The first days of that week were days of strife. Murdie Cameron and Bob Fraser and the other big boys succeeded in keeping in line with the master's rules and regulations. They were careful never to be late, and so saved themselves the degradation of bringing an excuse. But the smaller boys set themselves to make the master's life a burden, and succeeded beyond their highest expectations, for the master was quick of temper, and was determined at all costs to exact full and prompt obedience. There was more flogging done those first six days than during any six months of Archie Munro's rule. Sometimes the floggings amounted to little, but sometimes they were serious, and when those fell upon the smaller boys, the girls would weep and the bigger boys would grind their teeth and swear.
The situation became so acute that Murdie Cameron and the big boys decided that they would quit the school. They were afraid the temptation to throw the master out would some day be more than they could bear, and for men who had played their part, not without credit, in the Scotch River fights, to carry out the master would have been an exploit hardly worthy of them. So, in dignified contempt of the master and his rules, they left the school after the third day.
Their absence did not help matters much; indeed, the master appeared to be relieved, and proceeded to tame the school into submission. It was little Jimmie Cameron who precipitated the crisis. Jimmie's nose, upon which he relied when struggling with his snickers, had an unpleasant trick of failing him at critical moments, and of letting out explosive snorts of the most disturbing kind. He had finally been warned that upon his next outburst punishment would fall.
It was Friday afternoon, the drowsy hour just before recess, while the master was explaining to the listless Euclid class the mysteries of the forty-seventh proposition, that suddenly a snort of unusual violence burst upon the school. Immediately every eye was upon the master, for all had heard and had noted his threat to Jimmie.
“James, was that you, sir?”
There was no answer, except such as could be gathered from Jimmie's very red and very shamed face.
“James, stand up!”
Jimmie wriggled to his feet, and stood a heap of various angles.
“Now, James, you remember what I promised you? Come here, sir!”
Jimmie came slowly to the front, growing paler at each step, and stood with a dazed look on his face, before the master. He had never been thrashed in all his life. At home the big brothers might cuff him good-naturedly, or his mother thump him on the head with her thimble, but a serious whipping was to him an unknown horror.
The master drew forth his heavy black strap with impressive deliberation and ominous silence. The preparations for punishment were so elaborate and imposing that the big boys guessed that the punishment itself would not amount to much. Not so Jimmie. He stood numb with fear and horrible expectation. The master lifted up the strap.
“James, hold out your hand!”
Jimmie promptly clutched his hand behind his back.
“Hold out your hand, sir, at once!” No answer.
“James, you must do as you are told. Your punishment for disobedience will be much severer than for laughing.” But Jimmie stood pale, silent, with his hands tight clasped behind his back.
The master stepped forward, and grasping the little boy's arm, tried to pull his hand to the front; but Jimmie, with a roar like that of a young bull, threw himself flat on his face on the floor and put his hands under him. The school burst into a laugh of triumph, which increased the master's embarrassment and rage.
“Silence!” he said, “or it will be a worse matter for some of you than for James.”
Then turning his attention to Jimmie, be lifted him from the floor and tried to pull out his hand. But Jimmie kept his arms folded tight across his breast, roaring vigorously the while, and saying over and over, “Go away from me! Go away from me, I tell you! I'm not taking anything to do with you.”
The big boys were enjoying the thing immensely. The master's rage was deepening in proportion. He felt it would never do to be beaten. His whole authority was at stake.
“Now, James,” he reasoned, “you see you are only making it worse for yourself. I cannot allow any disobedience in the school. You must hold out your hand.”
But Jimmie, realizing that he had come off best in the first round, stood doggedly sniffing, his arms still folded tight.
“Now, James, I shall give you one more chance. Hold out your hand.”
Jimmie remained like a statue.
Whack! came the heavy strap over his shoulders. At once Jimmie set up his refrain, “Go away from me, I tell you! I'm not taking anything to do with you!”
Whack! whack! whack! fell the strap with successive blows, each heavier than the last. There was no longer any laughing in the school. The affair was growing serious. The girls were beginning to sob, and the bigger boys to grow pale.
“Now, James, will you hold out your hand? You see how much worse you are making it for yourself,” said the master, who was heartily sick of the struggle, which he felt to be undignified, and the result of which he feared was dubious.
But Jimmie only kept up his cry, now punctuated with sobs, “I'm—not—taking—anything—to do—with—you.”
“Jimmie, listen to me,” said the master. “You must hold out your hand. I cannot have boys refusing to obey me in this school.” But Jimmie caught the entreaty in the tone, and knowing that the battle was nearly over, kept obstinately silent.
“Well, then,” said the master, suddenly, “you must take it,” and lifting the strap, he laid it with such sharp emphasis over Jimmie's shoulders that Jimmie's voice rose in a wilder roar than usual, and the girls burst into audible weeping.
Suddenly, above all the hubbub, rose a voice, clear and sharp.
