CHAPTER VII.

WHO CHEATED?

DOC. SHELBY was seriously ill, and when John had returned, radiant from his successful examination, he found the lad alternating between hot fever and rigorous chills. With the alacrity of a hospitable fellow, John took his bed to pieces and moved it from its place in the rear room to the study. This apartment was barely large enough to accommodate the additional strain upon its resources. It measured exactly twelve feet six by twelve feet; but it was a drawing-room compared to his bedroom, which extended six feet nine inches to the north and six feet seven and a half inches east and west. John hurriedly put Shelby to bed and hastened for the nearest of the half-dozen village doctors. This disciple of Æsculapius proved to be a young man with a vigorous constitution, who pronounced Doc.'s indisposition "a cold induced by malaria and aggravated by exposure." He promptly prescribed quinine, three grains, three times a day, and rest for a few hours, and left.

Thus began the first day of Doc.'s life in St. John's Hospital. When he had recovered from his attack of fever both of the boys looked forward with a hope to a speedy release. John had brought over Doc.'s clothes and bedding and had installed himself in the second diminutive bedroom which until now had only been opened occasionally to inspect his half-empty horse-hair trunk.

The next day shone brightly. True, John had slept only a few hours. He had taken care of Doc. during all his spare time up to eight at night. The sick boy would hardly allow John to take up a book. John had studied till twelve. Then he crept into his cold bed. He was not ashamed to kneel down first and pray for Doc. Next morning he was up at six. Then came Uncle Jim's furnace, breakfast, a few minutes with Doc., prayers, and a recitation in geometry.

As he walked into class he saw that the boys regarded him with curious glances while some turned away with looks of disappointment and aversion. None spoke to him. He could not help noticing with wonder the marked change. When he entered, Selfrich whispered loud enough for all to hear:

"See, the conquering hero comes!"

The Senior class took their seats alphabetically. This was the morning when they were to be seated according to examination rank. John sat down quietly. He spoke to Lambkin The big fellow answered by stroking his side whiskers, the only pair in the class, and looking at John mournfully.

 

Let us step for a moment behind the scenes, before the Academy bell rings, and the curtain of events rolls up.

Selfrich had copied the difficult problem which John had so arduously worked out from the card he had "hooked." He had then watched his opportunity and had slipped it back again into John's book. This Selfrich pushed along the seat near enough to John to be concealed by the flaps of his overcoat as he was looking the other way.

After the examination was over, and Uncle Jim with a baleful smile had collected the papers from the saddened boys and had left, Selfrich broke out and said:

"You fellows know that I don't like that fellow Strong. It is because I always thought he was a hypocrite. Now you see if his examination isn't perfect. Why? The sly coon forgot his book and there it is, and I'll bet stews for the crowd that anyone can open to the very questions. I saw him open the book myself under his overcoat. Nobody could see him but me. I watched him like a cat. I haven't put the job up this time. The book speaks for itself."

Some of the boys cried:

"Oh! shut up, Selfrich; can't you leave Strong alone?" while many listened and almost believed. One fellow known by the nickname of "Sunshine" cheerfully said

"We'll be fair to the fellow. He's poor enough and needs it. I'll look at the book."

As he opened it the card fell out from a page on which another examination problem was printed. Sunshine scowled and said:

"If that Soup is such a hypocrite I for one will cut him dead. I'd just as lief he'd crib as not if he didn't set up to be so virtuous about it.''

How quickly in the unreasonable flurry of the minute, boys will change a righteous opinion based on facts!

Selfrich did not lose his advantage.

"You fellows remember," he said cunningly, "when the Depravity Professor's windows were whitewashed and the town hose was found in the street, and you," pointing to a laughing lad, "were almost fired? Well, who told? They say that Bow-legs found out and gave the whole job away to Uncle Jim."

The boys were profoundly impressed with this new view of Strong's character. They separated, talking in groups, and before night John was the most unpopular fellow in Phillips Academy. All the ignominious offenses of the term were quickly heaped upon his blemished reputation. It is thus that a contemptible cur can by his malignity influence scores of honest fellows to suspect the honor of an unsullied classmate.

 

A hush fell over the room. Uncle Jim stalked in with more than usual noise and solemnity. An ominous frown clouded his massive face. The two furrows above his eyes looked dark and deep. The boys. were on the qui vive. Something uncommon was coming. Selfrich winked from the class towards Strong as much as to say: "I told you so. He'll catch it at last."

The terrible disciplinarian waited for a few moments until the bell stopped ringing, and then casting a look around to see that all the places were filled, began with deep tones of disgust:

"This examination is the most astonishing exhibition of ignorance ever given in Phillips Academy. Gentlemen, your ears ought, to tingle when I tell you that only one member of the class has passed the ordeal with a perfect mark. Mr. Strong, stand up, sir, and take your seat at the head of the Senior class."

John arose with his usual modesty. As he did so, a hiss started along the seats. The Principal sternly checked it with a vigorous thump upon the desk.

"Let the gentlemen take their seats in the following order."

He read off a list of names with lightning rapidity. The boys took their seats as quickly as possible. Only one was left standing in this hubbub of readjustment. Selfrich looked appealingly at Uncle Jim, and with a visible falling off of his pertness and confidence said:

"Excuse me, sir, you omitted my name," then he added with a complacent smile, "am I conditioned?"

The Principal regarded him with a new expression which was as yet uncatalogued among those experienced by his pupils. One would have sworn it to be a look of respectful admiration, had not his pupils contracted and expanded in a way that boded no good to the hypocrite. Uncle Jim spoke in caressing tones.

"Mr. Selfrich, I have reserved a place for you. Gentlemen," turning to the class, "only two of you were able to solve the last problem correctly. Mr. Selfrich is one of these."

The scholars noticed a peculiar emphasis on Mister that made them stare.

"Mr. Selfrich," continued Uncle Jim. suavely, "take this piece of chalk and write out your remarkably original demonstration for the instruction of the class. Do you hear, sir? use that blackboard!"

Selfrich grew deadly pale. His hands shook. Mechanically he took the chalk and tottered up to the board. The class bent to watch the unique sight of Selfrich teaching them exact knowledge. Uncle Jim regarded him with a smile in which sarcasm and contempt struggled for the mastery. Selfrich began a diagram. His memory refused even the barest outlines of the one he so successfully stole. His arm, fell listlessly at his side. He stopped and breathed hard.

"Perhaps you have forgotten the theorem. Let me refresh your jaded memory." And the Principal repeated slowly and with urbanity the dreaded problem. By this time the boys began to suspect the game, although they did not understand its full significance.

Selfrich did not move. His back was to the class. He wriggled his legs and bent his head uneasily. His fingers scribbled aimlessly on the board.

"I have forgotten it, sir; I can't do it now."

The lad looked up with his old "cheek," determined to brazen it out. He started to sit down.

"Hold!" thundered the Principal, "that is impossible. No one can originate such a demonstration and forget it in twenty-four hours." Then with seeming kindness, "You are confused, sir; try again."

The unhappy culprit did not stir. His eyes glanced from blackboard to Principal. The chalk fell from his nerveless fingers and clicked upon the bare floor. He moved again towards a seat. He could not imagine what was coming. He cast a venomous glance of hatred at John Strong, and then looked to the floor.

