It was on an afternoon late in January that the flag was finally presented to the school. It was a day marked with fierce winds and flurries of snow, like a day in March.
But the inclement weather did not prevent people from coming to the presentation exercises. The school room was full; even the aisles were filled, and more than one late-comer was turned away because there was no more room.
Notwithstanding the fact that the Riverbeds were to have the lion's share of the honors of the occasion, and the further fact that resentment in the ranks of the Hilltops ran strong and deep, and doubly so since the outwitting of their leader, no attempt was made to block the program, or to interfere, in any way, with the success of the occasion.
There were, indeed, some secret whisperings in a little group of which Elmer Cuddebackwas the center; but, if any mischief was brewing, Pen did not know of it.
Moreover, was it not Pen's grandfather who had given the flag, and who was to be the chief guest of the school, and was it not up to the Hilltops to see that he was treated with becoming courtesy? At any rate that was the "consensus of opinion" among them. Colonel Butler had prepared his presentation speech with great care. Twice he had read it aloud in his library to his grandson and to his daughter Millicent.
His grandson had only favorable comment to make, but his daughter Millicent criticised it sharply. She said that it was twice too long, that it had too much "spread eagle" in it, and that it would be away over the heads of his audience anyway. So the colonel modified it somewhat; but, unfortunately, he neither made it simpler nor appreciably shorter.
Aleck, too, under the supervision of his teacher, had prepared a fitting and patriotic response which he had committed to memory and had rehearsed many times. Pupils taking part in the rest of the program had beencarefully and patiently drilled, and every one looked forward to an occasion which would be marked as a red-letter day in the history of the Chestnut Hill school.
The exercises opened with the singing of "The Star Spangled Banner," by the school. There was a brief prayer by the pastor of one of the village churches. Next came a recitation, "Barbara Frietchie," by a small girl. Then another girl read a brief history of the American flag. She was followed by James Garfield Morrissey, the crack elocutionist of the school, who recited, in fine form, a well-known patriotic poem, written to commemorate the heroism of American sailors who cheered the flag as they went down with the sinking flag-shipTrentonin a hurricane which swept the Samoan coast in 1889.
THE BANNER OF THE SEABy wind and wave the sailor brave has faredTo shores of every sea;But, never yet have seamen met or daredGrim death for victory,In braver mood than they who diedOn drifting decks in Apia's tideWhile cheering every sailor's pride,The Banner of the Free.Columbia's men were they who then went down,Not knights nor kings of old;But brighter far their laurels are than crownOr coronet of gold.Our sailor true, of any crew,Would give the last long breath he drewTo cheer the old Red, White and Blue,The Banner of the Bold.With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame,Columbia's seamen longHave bravely fought and nobly wrought that shameMight never dull their song.They sing the Country of the Free,The glory of the rolling sea,The starry flag of liberty,The Banner of the Strong.We ask but this, and not amiss the claim;A fleet to ride the wave,A navy great to crown the state with fame,Though foes or tempests rave.Then, as our fathers did of yore,We'll sail our ships to every shore,On every ocean wind will soarThe Banner of the Brave.Oh! this we claim that never shame may rideOn any wave with thee,Thou ship of state whose timbers great abideThe home of liberty.For, so, our gallant Yankee tars,Of daring deeds and honored scars,Will make the Banner of the StarsThe Banner of the Sea.
THE BANNER OF THE SEA
By wind and wave the sailor brave has faredTo shores of every sea;But, never yet have seamen met or daredGrim death for victory,In braver mood than they who diedOn drifting decks in Apia's tideWhile cheering every sailor's pride,The Banner of the Free.
Columbia's men were they who then went down,Not knights nor kings of old;But brighter far their laurels are than crownOr coronet of gold.Our sailor true, of any crew,Would give the last long breath he drewTo cheer the old Red, White and Blue,The Banner of the Bold.
With hearts of oak, through storm and smoke and flame,Columbia's seamen longHave bravely fought and nobly wrought that shameMight never dull their song.They sing the Country of the Free,The glory of the rolling sea,The starry flag of liberty,The Banner of the Strong.
We ask but this, and not amiss the claim;A fleet to ride the wave,A navy great to crown the state with fame,Though foes or tempests rave.Then, as our fathers did of yore,We'll sail our ships to every shore,On every ocean wind will soarThe Banner of the Brave.
Oh! this we claim that never shame may rideOn any wave with thee,Thou ship of state whose timbers great abideThe home of liberty.For, so, our gallant Yankee tars,Of daring deeds and honored scars,Will make the Banner of the StarsThe Banner of the Sea.