“Stop!” It was Thomas Finch, of all people, standing with face white and tense, and regarding the master with steady eyes.
The school gazed thunderstruck at the usually slow and stolid Thomas.
“What do you mean, sir?” said the master, gladly turning from Jimmie. But Thomas stood silent, as much surprised as the master at his sudden exclamation.
He stood hesitating for a moment, and then said, “You can thrash me in his place. He's a little chap, and has never been thrashed.”
The master misunderstood his hesitation for fear, pushed Jimmie aside, threw down his strap, and seized a birch rod.
“Come forward, sir! I'll put an end to your insubordination, at any rate. Hold out your hand!”
Thomas held out his hand till the master finished one birch rod.
“The other hand, sir!”
Another birch rod was used up, but Thomas neither uttered a sound nor made a move till the master had done, then he asked, in a strained voice, “Were you going to give Jimmie all that, sir?”
The master caught the biting sneer in the tone, and lost himself completely.
“Do you dare to answer me back?” he cried. He opened his desk, took out a rawhide, and without waiting to ask for his hand, began to lay the rawhide about Thomas's shoulders and legs, till he was out of breath.
“Now, perhaps you will learn your place, sir,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Thomas, looking him steadily in the eye.
“You are welcome. And I'll give you as much more whenever you show that you need it.” The slight laugh with which he closed this brutal speech made Thomas wince as he had not during his whole terrible thrashing, but still he had not a word to say.
“Now, James, come here!” said the master, turning to Jimmie. “You see what happens when a boy is insubordinate.” Jimmie came trembling. “Hold out your hand!” Out came Jimmie's hand at once. Whack! fell the strap.
“The other!”
“Stop it!” roared Thomas. “I took his thrashing.”
“The other!” said the master, ignoring Thomas.
With a curious savage snarl Thomas sprung at him. The master, however, was on the alert, and swinging round, met him with a straight facer between the eyes, and Thomas went to the floor.
“Aha! my boy! I'll teach you something you have yet to learn.”
For answer came another cry, “Come on, boys!” It was Ranald Macdonald, coming over the seats, followed by Don Cameron, Billy Ross, and some smaller boys. The master turned to meet them.
“Come along!” he said, backing up to his desk. “But I warn you it's not a strap or a rawhide I shall use.”
Ranald paid no attention to his words, but came straight toward him, and when at arm's length, sprung at him with the cry, “Horo, boys!”
But before he could lay his hands upon the master, he received a blow straight on the bridge of the nose that staggered him back, stunned and bleeding. By this time Thomas was up again, and rushing in was received in like manner, and fell back over a bench.
“How do you like it, boys?” smiled the master. “Come right along.”
The boys obeyed his invitation, approaching him, but more warily, and awaiting their chance to rush. Suddenly Thomas, with a savage snarl, put his head down and rushed in beneath the master's guard, paid no attention to the heavy blow he received on the head, and locking his arms round the master's middle, buried his head close into his chest.
At once Ranald and Billy Ross threw themselves upon the struggling pair and carried them to the floor, the master underneath. There was a few moments of fierce struggling, and then the master lay still, with the four boys holding him down for dear life.
It was Thomas who assumed command.
“Don't choke him so, Ranald,” he said. “And clear out of the way, all you girls and little chaps.”
“What are you going to do, Thomas?” asked Don, acknowledging Thomas's new-born leadership.
“Tie him up,” said Thomas. “Get me a sash.”
At once two or three little boys rushed to the hooks and brought one or two of the knitted sashes that hung there, and Thomas proceeded to tie the master's legs.
While he was thus busily engaged, a shadow darkened the door, and a voice exclaimed, “What is all this about?” It was the minister, who had been driving past and had come upon the terrified, weeping children rushing home.
“Is that you, Thomas? And you, Don?”
The boys let go their hold and stood up, shamed but defiant.
Immediately the master was on his feet, and with a swift, fierce blow, caught Thomas on the chin. Thomas, taken off his guard, fell with a thud on the floor.
“Stop that, young man!” said the minister, catching his arm. “That's a coward's blow.”
“Hands off!” said the master, shaking himself free and squaring up to him.
“Ye would, would ye?” said the minister, gripping him by the neck and shaking him as he might a child. “Lift ye're hand to me, would ye? I'll break you're back to ye, and that I will.” So saying, the minister seized him by the arms and held him absolutely helpless. The master ceased to struggle, and put down his hands.
“Ay, ye'd better, my man,” said the minister, giving him a fling backward.
Meantime Don had been holding snow to Thomas's head, and had brought him round.
“Now, then,” said the minister to the boys, “what does all this mean?”
The boys were all silent, but the master spoke.
“It is a case of rank and impudent insubordination, sir, and I demand the expulsion of those impudent rascals.”
“Well, sir,” said the minister, “be sure there will be a thorough investigation, and I greatly misjudge the case if there are not faults on both sides. And for one thing, the man who can strike such a cowardly blow as you did a moment ago would not be unlikely to be guilty of injustice and cruelty.”