"Stop, sir!" said the Principal, with such force and distinctness that it sounded to Selfrich's confused mind like a pistol shot. "Stand where you are, sir, for the present. Strong!" continued Dr. Tyler, turning towards John with a milder expression, "go to the blackboard and demonstrate to the class, this theorem. You were the only other scholar who solved it correctly."

John started, blushing for very shyness at being made so prominent. He was almost ashamed of himself that he had worked it out. He feared that perhaps he might fail at the last moment.

"Yes, sir, I'll try."

The boy walked with tolerable erectness toward the board. At first his diagram grew slowly, then recovering his composure he drew the figure with rapidity and precision. When he had finished, Uncle Jim said curtly:

"Now demonstrate, sir!"

That Senior class will never forget with what wonderful rapidity John demonstrated his original problem. Not a boy could follow its intricacy. But when he ended triumphantly that A B C = X Y Z and that therefore --- . . etc.---Q. E. D., a murmur of admiration arose from the boys, and a few feet stamped their unqualified approval.

John turned to go to his seat. His face was flushed with the elation of this achievement. He was only a few feet from Selfrich, and the class had full opportunity to note the nobility and the modesty of the one, the vulgarity and self-conceit of the other.

"Remain where you are, sir," said Uncle Jim to John. The class started. The Principal now arose slowly from his seat behind his desk. Walking to one side he faced the two boys diagonally, and the class at the same time. Each lad watched his face breathlessly. The stillness might have been that of a funeral. Uncle Jim regarded the two before him and then said, turning to the class:

"Gentlemen, the two students before you not only wrote the theorem correctly in their papers yesterday, but demonstrated it in the same way by the very same letters and figures. One demonstration might have been a photograph of the other."

"He looked in his book ! " muttered Selfrich. The Principal caught the words and turned on the unfortunate lad like a tiger.

"You lie, sir! Let me not hear another syllable from you. I will tell you the facts. When I saw Strong bringing his book in I watched it. I noticed the card between the leaves. I saw you," pointing with withering scorn his talon-like fingers at Selfrich, "take the card from the book. I saw you copy it. I saw you put the card back. 1 saw you put the book under Strong's elbow. I know that you accused that honorable gentleman behind his back, and before your classmates, of cheating. Sir!" Dr. Tyler towered above Selfrich who now almost fell beneath his scorching eyes, "sir, apologize to your superior!"

Every heart in that room bounded. Boys in other classrooms heard that roar and bent more diligently to their work. Selfrich did not move. He bent lower. His forehead, cheeks, ears and neck paled.

"I command you to apologize! " rang out the imperious voice again.

"Don't, please, sir, don't."

John Strong had touched Uncle Jim's arm. But he might as well have tried to stop the Corliss engine in its revolution.

Selfrich's voice now quavered a few undistinguishable mutterings in which the word "sorry" was heard.

"Now turn and apologize to the class!"

Selfrich did not budge. The unhappy lad shot a despairing look from the picture of the ruined Coliseum to the tortured group above the door, marked "Laocoonte." With a spin Uncle Jim turned him about face. Selfrich suffered horribly. His jaws emitted a few words and then fell.

"Now, sir," continued the inexorable voice, "I have watched you long enough. You are a blot upon Phillips Academy. I have telegraphed to your father."

At that moment a knock was heard at the door.

"Here he is," continued Uncle Jim.

The dramatic tension was at its height. John Strong opened the door. There walked in a tall man with a face of such refinement and sadness that the boys heaved a sigh of pity and of sympathy.

With high-bred courtesy the gentleman bowed to Uncle Jim. The Principal returned the salutation with the fine indifference of a Diogenes.

"I am sorry that my son has disgraced his honorable name," said the father distinctly to the Principal. "Come, my son."

What heart could resist such an appeal? Selfrich burst into tears, and sobbing like a baby, the broken-hearted boy followed his broken-hearted father out. Phillips Academy knew him no more.

Of course his classmates did the handsome thing by John. Uncle Jim was just in his own estimation. The class meant to be. But John, greatly moved, evaded the boys, and hurried back to his room and to his sick friend.

 

CHAPTER VIII.

A WINTER SPREE.

IT was a day or two after the dramatic expulsion of Selfrich. John was walking down to the evening mail. Doc. Shelby was not jealous of these half hour tramps down the long hill to the brick post-office and back, after supper. The sick lad was always expecting the letter that did not come. As for John, he received but one letter a week; that came from his mother in Conacoot. He had not been down for several days, and this was the day that the letter was due.

John walked briskly for a lame boy. The cold, clear air exhilarated him. Andover sidewalks being systematically, and with good reasons, avoided by her citizens at the season when they are most needed, John walked down the hill in the middle of the street. The hardened snow cracked under his step. It was the evening moon, and sleighs rang their rapid way past him, some polluting the purity of the night with an odor of bad tobacco, while now and then a sleighing party diffused in its wake the delicate scent of rose or mignonette. This gave John an indescribable longing. He did not fret because he was not rich, but he would have liked to be able to take a gay rids once in a while. And somehow, when he looked up at these seal-skinned ladies, enveloped in warm robes---ladies whose brilliant eyes stared pityingly perhaps upon the awkward, scantily-dressed plodder, John's thoughts involuntarily reverted to the snowdrift scene, to Selfrich laughing at Doc.'s shivering discomfiture; then they rested upon the gracious girl who handed him her cape, and whose presence seemed to the single-hearted lad like a delicate perfume. For the sake of the sister John's heart began to warm towards his fallen enemy.

It did not take long, but a little longer than it would have taken the other boys, for John to reach the post-office. He, found his letter as he had expected---do not mother's letters always come when they are expected ? --- and, being still fresh, he started down toward and past the town library. He was thinking in that lazy, hazy way which we call a day-dream, when he was awakened by the jingling of bells, the hollow rattle of hoofs upon the packed snow, the sliding of runners and a sudden "Whoa, there --- sst!" The sleigh stopped a little beyond him. It was a large one. It had three seats, and six Seniors occupied them. John had not overheard the brief discussion aroused in the sleigh by the sight of him.

"Look ahead! There's Strong! See him limp! Yes, it's Strong."

"He'll tell of us, sure pop!"

"No, he won't." Sunshine said this. "He isn't that mean, I know."

"Let's take him with us so he can't," suggested one of the fellows. "What fun to take him along!"

"He won't come," answered the first voice. "I know him. Let's tell him we're out for a short ride, and have got permission. That'll fetch him, I'll bet."

It was too late to plot further.

"Halloo, Strong! Is that you? Jump in, and take a ride!" The call came cheerily. John limped along and overtook the crowd. The sky was cloudless. The moon was so bright that she seemed to be conscious of it and proud of it. Here and there a star was seen, clear-cut and blushing like a girl watched through an opera-glass. The atmosphere was crystal. It was an evening in a thousand. The impatient horses pawed the snow and tossed their heads with an aristocratic gesture, as if they had never seen the stalls of a livery stable. The sleigh-bells tinkled merrily.

