it didn't occur to you. You're a pretty sharp fellow, you know. Ah, tell us something new, snarled Ziggler. Oh, why doesn't somebody hit me hard, apostrophized Ryan? You've been mooning in here over an hour and a half, and that door's been open over a century. Slowly and sadly they went down the stairs, each one trying to get behind the other. A feat in which all, of course, did not succeed. On emerging into the yard, they breathed more freely when they perceived that no one was outside but Mr. Beaky, who had been anxiously scanning the floor quarters in hope of discovering their whereabouts. Boys, said the prefect, whose suspicions were confirmed by their sheepish looks and blushing faces. You're caught. There's no getting out of it. Well, that's so, Mr. Beaky, said Carmody, trying to be easy and failing. We might as well acknowledge it. We've been stupid. So you don't offer any excuses? exclaimed Mr. Beaky in astonishment. Oh, well, it was only in fun, sir, said Ryan, whose sheepishness had now grown intense. Only in fun, gasped Mr. Beaky. Fun, fun, that's not my idea of fun. Why, it's not so very serious, Mr. Beaky, said Cleary, in a conciliatory tone. And I hope, he continued, you won't punish the play fair on account of it. Mr. Beaky remembered Tom's embarrassment. What, he exclaimed, do you mean to say that that little innocent was concerned in it? Why, he was at the bottom of the whole matter, broken Carmody, in astonishment at the prefect's obtuseness. And let me tell you, he's not so innocent either. He's up to more tricks than any boy twice his size in this college, confound him. Really, said the prefect in a terrible voice. The case is far worse than I thought. Boys, I didn't expect it of you. I thought you had more sense. General sheepishness at its maximum. Some grinning helplessly. Majority gazing at their feet. Frankly, he continued, I am very sorry on your account. Oh, don't bother about us, sir, putting Cleary. We can stand being laughed at. Laughed at, echoed the prefect in dismay. Do you mean to say that such things are a matter for laughter to the students of this college? Why, certainly, said Ryan, no less puzzled than the prefect. And in fact, I guess we'll have to laugh the thing off ourselves. There, now, that'll do, said Mr. Beaky sternly. I see that not one of you is in a condition to talk sense. You will repent your words tomorrow when you regain the proper use of your reason. The boys exchanged glances of perplexity. For the first time, they began to suspect that they were talking across purposes. Come, now, continued the prefect, tell the exact truth. How long were you up? Mr. Beaky meant uptown. The boys thought that he had referenced to the classroom. Over an hour, said Carmody, and how much did each one of you take? The boys again looked at each other. Do you mean chalk, sir? Ventured Ziggler. I took a small piece, but meant no harm. And he produced from his pocket a bit of blackboard chalk. Mr. Beaky flushed with anger. There wasn't anything else to take, but ink, continued Ziggler, and none of us wanted any. This made matters worse. Mr. Beaky now felt confident that the boys were quizzing him. Enough of this nonsense, he said. You need not make your case worse than it is by untimely joking. You have already acknowledged that you are fairly caught. I missed you from the yard before you were gone five minutes, and you have shown some signs of sorrow. You have acknowledged that you were uptown for over an hour. Your shame-faced expressions and flushed faces show the effects of your indiscretion. There is a clear case against you. But now you may as well out with the whole thing and tell how much you took. The astonishment that deepened on each one's face with each remark of Mr. Beaky culminated in a look of comic amazement. The misunderstanding was too ridiculous. Mr. Beaky's last question was a signal for a hearty burst of laughter. Boys, boys, implored Mr. Beaky, for goodness sake, don't create a scene. Restraining his mirth, Ryan explained the misunderstanding, and as he spoke, it was delightful to see how the wrinkles and frowns disappeared from the prefect's brow, and how the firm's set, stern lines about the mouth softened into the brightest of smiles. Well, boys, he said, when Ryan had detailed their adventures, I acknowledged that I have made a big blunder, and I ask your pardon. I don't know the ropes yet, you see, but sincerely I am glad that I am in the wrong. There was a whispered consultation among the boys. Then Ryan spoke, Mr. Beaky, we want you to do us a favor. You and that playfair boy are the only ones that know of the way we were taken in. We'll make him keep quiet. If your promise to say nothing to anyone about it, you can trust me, answered Mr. Beaky, and on the soul shall hear of it from my lips. Thank you, sir, came the general chorus. Tom was easily induced to hold his tongue on the subject, so too wished George Keenan, who had suggested to plot to Tom. And so the true inwardness of the big boy's failure to take the snow-port now becomes public for the first time. CHAPTER XXI In which Tom meets with a bitter trial. In the events I have narrated as happening after the night of the first Friday in November, I purposely avoided enlarging upon the grief and horror of that dreadful accident. One would think, judging from what I have related of Tom, that our cheerful little hero had been strangely unimpressed by the tragic incident. This, however, is a wrong inference. True, Tom, by being sent to the infirmary, was wisely spare the sad sight's incident upon the burial of his two friends. After leaving the dormitory, he never saw the face of green again, face more beautiful and composed in death than it had ever been in the years of college life. Nor did he ever again see the face of the gentle boy who had asked his