The school having been roused to a proper pitch of enthusiasm by the reading of these verses, Colonel Butler rose in an atmosphere already surcharged with patriotism to make hispresentation speech. Hearty applause greeted the colonel, for, notwithstanding his well-known idiosyncrasies, he was extremely popular in Chestnut Hill. He had been a brave soldier, an exemplary neighbor, a prominent and public-spirited citizen. Why should he not receive a generous welcome? He graciously bowed his acknowledgment, and when the hand-clapping ceased he began:
"Honored teachers, diligent pupils, faithful directors, patriotic citizens, and friends. This is a most momentous occasion. We are met to-day to do honor to the flag of our country, a flag for which—and I say it with pardonable pride—I, myself, have fought on many a bloody and well-known field."
There was a round of applause.
The colonel's face flushed with pleasure, his voice rose and expanded, and in many a well-rounded phrase and burst of eloquence he appealed to the latent patriotism of his hearers.
At the end of fifteen minutes he glanced at his watch which was lying on a table at his side, and then looked at his daughter Millicentwho was occupying a chair in the front row as she had said she would. She frowned at him forbiddingly. But he was as yet scarcely half through his speech. He picked up his manuscript from the table and glanced at it, and then looked appealingly at her. She was obdurate. She held a warning forefinger in the air.
"I am reminded," he said, "by one in the audience whose judgment I am bound to respect, that the time allotted to me in this program has nearly elapsed."
"Fully elapsed," whispered his daughter with pursed lips, in such manner that, looking at her, he could not fail to catch the words.
"Therefore," continued the colonel, with a sigh, "I must hasten to my conclusion. I wish to acknowledge my deep indebtedness to your faithful teacher, Miss Grey, by reason of whose patriotic initiative the opportunity was presented to me to make this gift. I wish also to commend the vigilance and effort of the young gentleman who brought the matter to my immediate and personal attention, and who, I am informed, will fittingly and eloquently respondto this brief and somewhat unsatisfactory address, Master Alexander Sands."
Back somewhere in the audience, at the sound of the name, there was an audible sniff which was immediately drowned by loud hand-clapping on the part of the Riverbeds. But Colonel Butler was not yet quite through. Avoiding any ominous look which might have been aimed at him by his daughter, he hurried on:
"And now, in conclusion, as I turn this flag over into your custody, let me charge you to guard it with exceeding care. It should be treated with reverence because it symbolizes our common country. Whoever regards it with indifference has no patriotic blood in his veins. Whoever lays wanton hands on it is a traitor to it. And whoever insults or defames it in any way, deserves, and will receive, the open scorn and lasting contempt of all his countrymen. Ladies and gentlemen, I have done."
The colonel resumed his seat amid a roar of applause, and when it had subsided Miss Grey arose to introduce the respondent.
"This beautiful flag," she said, "will now be accepted, on behalf of the school, in an address by one of our pupils: Master Alexander Sands."
Aleck arose and made his way to the platform. The Riverbeds applauded him vigorously, and the guests mildly, as he went. He started out bravely enough on his speech.
"Colonel Butler, teachers and guests: It gives me pleasure, on behalf of the Chestnut Hill public school, to accept this beautiful flag—"
He made a sweeping gesture toward the right-hand corner of the platform, as he had done at rehearsals, only to discover that the flag had, at the last moment, been shifted to the left-hand corner, and he had, perforce, to turn and repeat his gesture in that direction. There was nothing particularly disconcerting about this, but it broke the continuity of his effort, it interfered with his memory, he halted, colored, and cudgeled his brains to find what came next. Back, in the rear of the room, where the Hilltops were gathered, there was an audible snicker; but Aleck was too busy tohear it, and Miss Grey, prepared for just such an emergency as this, glanced at a manuscript she had in her hand, and prompted him:
"So graciously given to us—"
Aleck caught the words and went on:
"—so graciously given to us by our honored townsman and patriotic citizen, Colonel Richard Butler."
Another pause. Again Miss Grey came to the rescue.
"No words of mine—" she said.
"No words of mine," repeated Aleck.
"Sure, they're no words of yours," said some one in a stage-whisper, far down in the audience.
Suspicion pointed to Elmer Cuddeback, but he stood there against the wall, with such an innocent, sober look on his round face, that people thought they must be mistaken. The words had not failed to reach to the platform, however, and Miss Grey, more troubled than before, again had recourse to her manuscript for the benefit of Aleck, who was floundering more deeply than ever in the bogs of memory.
"—can properly express—"
"—can properly express—"
Another pause. Again the voice back by the wall:
"Express broke down; take local."
The situation was growing desperate. Miss Grey was almost at her wit's end. Then a bright idea struck her. She thrust the manuscript into Aleck's hand.
