When Pen reached home on that afternoon after the battle of Chestnut Hill, he found that his Aunt Millicent was out, and that his grandfather had not yet returned from Lowbridge, the county seat, fourteen miles away. He had therefore an opportunity, unseen and unquestioned, to change his wet clothing for dry, and to bathe and anoint and otherwise care for his cuts and bruises. When it was all done he went down to the library and lighted the gas, and found a book and tried to read. But the words he read were meaningless. Try as he would he could not keep his mind on the printed page. Nor was it so much the snowball fight that occupied his thoughts. He was not now exulting at any victory he had obtained over his foes. He was not even dwelling on the strategy and trickery displayed by Aleck Sands and his followers in seeking protection under the folds of the flag; strategy and trickery which had led so swiftly and sharply to his own undoing. It was his conduct in that last, fierce moment of the fight that was blazoned constantly before his eyes with ever increasing strength of accusation. To think that he, Penfield Butler, grandson of the owner of Bannerhall, had permitted himself, in a moment of passion, no matter what the provocation, to grind his country's flag into the slush under his heels; the very flag given by his grandfather to the school of which he was himself a member. How should he ever square himself with Colonel Richard Butler? How should he ever make it right with Miss Grey? How should he ever satisfy his own accusing conscience? Excuses for his conduct were plenty enough indeed; his excitement, his provocation, his freedom from malice; he marshalled them in orderly array; but, under the cold logic of events, one by one they crumbled and fell away. More and more heavily, more and more depressingly the enormity of his offense weighed upon him as he considered it, and what the outcome of it all would be he did not even dare to conjecture.
At half past five his Aunt Millicent returned. She looked in at him from the hall, greeted him pleasantly, said something about the miserable weather, and then went on about her household duties.
Dinner had been waiting for fifteen minutes before Colonel Butler reached home, and, in the mild excitement attendant upon his return, Pen's injuries escaped notice. But, at the dinner-table, under the brightness of the hanging lamps, he could no longer conceal his condition. Aunt Millicent was the first to discover it.
"Why, Pen!" she exclaimed, "what on earth has happened to you?"
And Pen answered, frankly enough:
"I've been in a snowball fight, Aunt Milly."
"Well, I should say so!" she replied. "Your face is a perfect sight. Father, just look at Pen's face."
Colonel Butler adjusted his eye-glasses deliberately, and looked as he was bidden to do.
"Some rather severe contusions," he remarked. "A bit painful, Penfield?"
"Not so very," replied Pen, "I washed 'em off and put on some Pond's extract, and some court-plaster, and I guess they'll be all right."
The colonel was still looking at Pen's wounds, and smiling as he looked.
"The nature of the injuries," he said, "indicates that the fighting must have been somewhat strenuous. But honorable scars, won on the field of battle, are something in which any man may take pardonable—"
"Father Richard Butler!" exclaimed Aunt Millicent. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Pen, let this be the last snowball fight you indulge in while you live in this house. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Aunt Millicent. There won't be any more; not any more at all."
"I should hope not," she replied; "with such a looking face as you've got."
Colonel Butler was temporarily subdued. Only the merry twinkle in his eyes, and the smile that hovered about the corners of his mouth, still attested the satisfaction he was feeling in his grandson's military prowess. Hecould not, however, restrain his curiosity until the end of the meal, and, at the risk of evoking another rebuke from his daughter, he inquired of Pen:
"A—Penfield, may I ask in which direction the tide of battle finally turned?"
"I believe we licked 'em, grandfather," replied Pen. "We drove 'em into the school-house anyway."
"Not, I presume, before some severe preliminary fighting had taken place?"
"There you go again, father!" exclaimed Aunt Millicent. "It's nothing but 'fighting, fighting,' from morning to night. What kind of a man do you think Pen will grow up to be, with such training as this?"
"A very useful, brave and patriotic citizen, I hope, my dear."
"Fiddlesticks!" It was Aunt Millicent's favorite ejaculation. But the colonel did not refer to the battle again at the table. It was not until after he had retired to the library, and had taken up his favorite position, his back to the fire, his eyes resting on the silken banner in the hall, that he plied Pen with further questions. His daughter not being in the room he felt that he might safely resume the subject of the fight.