prayers. Had he seen it, he would have recognized the same beautiful expression which had thrown a halo upon the countenance when the boy had othered, sweet heart of Jesus, be my love. Nevertheless the accident had deeply affected Tom. He knew that his own escape from instant death had fallen little short of a miracle, and every night from his inmost heart he thanked God that he had been spared to make his first communion. That green had been taken away just as he had conquered his passions and made his start for the better, and that Alec had been called to God on the very day he had completed his ninth first Friday seemed to Tom to be a wondrous manifestation of God's mercy. It was a lesson, too. It filled his little heart with a burning desire to receive our Lord in the sacrament of his love. Among Catholic boys, as I have known them, such feelings and affections show themselves outwardly in a somewhat negative manner. They do not manifest themselves in deed and conversation, saved by increased carefulness in avoiding anything sinful. Joke and jest, play and study, may go on and all seeming as before, but the change for all that may be radical in life long. It was a happy day for Tom, when on the fifteenth of February the first communion class was organized. I dare say that no small boy who ever attended St. Mars said about the work of preparation as Tom did. Each day he had his catechism lesson prepared with the thoroughness that was beyond criticism, nor in the meantime did he neglect his other studies. Indeed, owing to his long absence it became necessary for him to apply himself very hard in order to put himself on a fair footing with his classmates. Unfortunately the semiannual examinations were upon him before he could repeat all the class matter he had missed, and when, on the twenty-second of February, the class standing was published, Tom stood at the foot of his class, with but sixty merit marks out of a hundred. I hope my father won't get mad about it, he remarked to Harry Quip, and as he spoke he looked quite serious. Oh, I'm sure he won't mind it, said Harry. He knows you've missed several weeks. Yes, but Pa's getting mighty strict. He thinks I'm awful careless. The fact is, we like each other immensely, but Pa doesn't know what to make of me. In these few words Tom had set down the relations quite clearly. Mr. Playfair loved his boy, but as for understanding him that was another question. Clearly if Mr. Playfair had ever been a boy himself, he had either forgotten that circumstance, or he had been cast in quite a different mode from his son. The wall of misunderstanding had been rising higher between them ever since Tom reached the age of reason. Such relations between father and son are not uncommon. Tom's forebodings on this occasion were not without foundation. Several days later he was summoned to the president's room. On entering he saw at once from the reverend father's face that something had gone wrong. Ah, Tommy, how are you studying? Pretty hard, sir. And how are you getting on with your teacher? I like him very much. If he's got anything against me lately, he hasn't told me anything about it. Are you sure you've had no trouble lately? Yes, father, I'm getting ready for my first communion. Well, Tom, I have very bad news for you. Anybody sick at home, sir? No, it regards yourself. Your father is very much displeased with your bulletin. Oh, I got low notes because I missed a lot of classes. Mr. Middleton says I've caught up already. Your father knew you had been absent too, but there must have been something more in your bulletin. Some remark indicated that you were not giving satisfaction, for your father sends me imperative orders to take you out of the communion class at once. A strange expression came over Tom's face. Every nerve seemed to be a quiver. Until that moment, Tom himself had had no idea of the ardent desire with which he looked forward to his day of days. Don't take it too much to heart, my boy, continued the president, both touched and edified at the way in which Tom received the news. I have a hope that further examination will discover some mistake. You mustn't give up hope yet. I'll inquire about your bulletin and find out just how things stand as soon as possible. Thank you, father, said Tom. In the meantime offer your trial to God, my boy. It comes from him. His ways are not our ways, and when he sends us trials he wishes us to bear up under them cheerfully. I'll try to swallow it, sir, but it's rough. Tom went directly to the chapel, prostrated himself before the Blessed Sacrament, and there prayed fervently. When he entered he was dazed, bewodered. When he left, three minutes later he was comparatively calm. There is no sorrow that prayer cannot soothe, and children's sorrows, God be thanked for it, are quickest to yield their bitterness to fervent prayer. No one observing Tom playing at foot and a half within the same hour could imagine that the nimble lad, all gaity in motion, had just met the second great sorrow of his life. The death of his mother had been the first. A week elapsed before he was again summoned by the president. Well, Tom, things were looking a little brighter. There has been a grave blunder. Report was sent to your father that your conduct had been highly unsatisfactory. Now those words were put in your bulletin by some clerical error. They belong to some other boys. I have just written to your father how matters stand, and I'm quite sure that all will be right within a week. Tom grinned excessively, and finding some difficulty in keeping both feet upon the floor, hastened to leave the room, whereupon he danced all the way back to his yard. Until news came from Mr. Playfair, Tom was in great glee. How eagerly he hastened to the president's room to hear the final word. He entered all aglow and smiling, but