John flushed at the courteous invitation. He was not one of the kind of boys who receive such attentions from classmates. The novelty touched him. It made his heart beat fast. But, as he looked again at the party, he noticed that the two boys on the front seat were Selfrich's most intimate friends

He felt a recoil at this discovery. Then, it was not his crowd. These were the rich, the careless, one might say the "fast" fellows. Why should they ask him? John heaved a sigh of disappointment.

"I'm sorry, but I must go back soon."

"But we'll take you back. You're not afraid of us?" John stood irresolute. Where was the harm? Surely none.

"It sha'n't cost you a cent," said another fellow, with a perceptible sneer. This stung the -poor boy bitterly.

"Oh! come along. I'll see that you get home all right." Sunshine spoke carelessly, yet with a shade of real kindliness in his voice. He was the most respectable boy in the sleigh. John was almost persuaded.

"We've got permission from Uncle Jim. We'll be back by the first study bell."

The party in the sleigh preserved an uncomfortable silence at this audacious lie from the front seat. The horses began to be restless in the cutting cold. John took a step toward the sleigh. Evidently the boys wanted him to go. He wondered why. How could John suspect them? And of what? He slowly climbed into the back seat beside Sunshine; and the party, with a cautious look in all directions, that to a trained observer would have indicated a minus quantity of official permission, started ahead, down the hill, over the railroad bridge, on the road to the city of Lawrence.

John yielded to the fascination of his position. It was the first sleigh-ride he had taken that year. The road was in rare condition, and the horses went at a rattling pace. At first, John sat silently. He was drinking in vigor and life. He seemed entranced. John was thoroughly happy. He forgot his poverty, his lameness, his struggles, everything in the physical exuberance of the moment. It does not take much to confer happiness upon a poor boy. A ride will often give more lasting enjoyment than a five dollar bill; an invitation to join a home circle is a pleasanter memory than a cast-off coat. But suddenly John roused himself with a start. His eyes that had been open without perceiving, now saw. The moon was higher on his right. They had not turned. They were going away from Andover. It must have been nearly halfpast seven. John began to grow very uncomfortable. As yet, he suspected no deceit. He thought that the boys were very careless. Yet he could not blame them much-the night was! so fine. He was about to speak, when a puff of smoke from a cigarette blew into his face and almost choked him. One can hardly expect a fastidious fellow to be otherwise than nauseated with the vile breath of a cigarette. There is no more disagreeable polluter of God's pure air than this sickly combination of stale tobacco and medicated paper. As John turned his face to breathe, he heard a whisper from the front seat.

The words cannot be repeated upon these pages. John caught them imperfectly and confusedly. He was as innocent as any well-brought-up boy should be. This clean lad simply did not understand what he overheard, but it set him to thinking; and thought stimulated distrust of his companions. Perhaps these fellows were going to make a call or so, and their game was to take him along, too. That they were not going to turn back soon, did not occur to him. "Very probably," he thought, "they are taking me a long way round to fool me." He was just going, to speak for the second time, when the driver said distinctly to his companion:

"Say, I'm not going to treat to-night. Some other chap's got to. You'd better go it easy this time. You lose your head too quick." The sleigh was speeding now on the South Lawrence road. John felt that it was time to say something.

"Look here; fellows! Aren't you ready to turn around? It's later than you think."

"That's all right, Strong," said one, in as-reassuring tone as he could muster. "We'll turn around soon."

John relapsed into silence again, and occupied himself in evading the noxious smoke that would blow in his face. He was now thoroughly unhappy. How would Doc. Shelby stand this long neglect? Besides, Uncle Jim's furnace must be attended to. John's routine was to shake the furnace down before supper, put on the coal and shut it up at nine o'clock.

The horses were now urged to their topmost speed. Every minute bore the sleigh a fifth of a mile further from Latin Commons. Every minute added to John's desperation. Yet he was too modest to insist. He was still too trustful to suspect the crowd of concerted and outrageous lying.

"I guess we're safe to-night," hazarded one with an exultant laugh. Sunshine had not as yet said a word. He smoked a good cigar, and John mentally thanked him for that slight consideration. Pretty soon the first two seats broke into a song. A feeling of liberty which may be catalogued by the word license swept like a tide over them. The thousand eyes of Lawrence now blinked before the party. ,We won't go home till morning!" sank the boys with spiteful gusto. John waited until the mutilation of this good old song had been accomplished, and then firmly asked:

"How soon are you fellows going to turn back?"

"We won't go home till morning!" came the mocking answer.

"I will know when you are going to turn back." John spoke at white heat. Their game had lasted too long for him.

"You will, will you?" The front seat now threw off its mask. "We're not going back until we're ready. What'll you take when we get to Lawrence?"

"One beer," answered another, with a jeer.

Now, at last, John Strong saw the trap into which he had so easily stepped.

"Whip up the steeds! We've got him this time!" yelled the second seat exultingly.

They had now come to the outskirts of South Lawrence. John was speechless for a moment with rage and mortification. He had heard vague rumors of Lawrence dissipations. Some of the boys in the sleigh had been pointed out to him as fast fellows. But how much did he know of what that meant? Almost as little, still, as he had in his mother's country home. How should he guess that these, his classmates, in the English department, were avenging themselves on him for the expulsion of Selfrich? How should he know that this sleigh was bound for a black spree? Surely, it was only a madcap lark? How could it be anything worse?

"You stop this sleigh!" It seemed to John that his body would burst to pieces with indignation.

His chin quivered. His hands were clinched, and cold shiverings chased each other up and down his spinal cord. Was it coming to a fight--- or what?

"Not a bit of it. Hold him, fellows!"

This was too much for John. He arose from his seat; but his companion pulled him back. It was evident that the crisis of that sleigh-ride had come.

There may be some readers who will criticise this scene as being exaggerated beyond the possibility of fact. But none will do so who are intimate with the life of a great fitting school. There the instinctive uprightness of one boy will arouse the combatativeness of another, and the looseness of a few, the scorn of the majority. There hundreds of homes furnish hundreds of characters. Such an incident as we are recording is no peculiarity of Andover, which holds herself high in the moral scale of important schools.

John Strong was for the first and only time in his Andover career, brought face to face with the grosser features in that element that goes to make up the dark statistics of class history. Remove the restraint of home obedience, and it takes good training and good manliness, especially when one's parents are rich, not to give in to the temptation of dressing loudly, swaggering ridiculously, running up questionable bills recklessly, and of imitating in speech and manners the vices of men. There is no more contemptible sight than a boy aping the dissipations of a society club-man. These brilliantly-plumaged birds are found in every class, in every large fitting school and college. These were the madcaps of the Senior class, these boys in the sleigh. Andover was not proud of them. Had Uncle Jim only caught them on the road, the last moon had risen for them in that pure village.

But John's fight was not a moral one. What had he to do with them? He wanted to get home, finish his work, nurse Doc:, study his lessons, and go to bed. He was not tempted by a Lawrence spree. What was the fun in skulking to besmirch one's life? These boys did not realize his position. It was a careless frolic for them, but they had found their match in their new classmate.

"I insist," blazed John, "you shall let me out! It is my right. I insist upon my right."

"Right?" sneered the driver from the front seat; but he checked his horses to a slower gait. "What rights have you here? You don't pay for this team!"