"I would like a full report of the battle, Penfield," he said. "It appears to me that it is likely to go down as a most important event in the history of the school."
Pen shook his head deprecatingly, but he did not at once reply. Impatient at the delay, which he ascribed to the modesty characteristic of the brave and successful soldier, the colonel began to make more definite inquiry.
"In what manner was the engagement opened, Penfield?"
And Pen replied:
"Well, you know we built a snow fort in the school-house lot; and they sneaked up the back road, and cut across lots where we couldn't see 'em, and jumped on us suddenly from the stone-wall."
"Strategy, my boy. Military strategy deserving of a good cause. And how did you meet the attack?"
"Why, we pulled ourselves together and went for 'em."
"Well? Well? What happened?"
The colonel was getting excited and impatient.
"Well, we fought 'em and drove 'em down to the front of the school-house, and then they opened the door and sneaked in, just as I told you, and locked us out."
"Ah! more strategy. The enemy had brains. But you should have laid siege and starved him out."
"We did lay siege, grandfather."
"And did you starve him out?"
"No, they came out."
"And you renewed the attack?"
"Some of us did."
"Well, go on! go on! What happened? Don't compel me to drag the story out of you piecemeal, this way."
"Why, they—they played us another mean trick."
"What was the nature of it?"
"Well—you know that flag you gave the school?"
"Yes."
"They carried that flag ahead of 'em, AleckSands had it wrapped around him, and then—our fellows were afraid to fight."
"Strategy again. Military genius, indeed! But it strikes me, Penfield, that the strategy was a bit unworthy."
"I thought it was a low-down trick."
"Well—a—let us say that it was not the act of a brave and generous foe. The flag—the flag, Penfield, should be used for purposes of inspiration rather than protection. However, the enemy, having placed himself under the auspices and protection of the flag which should, in any event, be unassailable, I presume he marched away in safety and security?"
"Why, no—not exactly."
"Penfield, I trust that no one had the hardihood to assault the bearer of his country's flag?"
"Grandfather, I couldn't help it. He made me mad."
"Don't tell me, sir, that you so far forgot yourself as to lead an attack on the colors?"
"No, I didn't. I pitched into him alone. I had to lick him, flag or no flag."
"Penfield, I'm astounded! I wouldn't havethought it of you. And what happened, sir?"
"Why, we clinched and went down."
"But, the flag? the flag?"
"That went down too."
Colonel Butler left his place at the fire-side and crossed over to the table where Pen sat, in order that he might look directly down on him.
"Am I to understand," he said, "that the colors of my country have been wantonly trailed in the mire of the street?"
Under the intensity of that look, and the trembling severity of that voice, Pen wilted and shrank into the depths of his cushioned chair. He could only gasp:
"I'm afraid so, grandfather."
After that, for a full minute, there was silence in the room. When the colonel again spoke his voice was low and tremulous. It was evident that his patriotic nature had been deeply stirred.
"In what manner," he asked, "was the flag rescued and restored to its proper place?"
And Pen answered truthfully:
"I don't know. I came away."
The boy was still sunk deep in his chair, hishands were desperately clutching the arms of it, and on his pale face the wounds and bruises stood out startlingly distinct.
In the colonel's breast grief and indignation were rapidly giving way to wrath.
"And so," he added, his voice rising with every word, "you added insult to injury; and having forced the nation's banner to the earth, you deliberately turned your back on it and came away?"
Pen did not answer. He could not.
"I say," repeated the colonel, "you deliberately turned your back on it, and came away?"
"Yes, sir."
Colonel Butler crossed back to the fire-place, and then he strode into the hall. He put on his hat and was struggling into his overcoat when his daughter came in from the dining-room and discovered him.
"Why, father!" she exclaimed, "where are you going?"
"I am going," he replied, "to perform a patriotic duty."
"Oh, don't go out again to-night," she pleaded. "You've had a hard trip to-day, andyou're tired. Let Pen do your errand. Pen, come here!"
The boy came at her bidding. The colonel paused to consider.
"On second thought," he said, finally, "it may be better that I should not go in person. Penfield, you will go at once, wherever it may be necessary, and inquire as to the present condition and location of the American flag belonging to the Chestnut Hill school, and return and report to me."