the glow gave way to ash and whiteness, and the smile disappeared instantaneously. Something there was in the president's face, which warned him that his troubles were not yet over. I've been a little surprised, Tom, by the tenor of your father's leather. He says he is glad to learn that your conduct is so satisfactory, and that you are doing so well in your studies. But he adds that he has been doubting for some time about the propriety of your making first communion on other grounds. I used to get lots of trouble at home, explained Tom humbly. I guess Pa thinks I need more time to reform. He is acting through love for you, Tom. He wants to make sure that you are well prepared. He suspects that your levity of disposition is a sign that you are too young. Yes, I send it to Tom sadly. I'd be better off if I could go around with a long face. However, added the president, suppressing a smile, he leaves the matter in my hands. Tom brightened it once. Judging from the drift of his leather, though, I think that he would prefer you to wait. Tom's face fell again. Now, my boy, you have your choice. If you insist, I shall allow you to rejoin the communion class. Tom thought for a moment, then suddenly a light flashed from his eyes, the light of an inspiration. Father, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give it up for this year. He did not explain his reasons, but for the father, no explanation was needed. Tom had taken the side of strict obedience and of sacrifice. God will bless you for that resolution, my boy. Your communion, when it comes, will be all the happier, and even if you have been disobedient at times, the act you have now made will more than letone. You have chosen wisely, and God's blessing will be upon the choice. Tom departed happy, but the pain and struggle were not over. At times an intense longing would come upon our little friend. On the feast of St. Joseph's patronage, when sixteen little lads knelt at the altar to receive for the first time their divine master, Tom's eyes became very moist. One tear trickled down his honest face, and with the dropping of that tear all his sadness was gone. There was no relaxation in his studies, meantime. Looking forward to his first communion he consecrated every day to preparation, and so, when the last examination came, Tom won highest honors in his class, with ninety-nine merit marks after his name. Poor Tom, between him and his communion another tragic experience was to intervene. Upon the shruggish little boy God seemed to have special designs. CHAPTER 22 In which Tom wins a new friend, and hears a strange story. It must be said in justice to Mr. Playfair that Tom's record during the last half of school pleased him very much. Indeed, he expressed his pleasure in such terms, on their meeting again, that Tom blushed to the tips of his ears. Say, Pa, what about my communion? You can make it, my boy, just as soon as the President allows you next year. Perhaps I was a little severe on you, but it has done you good. And, indeed, there could be no doubt about Tom's improvement. The truth compels me to add that he made things very lively indeed at home during the two months of vacation. On returning to college, he had a long talk with the President, the issue of which was that Tom should prepare under the Reverend Father's personal direction to receive his Lord at Christmas. That Christmas was to be the turning point in our hero's life. September passed quietly. Towards the end of the month, Tom came upon a new friend. He was sauntering about the yard one bright afternoon when his attention was caught by the following dialogue. He's home sick. He wants his ma. Give him a little doll and a nice gold paper dress. These were a few of the remarks from John Pitch and a few others of the same ilk addressed to a timid-looking lad, around whom they had rudely gathered. Just then, Tom and Harry chanced to be passing by. What's the matter, inquired Tom of the victim? He wants his ma, but you'll do play fair. I volunteered, John Pitch. You're a mean set to be teasing a poor newcomer who hasn't gotten any friends, exclaimed Tom, his eyes flashing. Mind your business, play fair, said Pitch. Yes, and you mind yours and let the poor new kid alone. Come on, Johnny, what's your name? And have a game of catch. Here, take some candy. Tom's new friend, James Aldine, said very little, but his eyes spoke volumes of gratitude. He was a quiet, olive complexion boy. His eyes, dark and heavily shaded, had a trick of passing from an expression of gentle timidity to one of marked fear. Tom, who at once took a liking to the newcomer, soon came to notice this change of countenance, and as the days slipped by and their intimacy increased, Tom's wonder grew. He was puzzled, and being an outspoken boy, was only waiting a favorable opportunity of satisfying his curiosity. At last the occasion presented itself. It was the second week of October, when he and James found themselves alone on the prairie, fully two miles from the college. The average boy could make an intimate friend and someone under a week. The intercourse of these two had already gone beyond that period, and Tom felt himself fully justified in remarking, what makes you look so scared, Jimmy? Do I look scared? Just as if you have been training a large stock of ghosts and hadn't succeeded. Jimmy shivered, and his face paled. Helloa! No, I say, cried Tom, clapping him heartily on the back. What is the matter, anyhow? Oh, Tom! And Jimmy's long pen to motion escaped in a flood of tears. I'm afraid of being murdered. What? Gasped Tom. Just listen. You know where I live, about sixty-five miles from this place on a large farm. Last year a newcomer moved near us, named Hartnett. He was a short, dark, ugly-looking man, with bristling black whiskers. He lived all alone, about a mile