“It is none of your business,” said the master, insolently.
“You will find that I shall make it my business,” said the minister. “And now, boys, be off to your homes, and be here Monday morning at nine o'clock, when this matter shall be gone into.”
The news of the school trouble ran through the section like fire through a brule. The younger generations when they heard how Thomas Finch had dared the master, raised him at once to the rank of hero, but the heads of families received the news doubtfully, and wondered what the rising generation was coming to.
The next day Billy Jack heard the story in the Twentieth store, and with some anxiety waited for the news to reach his father's ears, for to tell the truth, Billy Jack, man though he was, held his father in dread.
“How did you come to do it?” he asked Thomas. “Why didn't you let Don begin? It was surely Don's business.”
“I don't know. It slipped out,” replied Thomas. “I couldn't stand Jimmie's yelling any longer. I didn't know I said anything till I found myself standing up, and after that I didn't seem to care for anything.”
“Man! it was fine, though,” said Billy Jack. “I didn't think it was in you.” And Thomas felt more than repaid for all his cruel beating. It was something to win the approval of Billy Jack in an affair of this kind.
It was at church on the Sabbath day that Donald Finch heard about his son's doings in the school the week before. The minister, in his sermon, thought fit to dwell upon the tendency of the rising generation to revolt against authority in all things, and solemnly laid upon parents the duty and responsibility of seeing to it that they ruled their households well.
It was not just the advice that Donald Finch stood specially in need of, but he was highly pleased with the sermon, and was enlarging upon it in the churchyard where the people gathered between the services, when Peter McRae, thinking that old Donald was hardly taking the minister's advice to himself as he ought, and not knowing that the old man was ignorant of all that had happened in the school, answered him somewhat severely.
“It is good to be approving the sermon, but I would rather be seeing you make a practical application of it.”
“Indeed, that is true,” replied Donald, “and it would not be amiss for more than me to make application of it.”
“Indeed, then, if all reports be true,” replied Peter, “it would be well for you to begin at home.”
“Mr. McRae,” said Donald, earnestly, “it is myself that knows well enough my shortcomings, but if there is any special reason for your remark, I am not aware of it.”
This light treatment of what to Peter had seemed a grievous offense against all authority incensed the old dominie beyond all endurance.
“And do you not think that the conduct of your son last week calls for any reproof? And is it you that will stand up and defend it in the face of the minister and his sermon upon it this day?”
Donald gazed at him a few moments as if he had gone mad. At length he replied, slowly, “I do not wish to forget that you are an elder of the church, Mr. McRae, and I will not be charging you with telling lies on me and my family—”
“Tut, tut, man,” broke in Long John Cameron, seeing how the matter stood; “he's just referring to yon little difference Thomas had with the master last week. But it's just nothing. Come away in.”
“Thomas?” gasped Donald. “My Thomas?”
“You have not heard, then,” said Peter, in surprise, and old Donald only shook his head.
“Then it's time you did,” replied Peter, severely, “for such things are a disgrace to the community.”
“Nonsense!” said Long John. “Not a bit of it! I think none the less of Thomas for it.” But in matters of this kind Long John could hardly be counted an authority, for it was not so very long ago since he had been beguiled into an affair at the Scotch River which, while it brought him laurels at the hands of the younger generation, did not add to his reputation with the elders of the church.
It did not help matters much that Murdie Cameron and others of his set proceeded to congratulate old Donald, in their own way, upon his son's achievement, and with all the more fervor that they perceived that it moved the solemn Peter to righteous wrath. From one and another the tale came forth with embellishments, till Donald Finch was reduced to such a state of voiceless rage and humiliation that when, at the sound of the opening psalm the congregation moved into the church for the Gaelic service, the old man departed for his home, trembling, silent, amazed.
How Thomas could have brought this disgrace upon him, he could not imagine. If it had been William John, who, with all his good nature, had a temper brittle enough, he would not have been surprised. And then the minister's sermon, of which he had spoken in such open and enthusiastic approval, how it condemned him for his neglect of duty toward his family, and held up his authority over his household to scorn. It was a terrible blow to his pride.
“It is the Lord's judgment upon me,” he said to himself, as he tramped his way through the woods. “It is the curse of Eli that is hanging over me and mine.” And with many vows he resolved that, at all costs, he would do his duty in this crisis and bring Thomas to a sense of his sins.
It was in this spirit that he met his family at the supper-table, after their return from the Gaelic service.
“What is this I hear about you, Thomas?” he began, as Thomas came in and took his place at the table. “What is this I hear about you, sir?” he repeated, making a great effort to maintain a calm and judicial tone.
Thomas remained silent, partly because he usually found speech difficult, but chiefly because he dreaded his father's wrath.
“What is this that has become the talk of the countryside and the disgrace of my name?” continued the father, in deepening tones.