"At least," answered John, firmly and plainly ---this was his last resort --- "I have the right to report this sleigh-ride. I have never done such a thing, but I might if you forced me to it." His tone took on a resolute sternness. The boys had gone too far, and they knew it. The two front seats whispered together. The horses were now walking. John arose again.

"Look here, Strong," came the reluctant suggestion, "if you will keep mum, we'll put you down at the South Lawrence Station. There'll be a train down at nine or so. Pete will take you up to your room. Tell him to hang it up on me."

The sleigh was only a little distance from the station. The clocks now struck eight sober strokes from the towers in the city. But John had made up his mind not to go another step with a crowd he could neither respect nor trust. He answered authoritatively:

"You either turn right back home, or stop this sleigh immediately. I will get out here and walk back."

"But you can't walk!" sneered one of the fellows.

"Stop this sleigh ---or"--- The sleigh stopped. Sunshine helped the lame boy out.

John stood still on the frozen snow, facing the uncomfortable crowd. His features were blanched with emotion and gleaming in the white moonlight. The other fellows wondered dully what it was he looked like, but Sunshine thought of Sir Galahad at the court of the great king.

"Look here, Strong, you won't peach, will you? The train will take you back all right." So said one of Selfrich's cronies. It did not occur to the "well-off" boy that John had not in his pocket ten cents with which to pay the railroad fare to Andover.

"No," answered John proudly; no, I don't tell tales; but I wish you fellows would go back. I don't think you'd be sorry."

But this jarred on the wrong nerve. A fancied manhood was at stake. Only. "softies" give up.

"Whoop her up!" cried the driver impatiently. John turned and set his face toward home. How could he, who had never walked more than two miles, walk those slippery four?

The boys could not help looking after him, try as hard as they might. As he limped away, slowly, putting a widening line of light and snow between himself and them, he had a strange look. If the fellows had been reading boys, they would have thought of the boy-angel in Charles Lamb's beautiful story, "who goeth lame and lovely."

Now to Sunshine this scene meant something more than it did to his companions. To him there had come the rapid fire of a new conflict. He was not fast---only too fond of fun. This was his first spree of the kind. John's stand was a revelation of will to him. He wished that he had been as firm himself. He was thoroughly ashamed of his companions---he was manly enough for that---but like most boys, he was too cowardly to stand up for the unpopular. He had not come to the aid of his lame classmate. He did not abuse him, but he had kept silent. But now an opportunity urged him. His chivalry could not allow John to go home alone. How the fellow looked in the moonlight, limping off, solitary and sad! What was to be done? The horses dashed ahead. To wait, was to lose the chance. With a great leap, the athlete bounded from the sleigh to the frozen ground. He slipped and fell; but jumped lightly to his feet again. He was not hurt, only bruised a little. John hurried back to him. The sleigh stopped.

"What's the matter, Sunshine? Aren't you---?"

"I'm going home with Strong," interrupted Sunshine brusquely.

"But we got up the party for you. We're going to show you the sights to-night."

The driver spoke moodily, with a coarse allusion, and an oath. Sunshine's answer came back now manfully enough:

"I've seen enough for one night. I won't go. I'll never go with you. You can go alone. Come along, Strong!. We'll go back."

The two turned their backs abruptly upon the party, and struck directly homeward. The sleigh started, stopped. A few jeers and taunts were hurled out in a bravado tone. Then the sleigh dashed ahead --- who knew where?

"But you needn't have done it for me, Sunshine," said John, after the jingle had died away.

"Look here, old fellow, don't say another word! I did it for myself."

The two boys walked as briskly as John could for a short distance. Neither spoke. They passed a lighted house with a barn behind it. An old man was going to the barn with a pail of something.

"I don't think I can walk all the way home. What shall we do?" asked John sadly.

"You just stay here a minute," answered Sunshine, "I've got an idea and plenty of cash in my pocket. I'll get the old man here to hitch up and take us back. He'll be glad to make a couple of dollars, and we'll get back by nine."

It was said and done. The old gentleman had an old horse and an old carry-all on runners, and Sunshine had some new bills. The boys clambered into the carry-all, and sat silently. Both were busy with their own thoughts. John hoped to get back in time for Uncle Jim's furnace and to save Doc. a bad night; Sunshine knew that he would be laughed at next day. But he could stand that; he was popular. He was glad that it was as it was.

As the horse groaned up the beginning of the long hill from Frye Village, a thundering sound was heard behind. The old man's team turned timidly to one side, and the two boys crouched deep in the back seat out of sight, as a familiar sleigh with five boys and two dashing horses rattled past. Was it conscience, or ample, that drove this reckless crowd back, so soon?

"Perhaps they'll take ye the rest of the way," suggested the weary old man, not relishing a longer ride with his stupid party.

"No, they won't. You can't catch them," said Sunshine. "You take us to the top of Andover Hill as I bargained, and I'll pay."

The driver grumbled into acquiescing silence and revenged himself by coughing and muttering and walking his horse all the rest of the way.

When they got out opposite the brick Academy, at the meeting of the two streets, it was not yet nine o'clock. After the old man and his vehicle had creaked away towards Lawrence, Sunshine drew near John to say good-night.

"John Strong," he said with evident emotion, "you're as innocent as a girl. Do you know what you got me out of? If you don't, I won't tell you. Good-night. You're a good fellow, and I'll say so to anybody. Good-night."

 

CHAPTER IX.

THE LEVEE.

THE air in the Senior class had been considerably purified by the summary dismissal of Selfrich. John Strong had become prominent and popular, as much for his manly modesty as for his ability. This was especially true among the Middle class men, when they found out that Shelby was being nursed by a Senior, and that the Senior was having a hard time of it. John Strong was really ignorant of the extent to which he was discussed. He was too busy to think of himself. Had it not been for Father Lambkin he would have given out. To keep his rank, nurse Doc., and earn his living, was almost too much for the lame Senior. Yet he stood to his duty uncomplainingly.

The long winter term, as every one knows, determines the final rank of the graduating class. The stand one loses in this term can never be made up in the spring. What with his first-division Latin, and his Iliad, his Greek and Latin composition ---which every Senior who is not a genius or a fool dreads more than he would a letter home from Uncle Jim---what with geometry and "trig.," physics, essays and elocution, term examinations and reviews, life was a rub to John. It is a high excellence of Phillips that it makes its students work whether they will or no. Lambkin fairly dragged Strong by force to the gymnasium once a day and made him pitch. This was his only rest and amusement. And John put his whole soul into this exercise, realizing that upon it depended his least of courage as well as of strength.

It became quite a sight in the old Gym. to see John play ball. The awkwardness attendant upon his necessary lameness, due to the shortness of his left leg, was overlooked by the spectators and often forgotten by John himself. Many of the movements that at first had given him excruciating pain soon became bearable and finally exhilarating.