"Yes, sir."
Pen put on his hat and coat, took his umbrella, and went out into the rain. Six blocks away he stopped at Elmer Cuddeback's door and rang the bell. Elmer himself came in answer to the ring.
"Come out on the porch a minute," said Pen. "I want to speak to you."
Elmer came out and closed the door behind him.
"Tell me," continued Pen, "what became of the flag this afternoon, after I left."
"Oh, we picked it up and carried it into the school-house. Why?"
"My grandfather wants to know."
"Well, you can tell him it isn't hurt much. It got tore a little bit in one corner; and it had some dirt on it. But we cleaned her up, and dried her out, and put her back in her place."
"Thank you for doing it."
"Oh, that's all right. But, say, Pen, I'm sorry for you."
"Why?"
"On account of what happened."
"Did I hurt Aleck much?"
A sudden fear of worse things had entered Pen's mind.
"No, not much. He limped home by himself."
"Then, what is it?"
Pen knew, well enough, what it was; but he could not do otherwise than ask.
"Why, it's because of what you did to the flag. Everybody's talking about it."
"Let 'em talk. I don't care."
But he did care, nevertheless. He went back home in a fever of apprehension and anxiety. Suppose his grandfather should learn the whole truth, as, sooner or later he surelywould. What then? Pen decided that it would be better to tell him now.
At eight o'clock, when he returned home, he found Colonel Butler still seated in the library, busy with a book. He removed his cap and coat in the hall, and went in. The colonel looked up inquiringly.
"The flag," reported Pen, "was picked up by the boys, and carried back to the school-house. It was cleaned and dried, and put in its proper place."
"Thank you, sir; that is all."
The colonel turned his attention again to his book.
Pen stood, for a moment, irresolute, before proceeding with his confession. Then he began:
"Grandfather, I'm very sorry for what occurred, and especially—"
"I do not care to hear any more to-night. Further apologies may be deferred to a more appropriate time."
Again the colonel resumed his reading.
The next day was Sunday; but, on account of the unattractive appearance of his face, Penwas excused from attending either church or Sunday-school. Monday was Washington's birthday, and a holiday, and there was no school. So that Pen had two whole days in which to recover from his wounds. But he did not so easily recover from his depression. Nothing more had been said by Colonel Butler about the battle, and Pen, on his part, did not dare again to broach the subject. Yet every hour that went by was filled with apprehension, and punctuated with false alarms. It was evident that the colonel had not yet heard the full story, and it was just as evident that the portion of it that he had heard had disturbed him almost beyond precedent. He was taciturn in speech, and severe and formal in manner. To misuse and neglect the flag of his country was, indeed, no venial offense in his eyes.
Pen had not been out all day Monday, save to go on one or two unimportant errands for his aunt. Why he had not cared to go out was not quite clear, even to himself. Ordinarily he would have sought his schoolfellows, and would have exhibited his wounds, these silentand substantial witnesses of his personal prowess, with "pardonable pride." Nor did his schoolfellows come to seek him. That was strange too. Why had they not dropped in, as was their custom, to talk over the battle? It was almost dark of the second day, and not a single boy had been to see him or inquire for him. It was more than strange; it was ominous.
After the evening meal Colonel Butler went out; a somewhat unusual occurrence, as, in his later years, he had become increasingly fond of his books and papers, his wood-fire and his easy chair. But, on this particular evening, there was to be a meeting of a certain patriotic society of which he was an enthusiastic member, and he felt that he must attend it. After he had gone Pen tried to study, but he could not keep his thought on his work. Then he took up a stirring piece of fiction and began to read: but the most exciting scenes depicted in it floated hazily across his mind. His Aunt Millicent tried to engage him in conversation, but he either could not or did not wish to talk. At nine o'clock he said good-night to his aunt,and retired to his room. At half past nine Colonel Butler returned home. His daughter went into the hall and greeted him and helped him off with his coat, but he scarcely spoke to her. When he came in under the brighter lights of the library, she saw that his face was haggard, his jaws set, and his eyes strangely bright.
"What is it, father?" she said. "Something has happened."
He did not reply to her question, but he asked:
"Has Penfield retired?"
"He went to his room a good half hour ago, father."