“No very great disgrace, surely,” said Billy Jack, lightly, hoping to turn his father's anger.
“Be you silent, sir!” commanded the old man, sternly. “I will ask for your opinion when I require it. You and others beside you in this house need to learn your places.”
Billy Jack made no reply, fearing to make matters worse, though he found it hard not to resent this taunt, which he knew well was flung at his mother.
“I wonder at you, Thomas, after such a sermon as yon. I wonder you are able to sit there unconcerned at this table. I wonder you are not hiding your head in shame and confusion.” The old man was lashing himself into a white rage, while Thomas sat looking stolidly before him, his slow tongue finding no words of defense. And indeed, he had little thought of defending himself. He was conscious of an acute self-condemnation, and yet, struggling through his slow-moving mind there was a feeling that in some sense he could not define, there was justification for what he had done.
“It is not often that Thomas has grieved you,” ventured the mother, timidly, for, with all her courage, she feared her husband when he was in this mood.
“Woman, be silent!” blazed forth the old man, as if he had been waiting for her words. “It is not for you to excuse his wickedness. You are too fond of that work, and your children are reaping the fruits of it.”
Billy Jack looked up quickly as if to answer, but his mother turned her face full upon him and commanded him with steady eyes, giving, herself, no sign of emotion except for a slight tightening of the lips and a touch of color in her face.
“Your children have well learned their lesson of rebellion and deceit,” continued her husband, allowing his passion a free rein. “But I vow unto the Lord I will put an end to it now, whatever. And I will give you to remember, sir,” turning to Thomas, “to the end of your days, this occasion. And now, hence from this table. Let me not see your face till the Sabbath is past, and then, if the Lord spares me, I shall deal with you.”
Thomas hesitated a moment as if he had not quite taken in his father's words, then, leaving his supper untouched, he rose slowly, and without a word climbed the ladder to the loft. The mother followed him a moment with her eyes, and then once more turning to Billy Jack, held him with calm, steady gaze. Her immediate fear was for her eldest son. Thomas, she knew, would in the mean time simply suffer what might be his lot, but for many a day she had lived in terror of an outbreak between her eldest son and her husband. Again Billy Jack caught her look, and commanded himself to silence.
“The fire is low, William John,” she said, in a quiet voice. Billy Jack rose, and from the wood-box behind the stove, replenished the fire, reading perfectly his mother's mind, and resolving at all costs to do her will.
At the taking of the books that night the prayer, which was spoken in a tone of awful and almost inaudible solemnity, was for the most part an exaltation of the majesty and righteousness of the government of God, and a lamentation over the wickedness and rebellion of mankind. And Billy Jack thought it was no good augury that it closed with a petition for grace to maintain the honor of that government, and to uphold that righteous majesty in all the relations of life. It was a woeful evening to them all, and as soon as possible the household went miserably to bed.
Before going to her room the mother slipped up quietly to the loft and found Thomas lying in his bunk, dressed and awake. He was still puzzling out his ethical problem. His conscience clearly condemned him for his fight with the master, and yet, somehow he could not regret having stood up for Jimmie and taken his punishment. He expected no mercy at his father's hands next morning. The punishment he knew would be cruel enough, but it was not the pain that Thomas was dreading; he was dimly struggling with the sense of outrage, for ever since the moment he had stood up and uttered his challenge to the master, he had felt himself to be different. That moment now seemed to belong to the distant years when he was a boy, and now he could not imagine himself submitting to a flogging from any man, and it seemed to him strange and almost impossible that even his father should lift his hand to him.
“You are not sleeping, Thomas,” said his mother, going up to his bunk.
“No, mother.”
“And you have had no supper at all.”
“I don't want any, mother.”
The mother sat silent beside him for a time, and then said, quietly, “You did not tell me, Thomas.”
“No, mother, I didn't like.”
“It would have been better that your father should have heard this from—I mean, should have heard it at home. And—you might have told me, Thomas.”
“Yes, mother, I wish now I had. But, indeed, I can't understand how it happened. I don't feel as if it was me at all.” And then Thomas told his mother all the tale, finishing his story with the words, “And I couldn't help it, mother, at all.”
The mother remained silent for a little, and then, with a little tremor in her voice, she replied: “No, Thomas, I know you couldn't help it, and I—” here her voice quite broke—“I am not ashamed of you.”
“Are you not, mother?” said Thomas, sitting up suddenly in great surprise. “Then I don't care. I couldn't make it out well.”
“Never you mind, Thomas, it will be well,” and she leaned over him and kissed him. Thomas felt her face wet with tears, and his stolid reserve broke down.
“Oh, mother, mother, I don't care now,” he cried, his breath coming in great sobs. “I don't care at all.” And he put his arms round his mother, clinging to her as if he had been a child.
“I know, laddie, I know,” whispered his mother. “Never you fear, never fear.” And then, as if to herself, she added, “Thank the Lord you are not a coward, whatever.”