There he stood at the upper end of the long alley; Lambkin faced him below. The cobwebbed, grated windows shed a cold gleam upon John's flushed face and his sparkling eyes, which at those times lighted with more than ordinary intentness and enthusiasm. There he stood in his gray flannel shirt manfully suppressing any signs of those painful twitches that darted through his body as he played. There he pitched, feeling that with every agony a cord was broken that bound him to the physical inertness he had endured since memory recorded a bedridden childhood. This exercise seemed the peculiar remedy adapted to his case, and the brave boy was literally battling for the vigor of life against what doctors had pronounced a hopeless spine. Which one of you boys, who jumps and runs without a thought, can understand this desperate struggle to overcome a desperate disease and to attain the spring of life? While most of the fellows thought John only pitched to pitch, Lambkin understood that it was a duel between the base-ball and the crutch. The skill developed came as a cheery attendant upon this heroic treatment, and an astonishing in-curve that made the boys whistle, meant to John the resurrection of so much dead tissue into natural activity. This was not athletics for fun or fame. It was the battle for health.

 

One thing puzzled John considerably after Selfrich went It was the young lady's cape. There it lay in his room, done up in brown paper with a string. The very knot of the string and the color of the wrapper seemed to reproach him. The thermometer was, as usual, below, and naturally the owner might want her furs. The very fact of her being Selfrich's sister made it doubtful whether it were proper for him to call. His difficulty was solved in this wise.

Three days after she had given it to him, he had plucked up his courage, had taken the bundle and had trudged along down School Street to the enchanted grounds. He paused before the fence that protected from the masculine world the sacred inclosure of Abbot Female Seminary, - better known to all Andover as the "Fem. Sem." Being somewhat puzzled which of the four buildings to choose, he naturally took to the nearest, a small brown cottage. The bolts of paradise were shot, and the door opened, perhaps, an inch and a quarter. The person on the other side was no angel, but a servant who had come from the West and had been at the institution only long enough to get into the spirit of the place.

"Is Miss Selfrich in?" stammered John, perspiring profusely. This modern Miss Peter yielded him not a hair's breadth of the door. She regarded him critically with one large disdainful eye and ejaculated: "Be you a minister ?"

"Be you a missionary?"

"N-no."

"Be you a theologue?"

"N-n-no."

"Well! Be you anything to her?"

"N-n-n-no!" with a mournful shake of the head.

"Then you can't see her;" and the door was slammed in his despairing face.

The question was what to do next. He didn't like to mention his failure to Lambkin. He thought seriously of applying to Uncle Jim for advice, but feared he knew not what. Doc. was too sick to be consulted. Some Gordian knots are cut by war, some by peace, some by marriage and some by death. This one was shattered by a dog.

John Calvin was no ordinary dog. Leaving out of the question the necessary education that must accrue from attendance upon a variety of dog-matic lecture courses, he had a large bump of intelligence and responsibility peculiarly his own. John Calvin, like some poets, was born great; and circumstance thrust additional notoriety upon him. He had a number of tricks which he was altogether too ready to perform.

Now the time had come for John Calvin to distinguish himself in Andover. His method of doing so has made him historic in that town. Fully to explain the circumstance we should say that John Calvin was in the habit of taking upon his shoulders most of his master's social obligations. To call upon all of Mr. Mansfield's young lady friends Calvin considered the first of canine duties. In Roger's absence he paid visits of his own accord and alone, with painstaking and embarrassing regularity. Now this very social theologue, Mr. Mansfield, frequently called upon four or five different young ladies in the same evening. Calvin, being a great beau, always came in for his full share of the parlor conversations. The town recalls with amusement that during the last vacation Calvin began at the foot of the hill and worked up to the Professor's quarters without omitting one of his master's young lady acquaintances. He would make on the average eight calls a day, and he scratched and howled at the doors of Fem. Sems. and Professors alike until they were forced for very shame to let him in.

THE "FEM SEM."

While Strong was contemplating the bundle containing that fur cape, a scratching was heard at the door, accompanied by a short, sharp, impatient yelp. Doc.'s face brightened up. He was unutterably weary of lying there. He had begun to tire of the Samaritan Society, a committee of whose members had, in the most delicate and unobtrusive manner, paid him visits at the rate of one a day. Andover is a very charitable place, and her ladies do not neglect suffering students.. There is not, perhaps, a fitting-school to be found, where a sick boy will receive more attention from the townspeople.

Calvin bounced in with his usual exuberance. He hopped upon Doc.'s bed and licked his face and bespattered the clean sheets. John Strong dragged him down. At this Calvin gave him a reproachful look, but continued to lap Doc.'s hand as it hung over the side.

Then Calvin made a tour of inspection to see if everything were natural. When he came to the brown paper package he stopped and gave it an interrogative sniff. He walked away sedately, but soon returned and eyed it with suspicion. John Strong, who had greeted Calvin courteously, was studying with his back to the scene. Doc. watched the dog with absorbing interest. Pretty soon Calvin hunted up a ball and laid it first at John's feet to tempt him. John continued absorbed. Then the patient guest laid the ball upon John's lap, poking the book away with his wet nose. John put, the ball down and continued his work. Now Calvin felt abused and became impatient. Taking the ball in his mouth he bent down upon his fore haunches and growled and danced about in his most playfully enticing form.

John studied on.

Calvin laid down the ball. Cocking his ears up and with a sidewise winking motion of the head he walked around John, regarding him with interest. He lay down at the young man's feet for a moment, licked his boots without attracting attention, and then finally gave it up.

He now turned and looked for other game.

In an unlucky moment Calvin rediscovered the brown paper parcel. It did not take long to poke it with his nose from the chair on to the floor. At the fall Calvin stopped and looked at John for instructions. None came. The young man was still oblivious. John Calvin, thinking it all right, now tore the paper in shreds and when he came upon the fur his joy knew no bounds. With a sound like a snort, a gurgle and a bark combined, he threw the cape in the air, raised himself up on his hind legs and caught it in its downward career. Calvin played with the cape like a cat, making all the noises and motions that owners of a dog know well. He worried it, tossed it, dragged it, dropped it, and finally in his overflow of joy gave a resonant bark. Doc. could no longer control himself; he laughed as loudly as his weakness permitted. Then John Strong awoke from his study and surveyed the ruin.

"Come here, sir! Drop it! DROP IT!" he cried in horror. Calvin, obeying none but his master, and considering this an invitation to play tag which indeed had come better late than never, now entered into the spirit of the chase. He approached the lad and then whisked away with a bark of ecstasy. In vain John yelled; Calvin only dodged the quicker and held the tighter to his prize. The chase became exciting. Now the dog shot under the bed. Now he jumped over. Crash went a lamp; down came a book-case. The room rocked and the house reverberated.

"Shut up, down there!" yelled a student from above, vigorously stamping his feet upon the floor.

At last John had cornered the dog. He bent to grasp the precious cape, when Calvin with a growl and a spring cleared him, upsetting the youth with a mighty crash upon the floor. Calvin fairly danced with orthodox glee; bits of fur were seen frothing at his mouth. At the last fall the door opened impetuously. A visitor began speaking, but was cut short by Calvin's dashing out. The dog felled the young tutor at the door with his first bound and disappeared.

To dash on one's hat in order to follow the thief was the work of a moment. When John turned he observed a strange pallor on Doc.'s face. The excitement had proved too much for the sick boy. Doc. had fainted.