from our figs, and seldom said a word to anybody. One night, about a month ago, I happened to pass by his house, when I heard a noise inside, as if someone were trying to shout, but couldn't. Then I heard a tremendous hubbub, as if there was a scuffle, then the crack of a pistol, and then all was still again. In spite of my fright I crept to the window, and oh, Tom, how I was frightened! On the floor lay a man in a pool of blood, and over him stood that dark man, looking still darker. I was so frightened that I couldn't stir, and there I stood with my face against the window-pane. Somehow I couldn't move, then my heart gave a great jump, when suddenly Hartnett's eyes met mine. At first he turned deadly pale, then he swore a dreadful oath and made for the door. Once he moved my strength came back, and I tell you I ran down the road at full speed, yet not so fast that I could hear his heavy breathing as he followed. Oh, it was awful, that run through the dark woods. I don't think I'll ever be as frightened again, not even when I come to die. Even as I ran I could tell that he was gaining on me, and I called to God to help me, and prayed as I had never prayed before. At last his hand was on my collar, and he had me tight. He asked me to the earth with one hand, and would he ever pull the knife from his bosom. I shut my eyes and said what I thought was to be my last prayer. Suddenly his grafts loosened. I opened my eyes, and saw he had changed his mind. Boy, he said, in a turn that froze my blood, kneel down. As I took the position he held me closely. I know you, he said, and you needn't fear I'll ever forget your face. And I swear never to tell what you saw in my house. Then he put me through a dreadful oath, and swore that if ever I opened my lips about what had happened that night he would kill me with most awful tortures. Here James paused, and trembled in every limb. Tom put his hands in his trousers' pockets, and still with his legs wide apart. It was his method of expressionist punishment. Gracious, he said, but he's a bad man. You oughtn't to be afraid of him, though. But I am. It is not so much fear of him as of my conduct that worries me. Sometimes I wonder whether I have to keep such an oath. Do you think I have? I haven't got that far in my candidism yet, said Tom, but I can ask my teacher. Why? What's the matter? As Tom was speaking a look of horror had come upon Jimmy's face. Oh, Tom! I've broken my oath. I've told you the secret without thinking of it. Tom was startled. His hands went deeper into his pockets and his legs spread wider. Well, he inquired after a few moments' reflection, you didn't mean to break your oath, did you? On or bright I didn't, protested James. Well, then, it isn't any sin, because you can't commit a sin unless you mean to. That's what we are told in Catechism. But if I had been in your place I wouldn't have taken that oath. I'd have died first. Well, do you think I'm obliged to keep it? I don't know about that. I'll tell you what. I'll ask the president about it, so as he won't know that I mean any particular boy. What do you say to that? I think it's a good idea. Before night, Tom had inquired of the president and learned that an oath taken under compulsion was not binding. But, said James when this news was imparted to him, what shall I do about it? Do you think it is my duty to tell on him? I don't know, Jim. You'd better think about it. Come on, let's play catch. When Tom produced the Spaulding League from his pocket, they were hard at it when Harry came running up in great excitement. I say he began. Have you heard what the red clippers have done? No. What? inquired both in a breath. They had put up as a prize a fancy baseball bat and a barrel of apples to any club in the yard that plays in a decent game inside a month. The red clippers was the banner baseball club of the small yard, and the players were the strongest, heartiest, most skillful, and most active of the junior students. They were the constant theme of admiration among all the little boys. An admiration not unmerited, and as much as the red clippers had over and over again defeated the best middle-sized nine of the large yard. A challenge consequently, from their nine, was in the eyes of all an opportunity to win glory. I'll tell you what, said Tom, let's get up a club to beat him. Tom's out-eye smiled, and looked at Tom as though he doubted the seriousness of his offer. And looked at Tom as though he doubted the seriousness of this offer. Get out, said Harry and the stain. We'll have to grow several inches and swell in every direction before we'll be able to beat them. That's what you say, retorted Tom, but we'll see about that. Now look here. Harry, you can curve, can't you? A little, was Harry's modest reply. Okay, well, you'll pitch, and I'll catch. We'll practice together and fix things so as to fool some of those fellows. Joe White may hold down first base. He's a good jumper, and isn't afraid of anything you can throw at him. Well, the brothers can play second base, and you, Jimmy, can try a short stop. Harry Conley seems to be a pretty good little chap, and he can hold down third. Come look a bit at Harry Underwood and write, he's a gorgeous thrower. Like McRoy in center, he's got long legs and can cover a great deal of ground, and Lawrence Leary in left. He's a good fly swallower. Bishaw, grumbled Harry, all those fellows you named their little tads, do you expect to beat the red clippers with them? That's about it. Beat the red clippers, reiterated Harry. That's just what I said, if we take a few weeks for practice. Hire a haul, said Harry. Just wait, will you? Now you and Jim go round quietly and get our fellows together, without letting any of the other boys know what's going on. With but little delay, the boys in question were brought together, whereupon