Thomas found himself again without words, but he held his mother fast, his big body shaking with his sobs.
“And, Thomas,” she continued, after a pause, “your father—we must just be patient.” All her life long this had been her struggle. “And—and—he is a good man.” Her tears were now flowing fast, and her voice had quite lost its calm.
Thomas was alarmed and distressed. He had never in all his life seen his mother weep, and rarely had heard her voice break.
“Don't, mother,” he said, growing suddenly quiet himself. “Don't you mind, mother. It'll be all right, and I'm not afraid.”
“Yes,” she said, rising and regaining her self-control, “it will be all right, Thomas. You go to sleep.” And there were such evident reserves of strength behind her voice that Thomas lay down, certain that all would be well. His mother had never failed him.
The mother went downstairs with the purpose in her heart of having a talk with her husband, but Donald Finch knew her ways well, and had resolved that he would have no speech with her upon the matter, for he knew that it would be impossible for him to persevere in his intention to “deal with” Thomas, if he allowed his wife to have any talk with him.
The morning brought the mother no opportunity of speech with her husband. He, contrary to his custom, remained until breakfast in his room. Outside in the kitchen, he could hear Billy Jack's cheerful tones and hearty laugh, and it angered him to think that his displeasure should have so little effect upon his household. If the house had remained shrouded in gloom, and the family had gone about on tiptoes and with bated breath, it would have shown no more than a proper appreciation of the father's displeasure; but as Billy Jack's cheerful words and laughter fell upon his ear, he renewed his vows to do his duty that day in upholding his authority, and bringing to his son a due sense of his sin.
In grim silence he ate his breakfast, except for a sharp rebuke to Billy Jack, who had been laboring throughout the meal to make cheerful conversation with Jessac and his mother. At his father's rebuke Billy Jack dropped his cheerful tone, and avoiding his mother's eyes, he assumed at once an attitude of open defiance, his tones and words plainly offering to his father war, if war he would have.
“You will come to me in the room after breakfast,” said his father, as Thomas rose to go to the stable.
“There's a meeting of the trustees at nine o'clock at the school-house at which Thomas must be present,” interposed Billy Jack, in firm, steady tones.
“He may go when I have done with him,” said his father, angrily, “and meantime you will attend to your own business.”
“Yes, sir, I will that!” Billy Jack's response came back with fierce promptness.
The old man glanced at him, caught the light in his eyes, hesitated a moment, and then, throwing all restraint to the winds, thundered out, “What do you mean, sir?”
“What I say. I am going to attend to my own business, and that soon.” Billy Jack's tone was quick, eager, defiant.
Again the old man hesitated, and then replied, “Go to it, then.”
“I am going, and I am going to take Thomas to that meeting at nine o'clock.”
“I did not know that you had business there,” said the old man, sarcastically.
“Then you may know it now,” blazed forth Billy Jack, “for I am going. And as sure as I stand here, I will see that Thomas gets fair play there if he doesn't at home, if I have to lick every trustee in the section.”
“Hold your peace, sir!” said his father, coming nearer him. “Do not give me any impertinence, and do not accuse me of unfairness.”
“Have you heard Thomas's side of the story?” returned Billy Jack.
“I have heard enough, and more than enough.”
“You haven't heard both sides.”
“I know the truth of it, whatever, the shameful and disgraceful truth of it. I know that the country-side is ringing with it. I know that in the house of God the minister held up my family to the scorn of the people. And I vowed to do my duty to my house.”
The old man's passion had risen to such a height that for a moment Billy Jack quailed before it. In the pause that followed the old man's outburst the mother came to her son.
“Hush, William John! You are not to forget yourself, nor your duty to your father and to me. Thomas will receive full justice in this matter.” There was a quiet strength and dignity in her manner that commanded immediate attention from both men.
The mother went on in a low, even voice, “Your father has his duty to perform, and you must not take upon yourself to interfere.”
Billy Jack could hardly believe his ears. That his mother should desert him, and should support what he knew she felt to be injustice and tyranny, was more than he could understand. No less perplexed was her husband.
As they stood there looking at each other, uncertain as to the next step, there came a knock at the back door. The mother went to open it, pausing on her way to push back some chairs and put the room to rights, thus allowing the family to regain its composure.
“Good morning, Mrs. Finch. You will be thinking I have slept in your barn all night.” It was Long John Cameron.
“Come away in, Mr. Cameron. It is never too early for friends to come to this house,” said Mrs. Finch, her voice showing her great relief.
Long John came in, glanced shrewdly about, and greeted Mr. Finch with great heartiness.
“It's a fine winter day, Mr. Finch, but it looks as if we might have a storm. You are busy with the logs, I hear.”
Old Donald was slowly recovering himself.
“And a fine lot you are having,” continued Long John. “I was just saying the other day that it was wonderful the work you could get through.”
“Indeed, it is hard enough to do anything here,” said Donald Finch, with some bitterness.