"Oh, Aleck," she exclaimed, "take it and read it!"
He grasped it like the proverbial drowning man, turned it upside down and right side up, but failed to find the place where he had left off.
Aleck Turned it Upside Down and Rightside Up, But Failed to Find the PlaceAleck Turned it Upside Down and Rightside Up, But Failed to Find the Place
Again the insistent, high-pitched whisper from the rear, breaking distinctly into the embarrassing silence:
"Can't read it, cause teacher wrote it."
This was the last straw. Slow to wrath as he always was, Aleck had thus far kept his temper. But this charge filled him with sudden anger and resentment. He turned his eyes, blazing with fury, toward the boy by the rear wall, whom he knew was baiting him, and shouted:
"That's a lie, Elmer Cuddeback, and you know it!"
At once confusion reigned. People stood up and looked around to get a possible glimpse of the object of Aleck's denunciation. Some one cried: "Put him out!"
Two or three members of the Riverbeds started threateningly toward Elmer, and his friends struggled to get closer to him. An excitable woman in the audience screamed. Miss Grey was pounding vigorously with her gavel, but to no effect. Then Colonel Butler himself took matters in hand. He rose to his feet, stretched out his arm, and shouted:
"Order! Order! Resume your seats!"
People sat down again. The belligerent boys halted in their tracks. Everyone felt that the colonel must be obeyed. He waited, in commanding attitude, until order had been restored, then he continued:
"The young gentleman who undertook to respond to my address was stricken with what is commonly known as stage-fright. That is no discredit to him. It is a malady that attacked so great a man and so brave a warrior asGeneral Grant. I may add that I, myself, have suffered from it on occasion. And now that order has been restored we will proceed with the regular program, and Master Sands will finish the delivery of his address."
He stepped back to give the respondent the floor; but Master Sands was nowhere in sight. In the confusion he had disappeared. The colonel looked around him expectantly for a moment, and then again advanced to the front of the platform.
"In the absence of our young friend," he said, "whose address, I am sure, would have been received with the approbation it deserves, I, myself, will occupy a portion of the time thus made vacant, in still further expounding to you—"
But at this moment, notwithstanding his effort to avoid it, he again caught his daughter's warning look, and saw her forefinger held threateningly in the air.
"I am reminded, however," he continued, "by one in the audience whose judgment I am bound to respect, that it is not appropriate for me to make both the speech of presentation andthe address on behalf of the recipient. I will, therefore, conclude by thanking you for your attendance and your attention, and by again adjuring you to honor, protect and preserve this beautiful emblem of our national liberties."
He had scarcely taken his seat amid the applause that his words always evoked, before Miss Grey was on her feet announcing the closing number of the program, the song "America," by the entire audience.
Whether it was due to the excitement of the occasion, or, as the colonel afterward modestly suggested, to the spirit of patriotism aroused by his remarks, it is a fact that no one present had ever before heard the old song sung with more vim and feeling.
The audience was dismissed.
Colonel Butler's friends came forward to congratulate and thank him. The Hilltops, chuckling gleefully, with Elmer Cuddeback in their center, marched off up-town. The Riverbeds, downcast and revengeful, made their way down the hill. But Aleck Sands was not with them. He had already left the school-building and had gone home. He was angry and bitterly resentful. He felt that he could have faced any one, at any time, in open warfare, but to be humiliated and ridiculed in public, that was more than even his phlegmatic nature could stand. He could not forget it. He could not forgive those who had caused it. Days, weeks, years were not sufficient to blot entirely from his heart the feeling of revenge that entered it that winter afternoon.
It was late on the same day that Colonel Butler stood with his back to the blazing wood-fire in the library, waiting for his supper to be served, and looking out into the hall on the folds of the handsome, silk, American flag draped against the wall. There had always been a flag in the hall. Colonel Butler's father had placed one there when he built the house and went to live in it. And when, later on, the colonel fell heir to the property, and rebuilt and modernized the home, he replaced the old flag of bunting with the present one of silk. Indeed, it was on account of the place and prominence given to the flag that the homestead had been known for many years as Bannerhall.
Pen sat at the library table preparing his lessons for the following day.
"Well, Penfield," said the colonel, "a—what did you think of my speech to-day?"
"I thought it was great," replied Pen. "Pretty near as good as the one you delivered last Memorial Day."
The colonel smiled with satisfaction. "Yes," he remarked, "I, myself, thought it was pretty good; or would have been if your aunt Millicent had permitted me to complete it. It was also unfortunate that your young friend was not able fully to carry out his part of the program."
"You mean Aleck Sands?"
"I believe that is the young gentleman's name."
"He's not my friend, grandfather."