"I desire to see him."
"He may have gone to bed."
"I desire to see him under any circumstances. You will please communicate my wish to him."
"But, father—"
"Did you hear me, daughter?"
"Father! What terrible thing has happened?"
"A thing so terrible that I desire confirmation of it from Penfield's lips before I shall fully believe it. You will please call him."
She could not disobey that command. She went tremblingly up the stairs and returned in a minute or two to say:
"Pen had not yet gone to bed, father. He will be down as soon as he puts on his coat and shoes."
"Very well."
Colonel Butler seated himself in his accustomed chair and awaited the advent of his grandson.
When Pen entered the library a few minutes later, his Aunt Millicent was still in the room.
"Millicent," said the colonel, "will you be good enough to retire for a time? I wish to speak to Penfield alone."
She rose and started toward the hall, but turned back again.
"Father," she said, "if Pen is to be reprimanded for anything he has done, I wish to know about it."
"This is a matter," replied the colonel, severely, "that can be adjusted only between Penfield and me."
She saw that he was determined, and left the room.
When the rustle attendant upon her ascent of the staircase had died completely out, the colonel turned toward Pen. He spoke quietly enough, but with an emotion that was plainly suppressed.
"Penfield, you may stand where you are and answer certain questions that I shall ask you."
"Yes, grandfather."
"While in attendance this evening, upon a meeting of gentlemen gathered for a patriotic purpose, I was told that you, Penfield Butler, had, on Saturday last, on the school-house grounds, trodden deliberately on the American flag lying in the slush of the street. Is the story true, sir?"
"Well, grandfather, it was this way. I was—"
"I desire, sir, a categorical reply. Did you, or did you not, stand upon the American flag?"
"Yes, sir; I believe I did."
"I am also credibly informed that you spoke disdainfully of this particular American flagas a mere piece of bunting? Did you use those words?"
"I don't know what I said, grandfather."
"Is it possible that you could have spoken thus disrespectfully of your country's flag?"
"It is possible; yes, sir."
"I am further informed that, on the same occasion, in language of which I have no credible report, you expressed your contempt for your country herself. Is my information correct?"
"I may have done so."
Pen felt himself growing weak and unsteady under this fire of questions, and he moved forward a little and grasped the back of a chair for support. The colonel, paying no heed to the boy's pitiable condition, went on with his examination.
"Now, then, sir," he said, "if you have any explanation to offer you may give it."
"Well, grandfather, I was very angry at the use they'd put the flag to, and I—well, I didn't just know what I was doing."
Pen's voice had died away almost to a whisper.
"And that," said the colonel, "is your only excuse?"
"Yes, sir. Except that I didn't mean it; not any of it."
"Of course you didn't mean it. If you had meant it, it would have been a crime instead of a gross offense. But the fact remains that, in the heat of passion, without forethought, without regard to your patriotic ancestry, you have wantonly defamed your country and heaped insults on her flag."
Pen tried to speak, but he could not. He clung to the back of his chair and stood mute while the colonel went on:
"My paternal grandfather, sir, fought valiantly in the army of General Putnam in the Revolutionary war, and my maternal grandfather was an aide to General Washington. My father helped to storm the heights of Chapultepec in 1847 under that invincible commander, General Worth. I, myself, shared the vicissitudes of the Army of the Potomac, through three years of the civil war. And now it has come to this, that my grandson has trodden under his feet the flag for which his gallant ancestors fought, and has defamed the country for which they shed their blood."
The colonel's voice had risen as he went on, until now, vibrant with emotion, it echoed through the room. He rose from his chair and began pacing up and down the library floor.
Still Pen stood mute. Even if he had had the voice to speak there was nothing more that he could say. It seemed to him that it was hours that his grandfather paced the floor, and it was a relief to have him stop and speak again, no matter what he should say.
"I have decided," said the colonel, "that you shall apologize for your offense. It is the least reparation that can be made. Your apology will be in public, at your school, and will be directed to your teacher, to your country, to your flag, and to Master Sands who was bearing the colors at the time of the assault."
Before his teacher, his country and his flag, Pen would have been willing to humble himself into the dust. But, to apologize to Aleck Sands!
Colonel Butler did not wait for a reply, butsat down at his desk and arranged his materials for writing.