“You may say so,” responded Long John, cheerfully. “The snow is that deep in the bush, and—”
“You were wanting to see me, Mr. Cameron,” interrupted Donald. “I have a business on hand which requires attention.”
“Indeed, and so have I. For it is—”
“And indeed, it is just as well you and all should know it, for my disgrace is well known.”
“Disgrace!” exclaimed Long John.
“Ay, disgrace. For is it not a disgrace to have the conduct of your family become the occasion of a sermon on the Lord's Day?”
“Indeed, I did not think much of yon sermon, whatever,” replied Long John.
“I cannot agree with you, Mr. Cameron. It was a powerful sermon, and it was only too sorely needed. But I hope it will not be without profit to myself.”
“Indeed, it is not the sermon you have much need of,” said Long John, “for every one knows what a—”
“Ay, it is myself that needs it, but with the help of the Lord I will be doing my duty this morning.”
“And I am very glad to hear that,” replied Long John, “for that is why I am come.”
“And what may you have to do with it?” asked the old man.
“As to that, indeed,” replied Long John, coolly, “I am not yet quite sure. But if I might ask without being too bold, what is the particular duty to which you are referring?”
“You may ask, and you and all have a right to know, for I am about to visit upon my son his sins and shame.”
“And is it meaning to wheep him you are?”
“Ay,” said the old man, and his lips came fiercely together.
“Indeed, then, you will just do no such thing this morning.”
“And by what right do you interfere in my domestic affairs?” demanded old Donald, with dignity. “Answer me that, Mr. Cameron.”
“Right or no right,” replied Long John, “before any man lays a finger on Thomas there, he will need to begin with myself. And,” he added, grimly, “there are not many in the county who would care for that job.”
Old Donald Finch looked at his visitor in speechless amazement. At length Long John grew excited.
“Man alive!” he exclaimed, “it's a quare father you are. You may be thinking it disgrace, but the section will be proud that there is a boy in it brave enough to stand up for the weak against a brute bully.” And then he proceeded to tell the tale as he had heard it from Don, with such strong passion and such rude vigor, that in spite of himself old Donald found his rage vanish, and his heart began to move within him toward his son.
“And it is for that,” cried Long John, dashing his fist into his open palm, “it is for that that you would punish your son. May God forgive me! but the man that lays a finger on Thomas yonder, will come into sore grief this day. Ay, lad,” continued Long John, striding toward Thomas and gripping him by the shoulders with both hands, “you are a man, and you stood up for the weak yon day, and if you efer will be wanting a friend, remember John Cameron.”
“Well, well, Mr. Cameron,” said old Donald, who was more deeply moved than he cared to show, “it maybe as you say. It maybe the lad was not so much in the wrong.”
“In the wrong?” roared Long John, blowing his nose hard. “In the wrong? May my boys ever be in the wrong in such a way!”
“Well,” said old Donald, “we shall see about this. And if Thomas has suffered injustice it is not his father will refuse to see him righted.” And soon they were all off to the meeting at the school-house.
Thomas was the last to leave the room. As usual, he had not been able to find a word, but stood white and trembling, but as he found himself alone with his mother, once more his stolid reserve broke down, and he burst into a strange and broken cry, “Oh, mother, mother,” but he could get no further.
“Never mind, laddie,” said his mother, “you have borne yourself well, and your mother is proud of you.”
At the investigation held in the school-house, it became clear that, though the insubordination of both Jimmie and Thomas was undeniable, the provocation by the master had been very great. And though the minister, who was superintendent of instruction for the district, insisted that the master's authority must, at all costs, be upheld, such was the rage of old Donald Finch and Long John Cameron that the upshot was that the master took his departure from the section, glad enough to escape with bones unbroken.
After the expulsion of the master, the Twentieth School fell upon evil days, for the trustees decided that it would be better to try “gurl” teachers, as Hughie contemptuously called them; and this policy prevailed for two or three years, with the result that the big boys left the school, and with their departure the old heroic age passed away, to be succeeded by an age soft, law-abiding, and distinctly commercial.
The spirit of this unheroic age was incarnate in the person of “Foxy” Ross. Foxy got his name, in the first instance, from the peculiar pinky red shade of hair that crowned his white, fat face, but the name stuck to him as appropriately descriptive of his tricks and his manners. His face was large, and smooth, and fat, with wide mouth, and teeth that glistened when he smiled. His smile was like his face, large, and smooth, and fat. His eyes, which were light gray—white, Hughie called them—were shifty, avoiding the gaze that sought to read them, or piercingly keen, according as he might choose.
After the departure of the big boys, Foxy gradually grew in influence until his only rival in the school was Hughie. Foxy's father was the storekeeper in the Twentieth, and this brought within Foxy's reach possibilities of influence that gave him an immense advantage over Hughie. By means of bull's-eyes and “lickerish” sticks, Foxy could win the allegiance of all the smaller boys and many of the bigger ones, while with the girls, both big and small, his willingness to please and his smooth manners won from many affection, and from the rest toleration, although Betsy Dan Campbell asserted that whenever Foxy Ross came near her she felt something creeping up her backbone.