While John was restraining his impatience as best he could, and with the tutor's help was restoring the sick lad, Calvin was seen to fly past the school building. Snowballs followed him from all sides. Some of the fellows gave chase when they saw the fur in his mouth. The Newfoundland dodged everybody and continued his flight down School Street. As he neared the Fem. Sem. his pace decreased. A feeling of shame seemed to overtake him. His exhilaration gave place to a downcast expression. His tail dropped. His ears fell; but he still clung in a dogged way to his prize. When he came in front of those mysterious buildings, from sheer force of habit he turned to a familiar door, and huddled up against it. Mr. Roger Mansfield might call on half a dozen young ladies in an evening, but the dog knew, if nobody else did, where he stayed the longest.

Calvin whined and scratched. The girl from the West peeked through a crack in the door, gave a joyful squeak when she saw the dog, and then looked about for its owner. Calvin stalked in with a tired look and laid the dilapidated fur cape down with a distinct air of apology.

Next day John Strong received a delicately-scented note which ran as follows. The shock it gave him was nothing less than galvanic.

MR. STRONG:

Dear Sir, --- I thank you for so promptly sending me the cape. It came safely to hand and we kept the messenger to tea. Very truly, ELVA SELFRICH.

What could John do? He hardly dared to show his face in the street. It was not long before the joke was out. John's sensitiveness was sorely tried. Like many a boy ignorant of the ways of society, he made matters worse by his excessive shyness. He could not summon his courage to write a letter of apology and explanation.

 

It might have been ten days after Calvin's memorable visit to the Fem. Sem. that a great event happened in Andover. This was the first Levee of the season. The majority of the citizens and aliens of this country may not know what a Levee is. For the benefit of such unenlightened ignorance, we may say that a Levee at Andover used to correspond to what the rest of the world now calls a reception. This Levee was held at the house of the Professor of Depravity.

The Senior class of Abbott Academy were invited, to the last girl. The theologues had also their usual sweeping invitation. A few Academy boys matching in number such "Abbott girls" as were deemed worthy of the honor, were selected and received a scrupulously formal invitation.

This maddening occasion had arrived. Awkward theologues were superciliously stared at by brazen "cads," and ignorant "cads" were easily overwhelmed by experienced theologues. Many a stolen interview would to-night for the first time culminate in open introduction.

The Fem. Sems. in the dressing-room cast a last look at the long gilt mirror, gazed shyly at the group on the first landing and fluttered down two by two. The Academy boys, for the most part, were in their social element, howbeit here and there a flannel shirt testified to an ignorance of conventionalities at which only rude impulse would smile.

John Strong had received what the boys call his "invite," and after long hesitancy had decided to spare half an hour for the Levee, in hopes that an introduction to Miss Selfrich might give him his eagerly-desired opportunity for apology. He felt that this step was due to her and to himself, to John Calvin, and to the seal-skin cape. He grudged every moment away from his lessons and his sick friend. John liked a good time as well as any other boy. This feeling that he must continually be on the drive was not a priggish one. Doc. had lost strength steadily since the last excitement. John simply felt that his duty lay there. He came of a stock that didn't think a good time was the most important thing in life.

Strong entered as a guest the house where he had been refused occupation as a stable-boy. He had never appeared handsomer or more distinguished than he did on that evening. He had a white collar attached to a flannel shirt and a blue necktie almost concealed the fact. His coat was shiny and nearly worn out, but as neat as a pin. His pale face and high forehead shone with light reflected from rose-colored lamp shades.

"How do you do, Mr. Strong? No matter about being late. We are so glad to have you here. Now, let me see " --- The vivacious young hostess raised her eyeglass with a critical glance toward the circle of promenaders that revolved about the kerosene chandelier.

"Of course you must meet some of our young ladies. Will you have a pretty or an intellectual one? Did you know that Dr. Strong, president of Buncome College, a distinguished namesake of yours, is present? Ah! there he is with Miss Selfrich."

John raised his eyes and saw Miss Elva's face shyly glancing at him from above a dazzling mass of fluffy white. A tall, angular, chin-whiskered man held her arm. John noticed that many regarded her companion with amusement. The eminent President's dress coat seemed to fit him awkwardly. Two by two, full thirty couples kept walking with an intellectual air about that winking chandelier. It was a continuous procession. When Mr. Strong obtained a full back view of Dr. Strong of Buncome College he saw that his dress coat tails were carefully tucked each in its corresponding trousers pocket. The reverend gentleman himself was utterly oblivious of the ludicrous effect be produced. He was absent-minded in the grotesque sense that geniuses are. On coming to the reception he had dreamily asked Roger Mansfield, who accompanied him:

"What shall I do with my coat tails? They are always in my way. I never know what to do with them when I am going anywhere. I consider full-dress an invention of the Evil One."

"Why don't you put them in your pockets?" was Roger's witty response.

"That's a capital idea," answered the scholar gravely. So in those trousers pockets the two insulted coat tails did remain until a philanthropist took the abstracted man one side and relieved the Levee of embarrassment.

"Ah! Mr. Strong, I understand that you are studying to be a professional nurse and are going on the nine?" proceeded the hostess in her chatty way.

John replied absently to this disjointed question. He followed Miss Selfrich in her orbit with great interest.

The hostess turned to the next new-corner, and John was forgotten. The advancing guest proved to be the Professor of Hebrew who had only come in to pay his brief compliments. Suddenly a shriek arose.

"Get out, you brute! Down, sir! Drive him out!"

Alas! who but John Calvin could be the cause of this fatal interruption ?

JOHN CALVIN FINDS A FRIEND

This social dog had appeared on his own invitation and was rubbing his wet fur diligently from dress to dress seeking his beloved master.

"O, Professor!" said the hostess despairingly, turning to the learned gentleman, "do take the beast out. You are so tender!"

By this time, Calvin, in despair at not finding his master, who was in another room, had attached himself to Miss Selfrich, and proceeded to put his paws lovingly upon her spotless robes. The Professor, Dr. and Mr. Strong came valorously together. The procession had stopped. The chandelier seemed to blink. John took Calvin by the collar while the Professor of Hebrew gingerly grasped him by the tail. The dog was at last landed in the hall, where his master appeared to hasten Calvin's discomfited departure.

Roger and John returned to the parlor. The procession was again describing its exciting parabola, and Miss Elva stood apart, watching the two returning. Roger gracefully advanced to the young lady and with a wave of the hand said:

"Let me present to you my cousin and your preserver, Mr. Strong."

The boy bowed. At last, he and the young lady were upon a sound footing of social acquaintance. After a few jokes about the ubiquity of the dog, John, after the manner of the place, gravely offered his arm and they joined the ring. For a few minutes both were silent. Neither knew how to begin.

"It wasn't my fault," John blurted out finally.

"I know it," answered the girl gently.

"I didn't want him sent off, believe me."

Miss Elva blushed. She now saw that he was speaking about her brother. She sighed deeply.

"Yes, I do not blame you. It was his fault, I know."

"And the cape. I was so careful of it. I couldn't catch Calvin that day." The boy was eager not to be misunderstood by this lovely girl.

Miss Elva laughed merrily.

"Oh! that's all right. What a joke on you, and on me too," she added archly, looking down.