Tom in a low voice unfolded his plans. At first his hearers received the idea of beating the red clippers as a bit of unintentional pleasant treat. But as Tom went on, they settled into earnestness, and such wise that when he came to a pause, all yielded the readiest ascent to his wishes. And despite Tom's modest disclaimer, elected him captain, manager, and trainer of the new club. From that time on, Tom saw to it that his men were practicing constantly, and yet their training was so unobtrusive, so hidden under a bushel, as to excite no comment among their playmates. After breakfast and supper, for instance, McRoy, Underwood, and Connolly would take extreme corners in the yard, and give the whole recreation time to the catching of high flies. The base-pen would practice the stopping of grounders, and the catching of lying balls, while Tom and Harry, with the prefixed permission, would go behind the old church and employ their time at battery work. Tom was a plucky little catcher, and even if he failed sometimes of holding a ball, he was not afraid to stop it. His main idea in regard to practicing with Harry was to initiate that young pitcher into such tricks as Tom's small experience could supply. Whenever half-holiday came, he and his men, instead of going out for a walk, remained in the yard. Then, when the playground was fairly well cleared, he would put his basement on the bases, his pitcher in the box, and his three fielders in turn at the bat. It was a pleasing sight to see how deftly these knickerbockered lads handled the ball. See the pitcher bending his fingers into almost impossible positions around the ball. He is preparing to deliver an incurve. Whizzed, there it goes, right over the plate, whacked into Tom's hands, and the boy with the bat wonders how he came to miss it. From the way Tom throws it at the second baseman, you would think it was a matter of life and death, but it is thrown too high. However, your other seems to thank the catching of it to be likewise a matter of life and death. First springs into the air, brings it down with one hand, and without stopping for applause passes it on a low line to the first baseman. The first baseman is familiar with the short bound. He makes a neat scoop, and sends it daisy cutting across the diamond to the short stop, who secures it on a dead run, jerking it into the hands of the third baseman. How quick they are, how eager! The one week's practice has been magical in result. Good gracious, exclaimed Lily, but we can play ball a little bit. You're right, said Joe as he walked in. Say, Tom, I think we can plant him any time now, right away. Not much, said Tom emphatically. There's a big thing we've got to look out for yet. If we fix that, we'll be all right. What's that? Was a general query. We've got to get used to their pictures delivery, so it's the bat him easy. If we can't do good batting, they'll beat us badly. Now I'll tell you what, I've got a scheme to bring the thing the way we want it. It's this. I'll bet any boy here. The cake for the next two weeks, and the apples, too, that I can hold his delivery for half an hour. The cakes and apples, also the pie, were favorite steaks at St. Mars. By these terms was understood the daily dessert. I'll take you, said Harry, whose twinkling eyes gave evidence that he understood Tom's plan, and I'll give Keenan half the cakes if I win. Done, said Tom, clasping Harry's hand, and holding it till Joe kindly cut the bet. And I'll go haves with George if I win. And what do you say, Harry, if these boys here who have heard us make the bet through the batting to see whether they can bluff me? I agree to that, too, answered Harry with a solemn wink. I'll now perceive the bruise, and we're delighted with their parts. No matter who should win the bet, it would be a splendid opportunity for studying their picture, and for getting some practice in batting. After supper George Keenan was somewhat astonished to find himself waited upon by a delegation of yardmates. What are you fellows up to? He exclaimed. Look here, George, Tom began. I want you to do me a favor. You see, I made a bet today while these fellows were standing around, that I could hold your hottest balls for half an hour. Now, if you pitch your best and I win, you'll get my dessert for a week. If I lose, Harry'll give you his for a week. Most model boys, if we can believe the storybooks, are rather indifferent in regards to cakes and pies. But George was a model boy online of his own. He jumped at the offer. Well, of course I'll pitch to you. That's fun for me. Thank you, said Tom, gratefully, and I say, George, these boys will bat your pitching, so I has to make it more real. Oh, that's all right, answered George, taking off his coat and stepping into the pitcher's box. A referee was then appointed to time the carrying out of this novel bet, and the proceedings began. For some time, Tom contrived to hold George's hottest balls with apparent ease, while the witnesses improved their batting abilities. Strange to say, however, Tom, at the end of 25 minutes, began to show signs of weakening, and presently called time. Harry had won the bet. Tom then protested that he was sure he could win the wager some other time, and as before offered to bet on the results. Fourth with, real brothers took him up, and it was agreed that on the following day the test should be repeated. In a word, Tom, by a variety of devices, succeeded in getting his men an opportunity of studying and solving George's curves three or four times each week. Nor was he satisfied once they had caught the knack of hitting Keenan. He went further. He insisted on their batting, so as to send it toward third base. He had a good reason for this, as the issue will show. Thus, giving himself to study and to play with equals zest, in their losing sight of