With the teacher, too, Foxy was a great favorite. He gave her worshipful reverence and many gifts from his father's store, eloquent of his devotion. He was never detected in mischief, and was always ready to expose the misdemeanors of the other boys. Thus it came that Foxy was the paramount influence within the school.
Outside, his only rival was Hughie, and at times Hughie's rivalry became dangerous. In all games that called for skill, activity, and reckless daring, Hughie was easily leader. In “Old Sow,” “Prisoner's Base,” but especially in the ancient and noble game of “Shinny,” Hughie shone peerless and supreme. Foxy hated games, and shinny, the joy of those giants of old, who had torn victory from the Sixteenth, and even from the Front one glorious year, was at once Foxy's disgust and terror. As a little boy, he could not for the life of him avoid turning his back to wait shuddering, with humping shoulders, for the enemy's charge, and in anything like a melee, he could not help jumping into the air at every dangerous stroke.
And thus he brought upon himself the contempt even of boys much smaller than himself, who, under the splendid and heroic example of those who led them, had only one ambition, to get a whack at the ball, and this ambition they gratified on every possible occasion reckless of consequences. Hence, when the last of the big boys, Thomas Finch, against whose solid mass hosts had flung themselves to destruction, finally left the school, Foxy, with great skill, managed to divert the energies of the boys to games less violent and dangerous, and by means of his bull's-eyes and his liquorice, and his large, fat smile, he drew after him a very considerable following of both girls and boys.
The most interesting and most successful of Foxy's schemes was the game of “store,” which he introduced, Foxy himself being the storekeeper. He had the trader's genius for discovering and catering to the weaknesses of people, and hence his store became, for certain days of the week, the center of life during the recreation hours. The store itself was a somewhat pretentious successor to the little brush cabin with wide open front, where in the old days the boys used to gather, and lying upon piles of fragrant balsam boughs before the big blazing fire placed in front, used to listen to the master talk, and occasionally read.
Foxy's store was built of slabs covered with thick brush, and set off with a plank counter and shelves, whereon were displayed his wares. His stock was never too large for his personal transportation, but its variety was almost infinite, bull's-eyes and liquorice, maple sugar and other “sweeties,” were staples. Then, too, there were balls of gum, beautifully clear, which in its raw state Foxy gathered from the ends of the pine logs at the sawmill, and which, by a process of boiling and clarifying known only to himself, he brought to a marvelous perfection.
But Foxy's genius did not confine itself to sweets. He would buy and sell and “swap” anything, but in swapping no bargain was ever completed unless there was money for Foxy in the deal. He had goods second-hand and new, fish-hooks and marbles, pot-metal knives with brass handles, slate-pencils that would “break square,” which were greatly desired by all, skate-straps, and buckskin whangs.
But Foxy's financial ability never displayed itself with more brilliancy than when he organized the various games of the school so as to have them begin and end with the store. When the river and pond were covered with clear, black ice, skating would be the rage, and then Foxy's store would be hung with skate-straps, and with cedar-bark torches, which were greatly in demand for the skating parties that thronged the pond at night. There were no torches like Foxy's. The dry cedar bark any one could get from the fences, but Foxy's torches were always well soaked in oil and bound with wire, and were prepared with such excellent skill that they always burned brighter and held together longer than any others. These cedar-bark torches Foxy disposed of to the larger boys who came down to the pond at night. Foxy's methods of finance were undoubtedly marked by ability, and inasmuch as his accounts were never audited, the profits were large and sure. He made it a point to purchase a certain proportion of his supplies from his father, who was proud of his son's financial ability, but whether his purchases always equaled his sales no one ever knew.
If the pond and river were covered with snow, then Foxy would organize a deer-hunt, when all the old pistols in the section would be brought forth, and the store would display a supply of gun caps, by the explosion of which deadly ammunition the deer would be dropped in their tracks, and drawn to the store by prancing steeds whose trappings had been purchased from Foxy.
When the interest in the deer-hunt began to show signs of waning, Foxy would bring forth a supply of gunpowder, for the purchase of which any boy who owned a pistol would be ready to bankrupt himself. In this Hughie took a leading part, although he had to depend upon the generosity of others for the thrilling excitement of bringing down his deer with a pistol-shot, for Hughie had never been able to save coppers enough to purchase a pistol of his own.
But deer-hunting with pistols was forbidden by the teacher from the day when Hughie, in his eagerness to bring his quarry down, left his ramrod in his pistol, and firing at Aleck Dan Campbell at point-blank range, laid him low with a lump on the side of his head as big as a marble. The only thing that saved Aleck's life, the teacher declared, was his thick crop of black hair. Foxy was in great wrath at Hughie for his recklessness, which laid the deer-hunting under the teacher's ban, and which interfered seriously with the profits of the store.