"I shall communicate my purpose to Miss Grey," he said, "in a letter which you will take to her to-morrow."
Then, for the first time in many minutes, Pen found his voice.
"Grandfather, I shall be glad to apologize to Miss Grey, and to my country, and to the flag, but is it necessary for me to apologize to Aleck Sands?"
Colonel Butler swung around in his swivel-chair, and faced the boy almost savagely:
"Do you presume, sir," he exclaimed, "to dictate the conditions of your pardon? I have fixed the terms. They shall be complied with to the letter—to the letter, sir. And if you refuse to abide by them you will be required to withdraw to the home of your maternal grandfather, where, I have no doubt, your conduct will be disregarded if not approved. But I will not harbor, under the roof of Bannerhall, a person who has been guilty of such disloyalty as yours, and who declines to apologize for his offense."
Having delivered himself of this ultimatum, the colonel again turned to his writing-desk and proceeded to prepare his letter to Miss Grey. Apparently it did not occur to him that his demand, thus definitely made, might still be refused.
After what seemed to Pen to be an interminable time, his grandfather ceased writing, laid aside his pen, and turned toward him holding a written sheet from which he read:
"Bannerhall, Chestnut Hill, Pa.February 22."My dear Miss Grey:"It is with the deepest regret that I have to advise you that my grandson, Penfield Butler, on Saturday last, by his own confession, dishonored the colors belonging to your school, and made certain derogatory remarks concerning his country and his flag, for which offenses he desires now to make reparation. Will you therefore kindly permit him, at the first possible opportunity, to apologize for his reprehensible conduct, publicly, to his teacher, to his country and to his flag, and especially to Master Alexander Sands, the bearer of the flag, who, though not without fault in the matter,was, nevertheless, at the time, under the protection of the colors."Master Butler will report to me the fulfillment of this request. With personal regards and apologies, I remain,"Your obedtservant,"Richard Butler."
"Bannerhall, Chestnut Hill, Pa.February 22.
"My dear Miss Grey:
"It is with the deepest regret that I have to advise you that my grandson, Penfield Butler, on Saturday last, by his own confession, dishonored the colors belonging to your school, and made certain derogatory remarks concerning his country and his flag, for which offenses he desires now to make reparation. Will you therefore kindly permit him, at the first possible opportunity, to apologize for his reprehensible conduct, publicly, to his teacher, to his country and to his flag, and especially to Master Alexander Sands, the bearer of the flag, who, though not without fault in the matter,was, nevertheless, at the time, under the protection of the colors.
"Master Butler will report to me the fulfillment of this request. With personal regards and apologies, I remain,
"Your obedtservant,"Richard Butler."
He folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to Pen.
"You will deliver this to Miss Grey," he said, "on your arrival at school to-morrow morning. That is all to-night. You may retire."
Pen took the letter, thanked his grandfather, bade him good-night, turned and went out into the hall, and up-stairs to his room.
It is little wonder that Pen passed a sleepless night, after the interview with his grandfather. He realized now, perhaps better than any one else, the seriousness of his offense. Knowing, so well as he did, Colonel Butler's reverence for all things patriotic, he did not wonder that he should be so deeply indignant. Pen, himself, felt that the least he could do, under the circumstances, was to publicly apologize for his conduct, bitter and humiliating as it would be to make such an apology. And he was willing to apologize to any one, to anything—save Alexander Sands. To this point of reparation he could not bring himself. This was the problem with which he struggled through the night hours. It was not a question, he told himself, over and over again, of whether he should leave Bannerhall, with its ease and luxury and choice traditions, and go to live on the little farm at Cobb's Corners.It was a question of whether he was willing to yield his self-respect and manhood to the point of humbling himself before Alexander Sands. It was not until he heard the clock in the hall strike three that he reached his decision.
And his decision was, to comply, in full, with his grandfather's demand—and remain at Bannerhall.