"Tut! Tut! You should not harbor resentment because of his having outwitted you in the matter of procuring the flag. Especially in view of his discomfiture of to-day."
"It wasn't my fault that he flunked."
"I am not charging you with that responsibility, sir. I am simply appealing to your generosity. By the way, I understand—I have learned this afternoon, that there exists what may be termed a feud between the boys of Chestnut Hill and those of Chestnut Valley. Have I been correctly informed?"
"Why, yes; I guess—I suppose you might call it that."
"And I have been informed also that you are the leader of what are facetiously termed the 'Hilltops,' and that our young friend, Master Sands, is the leader of what are termed, still more facetiously, the 'Riverbeds.' Is this true?"
Pen closed his book and hesitated. He felt that a reproof was coming, to be followed, perhaps, by strict orders concerning his own neutrality.
"Well," he stammered, "I—I guess that's about right. Anyway our fellows sort o' depend on me to help 'em hold their own."
Pen was not looking at his grandfather. If he had been he would have seen a twinkle of satisfaction in the old gentleman's eyes. Itwas something for a veteran of the civil war to have a grandson who had been chosen to the leadership of his fellows for the purpose of engaging in juvenile hostilities. So there was no shadow of reproof in the colonel's voice as he asked his next question.
"And what, may I inquire, is, or has been, thecasus belli?"
"The what, sir?"
"The—a—cause or causes which have produced the present state of hostility."
"Why, I don't know—nothing in particular, I guess—only they're all the time doing mean things, and boasting they can lick us if we give 'em a chance; and I—I'm for giving 'em the chance."
Reproof or no reproof, he had spoken his mind. He had risen from his chair, and stood before his grandfather with determination written in every line of his flushed face. Colonel Butler looked at him and chuckled.
"Very good!" he said. He chuckled again and repeated: "Very good!"
Pen stared at him in astonishment. He could not quite understand his attitude.
"Now, Penfield," continued the old gentleman, "mind you, I do not approve of petty jealousies and quarrelings, nor of causeless assaults. But, when any person is assailed, it is his peculiar privilege, sir, to hit back. And when he hits he should hit hard. He should use both strategy and force. He should see to it, sir, that his enemy is punished. Have your two hostile bodies yet met in open conflict on the field?"
"Why," replied Pen, still amazed at the course things were taking, "we've had one or two rather lively little scraps. But I suppose, after what happened to-day, they'll want to fight. If they do want to, we're ready for 'em."
The colonel had left his place in front of the fire, and was pacing up and down the room.
"Very good!" he exclaimed, "very good! Men and nations should always be prepared for conflict. To that end young men should learn the art of fighting, so that when the call to arms comes, as I foresee that it will come, the nation will be ready."
He stopped in his walk and faced his grandson.
"Not that I deprecate the arts of peace, Penfield. By no means! It is by those arts that nations have grown great. But, in my humble judgment, sir, as a citizen and a soldier, the only way to preserve peace, and to ensure greatness, is to be at all times ready for war. We must instil the martial spirit into our young men, we must rouse their fighting blood, we must teach them the art of war, so that if the flag is ever insulted or assailed they will be ready to protect it with their bodies and their blood. Learn to fight; to fight honorably, bravely, skillfully, and—to fight—hard."
"Father Richard Butler!"
It was Aunt Millicent who spoke. She had come on them from the hall unawares, and had overheard the final words of the colonel's adjuration.
"Father Richard Butler," she repeated, "what heresy is this you are teaching to Pen?"
He made a brave but hopeless effort to justify his course.
"I am teaching him," he replied, "the duty that devolves upon every patriotic citizen."
"Patriotic fiddlesticks!" she exclaimed. "I have no patience with such blood-thirsty doctrines. And, Pen, listen! If I ever hear of your fighting with anybody, at any time, you'll have your aunt Millicent to deal with, I promise you that. Now come to supper, both of you."
It was not until nearly the close of the afternoon session on the following day that Miss Grey referred to the unfortunate incident of the day before. She expressed her keen regret, and her sense of humiliation, over the occurrence that had marred the program, and requested Elmer Cuddeback, Aleck Sands and Penfield Butler to remain after school that she might confer with them concerning some proper form of apology to Colonel Butler. But when she had the three boys alone with her, and referred to the shameful discourtesy with which the donor of the flag had been treated, tears came into her eyes, and her voice trembled to the point of breaking. No one could have helped feeling sorry for her;especially the three boys who were most concerned.
"I don't think," said Pen, consolingly, "that grandfather minded it very much. He doesn't talk as if he did."