But Foxy was far too great a man to allow himself to be checked by any such misfortune as this. He was far too astute to attempt to defy the teacher and carry on the forbidden game, but with great ability he adapted the principles of deer-hunting to a game even more exciting and profitable. He organized the game of “Injuns,” some of the boys being set apart as settlers who were to defend the fort, of which the store was the center, the rest to constitute the invading force of savages.
The result was, that the trade in caps and gunpowder was brisker than ever, for not only was the powder needed for the pistols, but even larger quantities were necessary for the slow-matches which hissed their wrath at the approaching enemy, and the mounted guns, for which earthen ink-bottles did excellently, set out on a big stump to explode, to the destruction of scores of creeping redskins advancing through the bush, who, after being mutilated and mangled by these terrible explosions, were dragged into the camp and scalped. Foxy's success was phenomenal. The few pennies and fewer half-dimes and dimes that the boys had hoarded for many long weeks would soon have been exhausted had Hughie not wrecked the game.
Hughie alone had no fear of Foxy, but despised him utterly. He had stood and yelled when those heroes of old, Murdie and Don Cameron, Curly Ross, and Ranald Macdonald, and last but not to be despised Thomas Finch, had done battle with the enemy from the Sixteenth or the Front, and he could not bring himself to acknowledge the leadership of Foxy Ross, for all his bull's-eyes and liquorice. Not but what Hughie yearned for bull's-eyes and liquorice with great yearning, but these could not atone to him for the loss out of his life of the stir and rush and daring of the old fighting days. And it galled him that the boys of the Sixteenth could flout the boys of the Twentieth in all places and on all occasions with impunity.
But above all, it seemed to him a standing disgrace that the habitant teamsters from the north, who in former days found it a necessary and wise precaution to put their horses to a gallop as they passed the school, in order to escape with sleighs intact from the hordes that lined the roadway, now drove slowly past the very gate without an apparent tremor. But besides all this, he had an instinctive shrinking from Foxy, and sympathized with Betsy Dan in her creepy feeling whenever he approached. Hence he refused allegiance, and drew upon himself Foxy's jealous hatred.
It was one of Foxy's few errors in judgment that, from his desire to humiliate Hughie and to bring him to a proper state of subjection, he succeeded in shutting him out from the leadership in the game of “Injuns,” for Hughie promptly refused a subordinate position and withdrew, like Achilles, to his tent. But, unlike Achilles, though he sulked, he sulked actively, and to some purpose, for, drawing off with him his two faithful henchmen, “Fusie”—neither Hughie nor any one else ever knew another name for the little French boy who had drifted into the settlement and made his home with the MacLeods—and Davie “Scotch,” a cousin of Davie MacDougall, newly arrived from Scotland, he placed them in positions which commanded the store entrance, and waited until the settlers had all departed upon their expedition against the invading Indians. Foxy, with one or two smaller boys, was left in charge of the store waiting for trade.
In a few moments Foxy's head appeared at the door, when, whiz! a snowball skinned his ear and flattened itself with a bang against the slabs.
“Hold on there! Stop that! You're too close up,” shouted Foxy, thinking that the invaders were breaking the rules of the game.
Bang! a snowball from another quarter caught him fair in the neck.
“Here, you fools, you! Stop that!” cried Foxy, turning in the direction whence the snowball came and dodging round to the side of the store. But this was Hughie's point of attack, and soon Foxy found that the only place of refuge was inside, whither he fled, closing the door after him. Immediately the door became a target for the hidden foe.
Meantime, the Indian war was progressing, but now and again a settler would return to the fort for ammunition, and the moment he reached the door a volley of snowballs would catch him and hasten his entrance. Once in it was dangerous to come out.
By degrees Hughie augmented his besieging force from the more adventurous settlers and Indians, and placed them in the bush surrounding the door.
The war game was demoralized, but the new game proved so much more interesting that it was taken up with enthusiasm and prosecuted with vigor. It was rare sport. For the whole noon hour Hughie and his bombarding force kept Foxy and his friends in close confinement, from which they were relieved only by the ringing of the school bell, for at the sound of the bell Hughie and his men, having had their game, fled from Foxy's wrath to the shelter of the school.
When Foxy appeared it was discovered that one eye was half shut, but the light that gleamed from the other was sufficiently baleful to give token of the wrath blazing within, and Hughie was not a little anxious to know what form Foxy's vengeance would take. But to his surprise, by the time recess had come Foxy's wrath had apparently vanished, and he was willing to treat Hughie's exploit in the light of a joke. The truth was, Foxy never allowed passion to interfere with business, and hence he resolved that he must swallow his rage, for he realized clearly that Hughie was far too dangerous as a foe, and that he might become exceedingly valuable as an ally. Within a week Hughie was Foxy's partner in business, enjoying hugely the privilege of dispensing the store goods, with certain perquisites that naturally attached to him as storekeeper.