At that moment a pale young face beckoned John from the door. It belonged to the Prep. who roomed across the Commons Hall. The two walked quickly toward him. His excited words tumbled into John Strong's ear.

"He's very sick. Lambkin sent me. Come right away!"

"Poor fellow," exclaimed Elva. Then turning to John, "Go quickly --- do! Don't stop to say good-by."

With a heavy heart John hurried from warmth and brightness into the black night whose darkness was only intensified by a few consumptive kerosene lamps that flickered against the cold, gray snow.

 

CHAPTER X.

POOR DOC.!

IT was not many steps around the corner to his room. From the long line of the dormitories, here and there a studious lamp cast a sickly ray into the night.

John's heart fell within him as he stumbled up the outside steps. Profound stillness was within. A cold, bitter draught attacked him as he carefully opened the outside door, trying to prevent its usual creak. Sometimes on windy, wintry nights that door would awake every student in the house as it groaned and slammed in impotent effort to wrench itself away. Many a Prep. has buried his frightened head under pillows that knew no down, when windows and shingles and doors rattled their uncanny accompaniment to the wind and storm. As John entered the hail the door of his room was softly opened and Lambkin's hand caught John's arm with nervous emphasis.

"Hush," whispered Lambkin. "Doc. is a great deal worse. He's been out of his head half of the time, and yelling for you. He's quiet now for the first time."

"Have you sent for the doctor?" asked John hurriedly. " Perhaps I had better go now."

"The Prep. went after he called you. I expect him any time."

John pushed open the door of his room. As he did so, the hot, poisoned odor of an illy-ventilated sick room struck him in the face. At first he shrank back with a new sensitiveness. His thoughts flashed to his mother's plain but exquisite home that had so much neatness, order and purity, and so little comfort. The light had been thoughtfully placed within the inner bedroom and turned indiscreetly down. The faint smell of gassing kerosene almost nauseated John as he entered. Thus the light was for the most part cut off from the main room, which was entirely filled by the stove, the table, two chairs and the sick boy's bed. Dark shadows hung over that bed; the scene was like one of the old Dutch paintings. A glow from the open door of the stove lighted the pale face of Doc. as he feebly turned it to greet his friend. What a change in that face! John perceived it instantly, although he had only been absent a few minutes. No one could have recognized the irrepressible boy who had been such a joker last term. His face had shrunken over its bones, leaving eyes and nose in prominent relief. Doc. at no time could see five feet without his glasses, and now his protruding orbs had that glassy, nervous and vacant look which all very near-sighted people have when they are ill. As John entered, the sick boy's eyes rolled towards him. The grotesque act became a gesture most pathetic. Doc. panted as if he breathed with difficulty, and tried to throw the blankets off.

"Lie still, Doc., I'm here. Don't you know your friend Strong?" As John spoke he took Doc.'s dry hand gently and laid it in his own.

"I am so glad. I am safe now. You won't leave me, old fellow, will you?" Doc. Shelby uttered these, words with a shuddering moan. John, as an effectual answer, sat down beside him on the bed and held his hot hand tightly.

Yes, Doc. was desperately sick. That was plain enough. His skin was parched. The weak and irregular pulse beat the feverish gait of a hundred and thirty-two. Upon the stove. was a dish of hot water. With his free hand John reached for a handkerchief, soaked it and placed the grateful warmth upon the sufferer's temples. He had seen a member of the Samaritan Society do this once while calling. Considering it the thing, he didn't know what else to do. Any one or any two of those ladies would have gladly come to his aid on that hard night, but Doc. was unmanageable on the point of his nursing. He would have nobody but John. Besides, the boys were so inexperienced that they did not realize the full force of the situation. They sat one on each side of the bed and watched Doc. intently in the light of the fire.

A heavy step was now heard without. John nodded with relief at Lambkin who opened the door softly and brought the doctor in.

"Ah!" began Dr. Pilibury in a professional, whole-souled tone, which inspired the confidence of sure recovery, "our young friend is a little sick, is he? We'll pull him through all right. A little, out of his head, did you say? Umm ! The fever will thrash itself out to-night. Pulse is high. Skin hot and dry. Umm! We'll alternate with aconite and bry. Give him one teaspoonful every hour. Begin with bryonia. When he perspires he'll sleep. This is the last of the fever. This disease always breaks up this way. That's right! keep the hot compresses on his head. If he doesn't sleep by midnight give him thirty drops of this," continued the doctor, pouring out a dark red liquid into a vial. "The sleeping portion will relieve him."

The man stood with his back to the fire; he had on a huge bear's skin coat. After a minute he felt Doc.'s pulse again; bent his ear to the stertorous breathing; shook his head gravely, then cheered up.

"Umm! Yes, we'll pull him around all right. He'll sleep pretty soon. I'll call in the morning early. Good-night." The physician took his leave with the look of a man who did not know what to do, and was in a hurry to get where he would not be called upon to do it.

For some minutes the two boys looked at each other silently and apprehensively across the tossing and moaning sufferer.

"I say, old fellow," whispered John at length to Lambkin, "you go to your room now. I'll stay here. If I need you I'll send the Prep. There's no use in two of us being here."

"Isn't there any thing I can do for you? I had just as lief stay."

"You might get me another hodful of coal and a pail of water. That's all I need. Don't stay," answered John, eager to spare his friend a long and sleepless night.

"I'll get the coal and water and go and bone on Greek, and look in on you before I turn into bed," answered Lambkin, with a feeling of unwillingness to leave John alone with Doc.

John still sat on the bed in the same position which he had taken on coming in. Doc.'s left hand was in his. The head of the bed was toward the door, and John sat toward the fire and near the inner bedroom. He made a motion to put coal on the fire, but as he moved, Doc. clutched him tightly and moaned.

"Oh! don't leave me. Don't go. Don't go!"

Then John sank back, and with a sigh of relief Doc. looked toward him with those piteous, useless eyes; then he turned his head toward the curtained window. What did he see? What did he think he saw?

For a few moments John wondered anxiously; then, with that little dullness of sensibility which, creeps over a person who is worn with nursing, his thoughts reverted to his own affairs. John's position was extremely hard, and it was growing harder every day. This summons from the Levee was one of ten thousand exacting and exhausting demands upon his freedom and his time. Poor Doc. could not realize what he was doing, but the long and the short of the matter was, that he was ruining John's career in Phillips Academy. Little by little the new Senior had fallen behind in his class work. At first it was hardly noticeable. John never made a downright "flunk"; he only seemed uncertain of his ground. It often happened that he cut a recitation entirely. More frequently he came in late. Such irregularities tell fast upon a teacher's record-book. Although the Faculty had paid many visits of condolence to the sick boy in John's room, yet they had no comprehension of the facts in the case. John did not tell them; he was too loyal and too proud. Should he go to Uncle Jim and complain that Doc. made him read Dickens aloud when he should have been reading his Homer; that the sick boy fretted himself into a fever at a change of nurses; that John was daily attendant and night watcher; that Doc. was jealous of his every moment, his every deed, his look, his touch, his exercise, Uncle Jim's furnace, even his studies? How could he? Uncle Jim's eye was keen ; but he was a well man, and the culture of the sick room was not in his curriculum. He did not understand.