"Let us hope," she replied, "that he was not too greatly shocked, or too deeply disgusted. Elmer, your conduct was wholly inexcusable, and I'm going to punish you. But, Pen, you and Aleck are the leaders, and I want this disgraceful feud between you up-town and down-town boys to stop. I want you both to promise me that this will be the end of it."
She looked from one to the other appealingly, but, for a moment, neither boy replied. Then Aleck spoke up.
"Our fellows," he said, "feel pretty sore over the way I was treated yesterday; and I don't believe they'd be willing to give up till they get even somehow."
To which Pen responded:
"They're welcome to try to get even if they want to. Were ready for 'em."
Miss Grey threw up her hands in despair.
"Oh boys! boys!" she exclaimed. "Whywill you be so foolish and obstinate? What kind of men do you suppose you'll make if you spend your school-days quarreling and fighting with each other?"
"Well, I don't know," replied Pen. "My grandfather thinks it isn't such a bad idea for boys to try their mettle on each other, so long as they fight fair. He thinks they'll make better soldiers sometime. And he says the country is going to need soldiers after awhile."
She looked up in surprise.
"But I don't want my boys to become soldiers," she protested. "I don't want war. I don't believe in it. I hate it."
She had reason to hate war, for her own father had been wounded at Chancellorsville, and she remembered her mother's long years of privation and sorrow. Again her lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. There was an awkward pause; for each boy sympathized with her and would have been willing to help her had a way been opened that would not involve too much of sacrifice. Elmer Cuddeback, even in the face of his forthcoming punishment, was still the most tenderhearted of the three, and he struggled to her relief.
"Can't—can't we make some sort o' compromise?" he suggested.
But Pen, too, had been thinking, and an idea had occurred to him. And before any reply could be made to Elmer's suggestion he offered his own solution to the difficulty.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Miss Grey," he said, "and what I'll get our fellows to do. We'll have one, big snowball fight. And the side that gets licked 'll stay licked till school's out next spring. And there won't be any more scrapping all winter. We'll do that, won't we, Elmer?"
"Sure we will," responded Elmer confidently.
Aleck did not reply. Miss Grey thought deeply for a full minute. Perhaps, after all, Pen's proposition pointed to the best way out of the difficulty. Indeed, it was the only way along which there now seemed to be any light. She turned to Aleck.
"Well," she asked, "what do you think of it?"
"Why, I don't know," he replied. "I'd like to talk with some of our fellows about it first."
He was always cautious, conservative, slow to act unless the emergency called for action.
"No," replied Pen. "I won't wait. It's a fair offer, and you'll take it now or let it alone."
"Then," said Aleck, doggedly, "I'll take it, and you'll be sorry you ever made it."
Lest active hostilities should break out at once, Miss Grey interrupted:
"Now, boys, I don't approve of it. I don't approve of it at all. I think young men like you should be in better business than pelting each other, even with snowballs. But, as it appears to be the only way out of the difficulty, and in the hope that it will put an end to this ridiculous feud, I'm willing that you should go ahead and try it. Do it and have it over with as soon as possible, and don't let me know when it's going to happen, or anything about it, until you're all through."
It was with deep misgivings concerning the success of the plan that she dismissed the boys; and more than once during the next few daysshe was on the point of withdrawing her permission for the fight to take place. Many times afterwards she regretted keenly that she had not done so.
When Pen told his grandfather that a snowball fight had been decided upon as the method of settling the controversy between the Hilltops and the Riverbeds, and that Miss Grey had given her permission to that effect, the old gentleman chuckled gleefully.
"A very wise young woman," he said; "very wise indeed. When will the sanguinary conflict take place?"
"Why," replied Pen, "the first day the snow melts good."
"I see. I suppose you will lead the forces of Chestnut Hill?"
"I expect to; yes, sir."
"And our young friend, Master Sands, will marshal the troops of the Valley?"
"Yes, sir; I suppose so."
"You will have to look out for that young man, Penfield. He strikes me as being very much of a strategist."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"Don't be over-confident. Over-confidence has lost many a battle."
"Well, we'll lick 'em anyway. We've got to."
"That's the proper spirit. Determination, persistence, bravery, hard-fighting—Hush! Here comes your aunt Millicent."
Colonel Butler was as bold as a lion in the presence of every one save his daughter. Against her determination his resolution melted like April snow. She loved him devotedly, she cared for him tenderly, but she ruled him with a rod of iron. In only one matter did his stubborn will hold out effectually against hers. No persuasion, no demand on her part, could induce him to change his attitude towards Pen's mother. He chose to consider his daughter-in-law absolutely and permanently outside of his family, and outside of his consideration, and there the matter had rested for a decade, and was likely to rest so long as he drew breath.