the sacred Christmas that was approaching, the month passed quickly and pleasantly for Tom, and almost before he could realize it, the day for the great baseball match was at hand. CHAPTER XXIII. In which the knickerbockers play the red clippers. The high mast on All Saints Day had just ended. In one corner of the small yard, a lot of boys had gathered together, and were indulging in a hearty laugh. Oh, Jupiter, Pitch exclaimed, won't we do them up? They're pretty cool for little fellows, remarked Harry Jones, the field captain of the red clippers. He was holding in his hand a note. What's the fun? asked George Keenan, who had arrived late on the scene. The best joke of the season, George, said Conway. Go on, read it to him, Henry. Listen to this, said Henry with a smile. ST. MARS COLLEGE. November 1st, 18. Mr. Henry Jones, dear sir, we, the knickerbocker club of ST. MARS COLLEGE, do hereby challenge the red clippers to a game of baseball to be played on the afternoon of All Saints Day. Respectfully, Thomas Playfair, captain and catcher. Henry Quip, pitcher. Joseph White, first base. William Rothers, second base. James Audine, shortstop. Henry Conley, third base. Henry Underwood, right field. Frank McRoy, center field. Lorenz Leary, left field. But George did not laugh. Those fellows, he said gravely, may be little, but there are no slouches. As for ourselves, we have not played a game the last three weeks. And some of you fellows need practice badly. Up a shot, said Pitch. We need no practice for them. I batted it against Quip's pitching last year, and I can knock him all over. Despite George's doubts, the red clippers decided to play their opponents without preparation. Soon after dinner, accordingly, all the small boys hurried from the yard to the baseball field beyond the blue grass, where they were presently swelled in number by the arrival of the senior students, who having heard of Tom as an exorcist and known him as Captain of the Snowfort, were anxious to study his methods in the national game. At five minutes to two, Henry Jones sent a five cent piece spinning in the air. Heads, said Tom. Heads it was, and the Captain of the Knickerbockers chose to play the outs. Time, play, balled the empire, as George Keenan stepped up to the bat. The ball that came from Harry's hands seemed to be a new great hurry. It fairly crossed the plate, but was too high. One ball. They came another ball, swift and low. Two balls. The third ball was tempting, and just where George wanted it. But it was one of those deceitfully slow balls, and almost sailed over the plate some little time after George struck at it. The batsman had lunged vigorously, and as the resistance of the air was mild, he whirled around and was within an ace of losing his balance. Before he could recover himself, another ball shot by, straight and swift. Two strikes, cried the empire. The crowd laughed. George tried to look easy, and Tom stepped up behind the bat. George struck at the next ball, but he was too slow, and walked away wearing the hollow mask of a smile, while the crowd, always in favor of the smaller boy, applauded lustily. Nothing next came to the bat, only to go out on a fowl, captured on the run by Henry Connelly. Pitch followed with an easy bounder to the pitcher, and amid lifting of voices and casting of caps, the red clippers took the field. Harry opened the innings for his side by popping up an easy fly back of the pitcher, and before reaching first base, changed his mind and went for a drink of water. Tom now advanced to the bat, and after two strikes, knocked a sharp grounder to pitch. He was covering short. As the ball went through Pitch's legs, Tom ran to second. Then arose a shout of triumph from the crowd, as Joe White drove a low-liner straight over third, earning second for himself and bringing in Tom. Willie Reathers gave variety to this stage of the game by striking out. Outline followed with a high fly toward short. Pitch and Connelly, who played third, both ran forward, a collision followed, and ball, third base, but in short stop, rolled in three several directions. You, idiot! Why did you do that for? Pitch blurted. Who? Me? Connelly, as he picked himself up and began rubbing his head. Yes, you! Oh! I thought you were talking to the ball. I couldn't help it. I wouldn't strike against your head for a fortune, if I could help myself. Taking advantage of this altercation, Joe, who was still in third, ran home. The next batter, Harry Underwood, knocked a vicious grinder between first and second, but John Donnell was there and threw him out with ease. My baseball readers must have already perceived Thomas Motive in training his men to turn on the ball. The weak points of the red clippers were third and short. In the second inning, after a three-bagger by Donnell, Connelly made a clean hit and sent John home. Presently, Connelly saw a good chance to steal second. The baseman was playing far off his bag. Just as soon then as the pitcher delivered his ball, Connelly made a bold dash for second and thereby fell into one of Tom's snares. The short stop of the knickerbockers was there, caught the ball from Tom and touched the runner out. In their half of the second inning, Tom's nine covered themselves with honors, and their opponents, especially Pitch and Connelly, with errors. The third and fourth innings brought two runs on each side. In the fifth, Pitch, who had lost his head, but several slow grounders passed him. While Connelly dropped a fly and left two thrown balls, errors, which coupled with two base hits, yielded the knickerbockers four runs. In the sixth inning, consequently, these two worthy were ordered to take positions in the outfield. If that's the way you treat a fellow, I won't play, growled Pitch, putting on his coat, and I went plaster on my head, Eddie Connelly, putting