How had the enfeebled boy borne this strain? Father Lambkin knew, though nobody else did, unless it were Calvin. Lambkin it was who had dragged John by sheer moral force to the gymnasium a few minutes every day. Compulsory gymnastic exercise, such as is practiced in Amherst College, is an excellent thing for just such cases. If Andover Academy had military drill, such as is found in some of our fitting schools, it would be the better for her boys.

During these short minutes in the gymnasium John forgot his troubles. He twirled the ball with a nervous vim. With digital dexterity he developed the drop, the rise, the in-shoot, the out-shoot, and all the other shoots that puzzled an opposing batsman. His "double-twisters" soon became the admiration and talk of the whole Academy. As he fell back in his lessons, his fame as a pitcher, such was the irony of fate, began to increase. John took all the accompanying prosperity with embarrassment. He played to live. He did not live to play; and all this talk troubled him. One day in the gymnasium, as he was surrounded by boys who were applauding his swift curves, a hush fell upon the crowd. John turned and saw Uncle Jim's eyes fixed sternly upon him. He flushed furiously, and hung his head as if he had been caught in a scrape. The Principal and the teachers were sorry to attribute John's mediocre recitations to a growing athletic passion which has proved the eclipse of so many shining scholars.

"John," groaned Doc., "John, can't you get me a lump of ice?"

John started from what seemed to him, when he looked at his patient, as a selfish revery. There was a great change in Doc. Even John's inexperienced eyes saw this, but in the dim light it was impossible for him to realize how significant it was.

"I'll have to go out to get it," said John hurriedly.

"No, no; no, don't leave me. I'm so tired."

Doc.'s thin hand clutched him, and John sank back on the edge of the bed. At that moment the door opened.

"How is he?" whispered Lambkin.

"I don't know," said John mournfully. "He seems to me to look sorter queer."

"I think I'd better stay," said Lambkin with resolution.

"No, no; you'd better turn in," said John bravely. "He must have me. There's no need of two of us."

Are you sure? Dead sure?"

"Yes."

"Good-night, then. Mind you call me if anything happens. Good-night."

John was left again alone oh! how alone! with the shadows and the sick boy. Doc. had forgotten all about the ice now, and began to mutter deliriously. Suddenly he flung the bedclothes off.

"Help!" he cried. "Don't let them touch me!"

"No, they sha'n't; I am here." John tried to put the patient under the blankets.

"Oh! but they will. I see them. All in black. The water is so cold."

"No, no! you're all safe." John put his arm around the trembling boy who stared about him. "Come, old fellow, you're all right now; lie down. I'm here. Don't you know me?"

The shivering boy clung to John's neck and seemed to sob, but no tears came.

"Just let me put a little coal on the fire; I'll be right back," said John gently, when Doc. had become quieter and only shook with an occasional sob.

"No, no, no. Don't leave me at all." He clung with both hands to John's arm. John managed to shut the upper door of the stove; that would keep the fire from going out. The darkness was now deeper in the room.

John sat there, shaken by the scene. He felt the pathos and the helplessness of his situation. No one was to blame for it. It was one of the accidental tragedies of sickness and inexperience. Such are possible anywhere, but rare in Andover Academy. "I'll pray it off," said John to himself. Then he bowed his head so that his forehead touched Doc.'s feverish hand, and whispered.

"Lord," said John, "I never took care of so sick a person. I don't know what to do. Make him better, and help me out. I'm so tired "---

"What are you saying?" interrupted Doc. feebly. He seemed to have come to himself. "It is very dark."

"I want you to get well soon," answered John, with tears in his eyes. "I'll get the light and turn it up."

"No, don't leave me. I guess I'm a goner;" the old, queer smile flashed over his gray face, but John did not see it. He felt it in the voice.

"Not a bit of it," said John cheerily, though his heart gave an unaccountable leap.

"Yes;" the sick boy spoke slowly. "My chest is awful. My head is worse than ever. I am a goner."

The old chapel clock drearily struck one. The Old South re-echoed the stroke. A third peal from the valley beyond took up the sound and solemnly smote the frosty air. John roused himself and gave Doc. a dose of the sleeping mixture. With Doc.'s hands still tightly clasped in his, he lay down beside the sinking boy, and drew his old gray shawl over them both. It was very cold. Doc. turned his head restlessly. Suddenly he whispered with a ghost of his. former laugh:

"I guess Selfrich and his gang won't bother me any more."

"They never shall, bless you! " answered John solemnly. He patted Doc. tenderly. This seemed to comfort the poor fellow.

Unbroken stillness fell again upon Room No. 2.

"One, two"---pealed out the chapel bell.

"One, two" --- " One, two " ---fainter, fainter; and then the threefold stroke died away.

John shivered and started to get the light, but Doc. held him more tightly in a convulsive grasp and would not let him go. Just then the lamp flickered in the next room and went out, leaving a sickly odor and intense blackness behind. John grew desperate. He flung a curtain from the nearest window aside, and looked out. He felt as if he must see something or shriek. Stars twinkled merrily at him, and the black outline of the next dormitory loomed up.

"Strong! --- Strong?" came from the bed. "I am such a stupid; do you suppose God has 'em like me up there?"

"Yes, ten thousand!" answered John, fiercely brushing away the tears.

Doc. fell back again. He hugged the precious hand he held. It was father, mother, brother, all to him.

"One, two, three!" The bell tolled the hour solemnly. John sprang at the sound. Each peal went through him like a dull, inexplicable pain.

"I like the bells. They are so happy," murmured Doc. more feebly. "Say --- Strong---tell me--- shall I always be a Middler there?"

The' boy seemed to listen for the last stroke from the Old South Church. He gave a sigh of content when its vibrations had ceased. There was a sound in his throat that was new to John. The hot head became cold and damp. In terror, why, he knew not, John tried to wrench his hand away; but the grip held him like a vise. Remembering a match he had in his pocket, he struck it, and held the flickering flame near Doc.'s face. At the sight he saw, he gavé a mighty cry. But boys sleep hard in those wind-tossed dormitories, and nobody responded. For the first time in his life John sat alone in the presence of death. The simple lad had gone where stupidity is not laughed at, and where too heavily-conditioned Middlers are not hazed.

 

In those old days a thousand boys have been "put through" a thousand times more roughly than Doc. Shelby, and have taken it lightly, and when their turn came, have done unto others as was done unto themselves... But here was one whose sensitiveness could not stand the rude shock. Let the boy who thinks it sport to "run" an under classmate in such rough ways, stay his hand! Perhaps your last victim is the one who will bear the life-long marks of your good-natured cruelty.

But these were old times long passed. Andover, with other schools and colleges, is leaving the barbarous practice of hazing behind, and every student ought to be as safe there as in his father's house.

On the afternoon of the next day but one, the Middle class with crape upon their arms walked in a long procession to a rear lot in the Chapel Cemetery, reserved for just such friendless burials. No one of the dead boy's relatives had answered Uncle Jim's telegrams. John walked behind the bier, the "nearest" mourner. The Principal stood beside him. For the memory of the dead lad's dead father, Uncle Jim's stern face wore his best and tenderest look, as he bared his head to the winter wind above the open grave.


Chapter Eleven

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