At the breakfast table the next morning Colonel Butler was still reticent and taciturn. He had passed an uncomfortable night and was in no mood for conversation. He did not refer, in any way, to the matters which had been discussed the evening before; and when Pen, with the letter in his pocket, started for school, the situation was entirely unchanged. But, somehow, in the freshness of the morning, under the cheerful rays of an unclouded sun, the task that had been set for Pen did not seem to him to be quite so difficult and repulsive as it had seemed the night before. He even deigned to whistle as he went down the path to the street. But he noticed, as he passed along through the business section of the town, that people whom he knew looked athim curiously, and that those who spoke to him did so with scant courtesy. Across the street, from the corner of his eye, he saw one man call another man's attention to him, and both men turned their heads, for a moment, to watch him. A little farther along he caught sight of Elmer Cuddeback, his bosom companion, a half block ahead, and he called out to him:
"Hey! Elmer, wait a minute!"
But Elmer did not wait. He looked back to see who had called to him, and then he replied:
"I can't! I got to catch up with Jimmie Morrissey."
And he started off on a run. This was the cut direct. There was no mistaking it. It sent a new fear to Pen's heart. It served to explain why his schoolfellows had not been to see him and sympathize with him. He had not before fully considered what effect his conduct of the previous Saturday might have upon those who had been his best friends. But Elmer's action was suspiciously expressive. It was more than that, it was ominous and forbidding. Pen trudged on alone. A group ofa half dozen boys who had heretofore recognized him as their leader, turned a corner into Main street, and went down on the other side. He did not call to them, nor did they pay any attention to him, except that, once or twice, some of them looked back, apparently to see whether he was approaching them. But his ears burned. He knew they were discussing his fault.
In the school-house yard another group of boys was gathered. They were so earnestly engaged in conversation that they did not notice Pen's approach until he was nearly on them. Then one of them gave a low whistle and instantly the talking ceased.
"Hello, fellows!" Pen made his voice and manner as natural and easy as determined effort could make them.
Two or three of them answered "Hello!" in an indifferent way; otherwise none of them spoke to him.
If the battle of Chestnut Hill had ended when the enemy had been driven into the school-house, and if the conquering troops had then gone home proclaiming their victory, thesesame boys who were now treating him with such cold indifference, would have been flinging their arms about his shoulders this morning, and proclaiming him to the world as a hero; and Pen knew it. With flushed face and sinking heart he turned away and entered the school-house.
Aleck Sands was already there, sitting back in a corner, surrounded by sympathizing friends. He still bore marks of the fray.
As Pen came in some one in the group said:
"Here he comes now."
Another one added:
"Hasn't he got the nerve though, to show himself after what he done to the flag?"
And a third one, not to be outdone, declared:
"Aw! He's a reg'lar Benedic' Arnold."
Pen heard it all, as they had intended he should. He stopped in the aisle and faced them. The grief and despair that he had felt outside when his own comrades had ignored him, gave place now to a sudden blazing up of the old wrath. He did not raise his voice; but every word he spoke was alive with anger.
"You cowardly puppies! You talk about the flag! The only flag you're fit to live under is the black flag, with skull and cross-bones on it."
Then he turned on his heel and marched up the aisle to where Miss Grey was seated at her desk. He took Colonel Butler's letter from his pocket and handed it to her.
"My grandfather," he said, "wishes me to give you this letter."
She looked up at him with a grieved and troubled face.
"Oh, Pen!" she exclaimed, despairingly, "what have you done, and why did you do it?"
She was fond of the boy. He was her brightest and most gentlemanly pupil. On only one or two other occasions, during the years of her authority, had she found it necessary to reprimand him for giving way to sudden fits of passion leading to infraction of her rules. So that it was with deep and real sorrow that she deplored his recent conduct and his present position.
"I don't know," he answered her. "I guess my temper got the best of me, that's all."
"But, Pen, I don't know what to do. I'm simply at my wit's end."
"I'm sorry to have given you so much trouble, Miss Grey," he replied. "But when it comes to punishing me, I think the letter will help you out."
The bell had stopped ringing. The boys and girls had crowded in and were already seated, awaiting the opening of school. Pen turned away from his teacher and started down the aisle toward his seat, facing his fellow-pupils as he went.
And then something happened; something unusual and terrible; something so terrible that Pen's face went pale, he paused a moment and looked ahead of him as though in doubt whether his ears had deceived him, and then he dropped weakly into his seat. They had hissed him. From a far corner of the room came the first sibilant sound, followed at once by a chorus of hisses that struck straight to the boy's heart, and echoed through his mind for years.