on his. Let's not play any more today, said Donnell at this juncture. We were done up, and we might as well give in gracefully before we begin fighting among ourselves. The suggestion was good. The red clippers beaten in the field, outwitted at the bat, and jeered up by the crowd, were indeed in no condition to continue. Jones perceived this, and wisely concluded to follow Donnell's advice. Thereupon he held a short whispered consultation with Tom apart, and turning to the score, called for the score. Knickerbockers seven, red clippers three, were the score. Tomaltuous applause from a sympathetic audience, handsprings and handshakes from the victorious players. Play fair, said Ryan, the captain of the senior club of the college. I've been here four years, and honestly, I've never seen a club better trained than yours. You little fellows deserve to win that game. You win about it so neatly. Ryan's words voiced the general opinion. Tom's training had indeed been successful. On one occasion during the game, the umpire called Will Brothers out at second, when he was manifestly safe. But not by the least word or look did brothers or any one of his sides show dissatisfaction. So it was during the entire contest. While Jones and Pitch and Conway made it disagreeable for the umpire by constant quibbling and growling, the Knickerbockers, to a man, cheerfully accepted his every rolling. This is but one point of their training, but it is a point which I enlarge upon for the simple reason that so few college teams set any importance upon it, and yet this point, if attended to, makes baseball training school for one result of command, and gives the game a dignity while befitting a nation's choice. End of CHAPTER XXXIV Tom's improvement was not limited to baseball. In class and out, he advanced steadily. Nothing perhaps has to help to make his choice of friends. For among all the boys of the small yard, he has selected as his chums Harry Quip, Willy Brothers, Joe White, and James Aldine. Harry Quip, mischief loving, though he was, had a great amount of practical, common-sense piety. No one enjoyed a joke or a laugh more hardly than he, but he knew where to draw the line. He was easy of disposition. In fact, a superficial knowledge of him might bring one to think he was easily led. In regard to indifferent matters, this was quite true. Harry would rather yield than quarrel. But when it came to our choice between right and wrong, he was firm as a rock. One instance will give an idea of Harry's method on such occasions. During the preceding vacation, he was thrown in with the boys of his neighborhood. Shortly after his return from St. Mars, he was conversing with some of them, when one began narrating what he considered a very good story indeed. Harry saw the drift of it. I say, boys, he interrupted. There is getting too strong for me around here. I guess I'll take a walk. To his gratification, three of the little lads mustered up courage to leave with him. The joke was left unfinished, and whenever Harry Quip joined the boys, the conversation was entirely proper. Indeed, before vacation had ended, the ethical standard of his companions had risen by many degrees. Willie Rothers and Joe White were bright, pleasant little lads, reflecting the virtues of their heroes, Harry and Tom. James Adyne was something more than an ordinarily pious boy. The younger students at St. Mars College actually revered him and called him the saint. He was remarkable for gentleness, but his gentleness was made of stronger stuff than the term usually implies. His meek little ways brought wonders upon Tom and Harry. They seemed unconsciously to catch his gentleness and soon joined with him in little divisions that touched and refined their lives into spiritual beauty. Tom was often overawed by Jimmy's piety. Say, Harry, he remarked one day, that Jimmy Adyne's got more praying and piety in his little fingers than you and I have in our prayer books and whole bodies put together. Did you notice him last Sunday after Holy Communion? His face was as bright as anything, and I watched him till he looked like a saint in the picture. And I expected every minute that a pretty gold crown would shine around his head and appear as bangled wings or crap from his shoulders, and he'd go off sailing up to heaven, leaving you and me to fight it out, and even then find it hard to behave half decently. Evidently, Tom had an imagination. Had he been older, he would have put his idea into verse and published it. One of the first friendly secrets that Tom imparted to James Adyne was the story of his deferred First Communion. James took as much interest in Tom's preparation as Tom himself, and on recreation days when they walked out together over the lonely prairies, he would speak so lovingly of our Savior in the blessed sacrament that his companion, like his disciples on the road to Emmaus, felt his heart burning within him. On November the eighth two things came to pass, both bearing closely upon their fates and fortunes of our five little lads. On that morning a cheering fire lighted up the windows of Mr. John Adyne's home on the outskirts of the village of Merlin. Within, a pleasant featured woman was busily setting the tea table. Beside the fire, a child, who had just emerged from babyhood, was critically and dispassionately examining into the merits of a picture book. A brisk step was heard without. The door opened, and a man entered. Papa! Papa! Clapping his little hands with glee and running towards the newcomer. Well, little Towsel, said Mr. Adyne, raising the child in his arms and kissing him. And how are you, Kate? He continued affectionately, greeting his wife. We must be happy tonight. I have succeeded well today in my law matters, and best of all I have a letter from James. Hurrah! cried Towsel, dancing upon his