That night, after Pen had retired to his room, there came a gentle knock at his opendoor. His grandfather stood there, holding in his hand a small volume of Upton's military tactics which he had used in the Civil War.
"I thought this book might be of some service to you, Penfield," he explained. "It will give you a good idea of the proper methods to be used in handling large or small bodies of troops."
"Thank you, grandfather," said Pen, taking the book. "I'll study it. I'm sure it'll help me."
"Nevertheless," continued the colonel, "there must be courage and persistency as well as tactics, if battles are to be won. You understand?"
"Yes, grandfather."
The old man turned away, but turned back again.
"A—Penfield," he said, "when you are absent from your room will you kindly have the book in such a locality that your Aunt Millicent will not readily discover it?"
"Yes, grandfather."
The winter weather at Chestnut Hill was not favorable for war. The mercury lingeredin the neighborhood of zero day after day. Snow fell, drifted, settled; but did not melt. It was plain that ammunition could not be made of such material. So the battle was delayed. But the opposing forces nevertheless utilized the time. There were secret drills. There were open discussions. Plans of campaign were regularly adopted, and as regularly discarded. Yet both sides were constantly ready.
A strange result of the situation was that there had not been better feeling between the factions for many months. Good-natured boasts there were, indeed. But of malice, meanness, open resentment, there was nothing. Every one was willing to waive opportunities for skirmishing, in anticipation of the one big battle.
It was well along in February before the weather moderated. Then, one night, it grew warm. The next morning gray fog lay over all the snow-fields. Rivulets of water ran in the gutters, and little pools formed in low places everywhere. War time had at last come. Evidently nature intended this to bethe battle day. It was Saturday and there was no session of the school.
The commander of the Hilltops called his forces together early, and a plan of battle was definitely formed. Messengers, carrying a flag of truce, communicated with the Riverbeds, and it was agreed that the fight should take place that afternoon on the vacant plot in the rear of the school building. It was thought best by the Hilltops, however, to reconnoiter in force, and to prepare the field for the conflict. So, sixteen strong, they went forth to the place selected for the fray. They saw nothing of the enemy; the lot was still vacant. They began immediately to throw up breast-works. They rolled huge snowballs down the slightly sloping ground to the spot selected for a fort. These snowballs were so big that, by the time they reached their destination, it took at least a half dozen boys to put each one into place. They squared them up, and laid them carefully in a curved line ten blocks long and three blocks high, with the requisite embrasures. Then they prepared their ammunition. They made snowballs by thescore, and piled them in convenient heaps inside the barricade. By the time this work was finished it was noon. Then, leaving a sufficient force to guard the fortifications, the remainder of the troops sallied forth to luncheon, among them the leader of the Hilltops. At the luncheon table Pen took advantage of the temporary absence of his aunt to inform his grandfather, in a stage-whisper, that the long anticipated fight was scheduled for that afternoon.
"And," he added, "we've got the biggest snow fort you ever saw, and dead loads of snowballs inside."
The colonel smiled and his eyes twinkled.
"Good!" he whispered back. "Smite them hip and thigh. Hold the fort! 'Stand: the ground's your own, my braves!'"
"We're ready for anything."
"Bravo! Beware of the enemy's strategy, and fight hard. Fight as if—ah! your Aunt Millicent's coming."
At one o'clock the first division returned and relieved the garrison; and at two every soldier was back and in his place. The breast-workswere strengthened, more ammunition was made, and heaps of raw material for making still more were conveniently placed. But the enemy did not put in an appearance. A half hour went by, and another half hour, and the head of the first hostile soldier was yet to be seen approaching above the crest of the hill. Crowds of small boys, non-combatants, were lined up against the school-house, awaiting, with anxiety and awe, the coming battle. Out in the road a group of girls, partisans of the Hilltops, was assembled to cheer their friends on to victory. Men, passing by on foot and with teams, stopped to inquire concerning the war-like preparations, and some of them, on whose hands it may be that time was hanging heavily, stood around awaiting the outbreak of hostilities.
Still the enemy was nowhere in sight. A squad, under command of Lieutenant Cuddeback, was sent out to the road to reconnoiter. They returned and reported that they had been to the brow of the hill, but had failed to discover any hostile troops. Was it possible that the Riverbeds had weakened, backed out, decided, like the cowards that they were, not to fight, after all? It was in the midst of an animated discussion over this possibility that the defenders of the fort were startled by piercing yells from the neighborhood of the stone fence that bounded the school-house lot in the rear. Looking in that direction they were thunderstruck to see the enemy's soldiers pouring over the wall and advancing vigorously toward them. With rare strategy the Riverbeds, instead of approaching by the front, had come up the hill on the back road, crept along under cover of barns and fences until the school-house lot was reached, and now, with terrific shouts, were crossing the stone-wall to hurl themselves impetuously on the foe.