papa's legs, to the no small inconvenience of that gentleman. He was trying to divest himself of his great coat. Letter from Demi! How's brother Demi? Tell Towsel all about it, Papa! Mrs. Adyne, though not so demonstrative as Towsel, was no less anxious to hear the contents of the letter. Sit down, my dear, by the fire, she said, and when you feel perfectly cozy, let us all together hear what our darling has written. Mr. Adyne observed, never opened the letters from his boy, but with his wife beside him. It was a delicate attention, and a very small thing it may be, but take the small things out of life, and we have little left but murders and bank robberies. Well, here goes, said Mr. Adyne, as he opened the envelope and spread out the letter. St. Maris College, No. 4. Mr. and Mrs. John Adyne, my dear parents. I knock at the door, so sharp, so vicious, as to cause Mrs. Adyne to start violently. And Towsel, to jump with gray alacrity from his father's knee, here interrupted the reading. Come in, said Mr. Adyne. Towsel took refuge behind his mother's skirts, as a short, dark, ill-featured man with bristling black whiskers entered the room. For a moment, Mr. Adyne gazed at the stranger in some perplexity. It's Mr. Hartnett who has called several times in your absence to inquire for James, whispered Mrs. Adyne. Oh! Pardon me, Mr. Hartnett. cried Mr. Adyne, advancing and shaking his visitor's hand. I ought to know your face by this time. Sit down. Well! Mr. Hartnett made answer as he teased himself. I can't blame you for not knowing me, for although I have called on you several times, I have always missed you. I thank you, sir, for your goodness, cried Mr. Adyne, and especially for the interest which I understand you've taken my boy. Won't you take tea with us? asked the wife. Thanks, with pleasure. It's chilly outside, and a cup of tea isn't such a bad thing in this weather. By the way, have you heard from the boy lately? You can't imagine what an interest I've taken him. I met him once or twice, and am convinced that he'll in day make his mark. We have just received a letter from him, said Mr. Adyne, highly pleased, as what father would not be, at these praises of his boy, and perhaps if I read a little of it to you, you may not take it amiss. My dear sir, said Hartnett, with much warmth, you are too good. I shall be delighted. Towsel, you little rug, he said to the child, come here and look at my pretty watch. But Towsel, who had thus far persistently clung to his mother's skirts, was not to be tempted for behind his entrenchments. With great round eyes, staring severely at Mr. Hartnett, he neither spoke nor moved. It is said that little children have an instinctive knowledge of good and bad people. Whether this be true or not, it is certain that Towsel had decided to use relative to Mr. Hartnett, and by no means favorable to that person. Here is the way the flutter runs, to Mr. Adyne. My dear parents, I am so glad to learn that you are well, and that your little Towsel is happy. Hurrah! cried Towsel in parentheses. I am very happy here, and like the boys very much. Most of them are very unkind, and only a few are mean. I like my prefects very much. My professor is just splendid. I think he can teach more in a week than most other teachers in a year. And now, my dear parents, I want to tell you something I have long kept secret. Hello out! What is this? said Mr. Adyne, knitting his brows and reading what followed to himself. He did not notice that Mr. Hartnett's face changed color, and that his right hand was quickly thrust into a side pocket and remained there. For a moment there was silence, an awful silence, had the little family but known the thoughts of their visitor. Why, this is strange, said Mr. Adyne at length. He says that he is the only witness of a crime which he had sworn never to confess. What crime? asked Hartnett. He doesn't say, but promises to tell me about it when I come to see him Christmas. Mr. Hartnett's hand returned from his pocket, and with the forced laugh he said, Oh, indeed! Perhaps a little bit more. Oh, indeed! Perhaps it'll turn out to be a regular romance. At the harsh marryment of the visitor, Mr. Adyne could not refrain from shuddering. Towsel hid himself entirely from you. Well, it's drawing on late, resumed Hartnett, hastily drinking his tea, and had better be going. Awkwardly enough he took his departure. Dear John, said Mrs. Adyne as the door closed upon him, I don't trust that man. Somehow I fear he means us no good. You think so? Said Mr. Adyne in surprise. I do indeed. He's a bad, bad man, said Towsel, stamping his foot. Well, I'll keep my eyes open. That's all I can do, said the strong nerve Towsel. Their suspicions would have been confirmed had they seen Hartnett standing a few yards from their door. His clenched hands raised an implication upon their happy home. About midnight, Hartnett issued from his hand and set off rapidly down the public road. He was never again seen in Merlin. At St. Morris on this same day, Tom was made the happiest boy at college, and that is saying a good deal by receiving from home a box containing among other things a rubber coat, a pair of ice king club skates, and a fine breech loading shotgun for hunting purposes. Luckily it was the only hunting party of which James Audine was a member. Under his French direction, Tom learned very fast. His eyes were good, his nerves were strong. To his great joy, he brought down a duck on his foreshot. Tramping through the woods and over the prairies, stealing cautiously up to game under cover of tree and bush and creeping along the margin of lake and river, the day passed quickly indeed. And Tom, in the moment, before retiring, he had arranged with Harry, Willie, James, and Joe to go on an all-day hunt that day a week. End of Chapter 24 Recording by Berea Therese.