For a moment consternation reigned within the fort. The surprise was overwhelming. Pen was the first one, as he should have been, to recover his wits. He remembered his grandfather's warning against the enemy's strategy.
"It's a trick!" he shouted. "Don't let 'em scare you! Load up and at 'em!"
Every boy seized his complement of snowballs, and, led by their captain, the Hilltops started out, on double-quick, to meet the enemy.
The next moment the air was filled with flying missiles. They were fired at close range, and few, from either side, failed to find their mark.
The battle was swift and fierce. An onslaught from the Riverbeds' left, drove the right wing of the Hilltops back into the shadow of the fort. But the center held its ground and fought furiously. Then the broken right wing, supplied with fresh ammunition from the reserve piles, rallied, forced the invaders back, turned their flank, and fell on them from the rear. The Riverbeds, with ammunition all but exhausted, were hard beset. They fought bravely and persistently but they could not stand up before the terrific rain of missiles that was poured in on them. They yielded, they retreated, but they went with their faces to the foe. There was only one avenue of escape, and that was down by the side of the school-house to the public road. It was inch by inch that they withdrew. No army ever beat amore stubborn or masterly retreat. In the face of certain defeat, at scarcely arm's length from their shouting and exultant foe, they fought like heroes.
Pen Butler was in the thickest and hottest of the fray. He urged his troops to the assault, and was not afraid to lead them. The militant blood of his ancestors burned in his veins, and, if truth must be told, it trickled in little streams down his face from a battered nose and a cut lip received at a close quarter's struggle with the enemy.
The small boys by the school-house, seeing the line of battle approaching them, beat a retreat to a less hazardous position. The girls in the road clung to each other and looked on, fascinated and awe-stricken at the furious fight, forgetting to wave a single handkerchief, or emit a single cheer. The men on the side-path clapped their hands and yelled encouragement to one or other of the contending forces, in accordance with their sympathies.
The first of the retreating troops, still contesting stubbornly the foe's advance, reached the corner of the school-house nearest the publicroad. By some chance the entrance door of the building was ajar. A soldier's quick eye discovered it. Here was shelter, protection, a chance to recuperate and reform. He shouted the good news to his comrades, pushed the door open and entered. By twos and threes, and then in larger groups, they followed him until the very last man of them was safe inside, and the door was slammed shut and locked in the faces of the foe. Under the impetus of the charge the victorious troops broke against the barrier, but it held firm. That it did so hold was one of the providential occurrences of the day. So, at last, the Hilltops were foiled and baffled. Their victory was not complete. Pen stood on the top step at the entrance, his face smeared with blood, and angrily declared his determination, by one means or another, to hunt the enemy out from their place of shelter, and drive them down the hill into their own riverbed, where they belonged. But, in spite of his extravagant declaration, nothing could be done without a breach of the law. Doors and windows must not be broken. Temporarily, at least, the enemy was safe.
After a consultation among the Hilltops it was decided to take up a position across the road from the school-house, and await the emergence of the foe. But the foe appeared to be in no haste to emerge. It was warm inside. They were safe from attack. They could take their ease and wait. And they did. The minutes passed. A half hour went by. A drizzling rain had set in, and the young soldiers at the roadside were getting uncomfortably wet. The small boys, who had looked on, departed by twos and threes. The girls, after cheering the heroes of the fight, also sought shelter. The men, who had been interested spectators while the battle was on, drifted away. It isn't encouraging to stand out in the rain, doing nothing but stamping wet feet, and wait for a beaten foe to come out. Enthusiasm for a cause is apt to wane when one has to stand, shivering, in rain-soaked clothes, and wait for something to occur. And enthusiasm did wane. A majority of the boys wanted to call it a victory and go home. But Pen would not listen to such a proposal.
"They've run into the school-house," he said,"like whipped dogs, and locked the door; and now, if we go home, they'll come out and boast that we were afraid to meet 'em again. They'll say that we slunk away before the fight was half over. I won't let 'em say that. I'll stay here all night but what I'll give 'em the final drubbing."
But his comrades were not equally determined. The war spirit seemed to have died out in their breasts, and, try as he would, Pen was not able to restore it.
Yet, even as he argued, the school-house door opened and the besieged army marched forth. They marched forth, indeed, but this time they had an American flag at the head of their column. It was carried by, and folded and draped around the body of, Alexander Sands. It was the flag that Colonel Butler had given to the school. Whose idea it was to use it thus has never been disclosed. But surely no more effective means could have been adopted to cover an orderly retreat. The Hilltop forces stared at the spectacle in amazement and stood silent in their tracks. Pen was the first to recover his senses. If he had been angry whenthe enemy came upon them unawares from the stone-wall, he was furious now.
"It's another trick!" he cried, "a mean, contemptible trick! They think the flag'll save 'em but it won't! Come on! We'll show 'em!"
He started toward the advancing column, firing his first snowball as he went; a snowball that flattened and spattered against the flag-covered breast of Aleck Sands. But his soldiers did not follow him. No leader, however magnetic, could have induced them to assault a body of troops marching under the protecting folds of the American flag. They revered the colors, and they stood fast in their places. Pen leaped the ditch, and, finding himself alone, stopped to look back.
"What's the matter?" he cried. "Are you all afraid?"
"It's the flag," answered Elmer Cuddeback, "and I won't fight anybody that carries it."
"Nor I," said Jimmie Morrissey.
"Nor I;" "Nor I," echoed one after another.
Then, indeed, Pen's temper went to fever heat. He faced his own troops and denounced them.
"Traitors!" he yelled. "Cowards! every one of you! To be scared by a mere piece of bunting! Babies! Go home and have your mothers put you to bed! I'll fight 'em single-handed!"
He was as good as his word. He plunged toward the head of the column, which had already reached the middle of the public road.
"Don't you dare to touch the flag!" cried Aleck.
"And don't you dare to tell me what I shall not touch," retorted Pen. "Drop it, or I'll tear it off of you."
But Aleck only drew the folds more tightly about him and braced himself for the onset. He clutched the staff with one hand; and the other hand, duly clenched, he thrust into his adversary's face. For a moment Pen was staggered by the blow, then he gathered himself together and leaped upon his opponent. The fight was on: fast and furious. The followers of each leader, appalled at the fierceness of the combat, stood as though frozen in their places. The flag, clutched by both fighters, was in danger of being torn from end to end. Then came the clinch. Gripping, writhing, twisting, tangled in the colors, the lithe young bodies wavered to their fall. And when they fell the flag fell with them, into the grime and slush of the road. In an instant Pen was on his feet again, but Aleck did not rise. He pulled himself slowly to his elbow and looked around him as though half-dazed.
That Pen was the victor there was no doubt. His face streaked with blood and distorted with passion, he stood there and glared triumphantly on friend and foe alike. That he was standing on the flag mattered little to him in that moment. He was like one crazed. Some one shouted to him:
"Get off the flag! You're standing on it!"
"What's that to you?" he yelled back. "I'll stand where I like!"
"It's the flag of your country. Get off of it!"
"What do I care for my country or for you. I've won this fight, single-handed, in spite ofany flag, or any country, or any coward here, and I'll stand where I choose!"
He stood fast in his place and glared defiantly about him, and in all the company there was not one who dared approach him.
But it was only for a moment. Some impulse moved him to look down. Under his heels the white stars on their blue field were being ground into the mire. A sudden revulsion of feeling swept over him, a sense of horror at his own conduct. His arms fell to his sides. His face paled till the blood splashes on it stood out startlingly distinct. He moved slowly and carefully backward till the folds of the banner were no longer under his feet. He cast one fleeting glance at his worsted adversary who was still half-lying, half-sitting, with the flag under his elbows, then, his passion quenched, shame and remorse over his unpatriotic conduct filling his heart, without another word he turned his back on his companions, thrust his bleeding hands into his pockets, and started up the road, toward home; his one thought being to leave as quickly and quietly as possible the scene of his disgrace. No onefollowed him, no one called after him; he went alone. He was hatless and ragged. His rain-soaked garments clung to him with an indescribable chill. The fire of his anger had burned itself out, and had left in its place the ashes of despondency and despair. Yet, even in that hour of depression and self-accusation, he did not dream of the far-reaching consequences of this one unpremeditated act of inexcusable folly of which he had just been guilty. He bent down and gathered some wet snow into his hands and bathed his face, and sopped it half dry with his handkerchief, already soaked. Then, not caring, in his condition, to show himself on the main street of the village, he crossed over to the lane that skirted the out-lots, and went thence by a circuitous and little traveled route, to Bannerhall.
In the meantime, back in the road by the school-house, Aleck Sands had picked himself up, still a little dazed, but not seriously hurt, and soldiers who had recently faced each other in battle came with unanimity to the rescue of the flag. Hilltops and Riverbeds alike, all differences and enmities forgotten in this newcrisis, they joined in gathering up the wet and muddy folds, and in bearing them to the warmth and shelter of the school-house. Here they washed out the stains, and stretched the banner out to dry, and at dusk, exhausted and sobered by the events of the day, with serious faces and apprehensive hearts, they went to their several homes.