Miss Grey sprang to her feet. For the first time in all the years she had taught them herpupils saw her fired with anger. She brought her gavel down on the table with a bang.
"This is disgraceful!" she exclaimed. "We are in a school-room, not in a goose-pond, nor in a den of snakes. I want every one who has hissed to remain here when school closes at noon."
But it was not until after the opening exercises had been concluded, and the younger children had gone out to the room of the assistant teacher, that she found an opportunity to read Colonel Butler's letter. It did help her out, as Pen had said it would. She resolved to act immediately upon the request contained in it, before calling any classes. She rose in her place.
"I have an unpleasant duty to perform," she said. "I hoped, when I gave you boys permission to have the snowball fight, that it would result in permanent peace among you. It has, apparently, served only to embitter you more deeply against each other. The school colors have been removed from the building without authority. With those guilty of this offense I shall deal hereafter. The flag hasbeen abused and thrown into the slush of the street. As to this I shall not now decide whose was the greater fault. But one, at least, of those concerned in such treatment of our colors has realized the seriousness of his misconduct, and desires to apologize for it, to his teacher, to his country, to his flag, and to the one who was carrying it at the time of the assault. Penfield, you may come to the platform."
But Pen did not stir. He sat there as though made of stone, that awful hiss still sounding in his ears. Miss Grey's voice came to him as from some great distance. He did not seem to realize what she was saying to him. She saw his white face, and the vacant look in his eyes, and she pitied him; but she had her duty to perform.
"Penfield," she repeated, "will you please come to the platform? We are waiting for your apology."
This time Pen heard her and roused himself. He rose slowly to his feet; but he did not move from his place. He spoke from where he stood.
"Miss Grey," he said, "after what has occurred here this morning, I have decided—not—to—apologize."
He bent over, picked up his books from the desk in front of him, stepped out into the aisle, walked deliberately down between rows of astounded schoolmates to the vestibule, put on his cap and coat, and went out into the street.
No one called him back. He would not have gone if any one had. He turned his face toward home. Whether or not people looked at him curiously as he passed, he neither knew nor cared. He had been hissed in public by his schoolfellows. No condemnation could be more severe than this, or lead to deeper humiliation. Strong men have quailed under this repulsive and terrible form of public disapproval. It is little wonder that a mere schoolboy should be crushed by it. That he could never go back to Miss Grey's school was perfectly plain to him. That, having refused to apologize, he could not remain at Bannerhall, was equally certain. One path only remained open to him, and that was the snow-filled, country road leading to his grandfather Walker's humble abode at Cobb's Corners.
When he reached home he found that his grandfather and his Aunt Millicent had gone down the river road for a sleigh-ride. He did not wait to consider anything, for there was really nothing to consider. He went up to his room, packed his suit-case with some clothing and a few personal belongings, and came down stairs and left his baggage in the hall while he went into the library and wrote a letter to his grandfather. When it was finished he read it over to himself, aloud:
"Dear Grandfather:"After what happened at school this morning it was impossible for me to apologize, and keep any of my self-respect. So I am going to Cobb's Corners to live with my mother and Grandpa Walker, as you wished. Good-by!"Your affectionate grandson,"Penfield Butler.""P. S. Please give my love to Aunt Millicent."
"Dear Grandfather:
"After what happened at school this morning it was impossible for me to apologize, and keep any of my self-respect. So I am going to Cobb's Corners to live with my mother and Grandpa Walker, as you wished. Good-by!
"Your affectionate grandson,"Penfield Butler."
"P. S. Please give my love to Aunt Millicent."
He enclosed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it lying on the library table. Then he put on his cap and coat, took his suit-case, and went out into the sunlight of the winter morning. At the entrance gate heturned and looked back at Bannerhall, the wide lawn, the noble trees, the big brick house with its hospitable porch, the window of his own room, facing the street. Something rose in his throat and choked him a little, but his eyes were dry as he turned away. He knew the road to Cobb's Corners very well indeed. He had made frequent visits to his mother there in the summer time. For, notwithstanding his forbidding attitude, Colonel Butler recognized the instinct that drew mother and child together, and never sought to deny it proper expression. But it was hard traveling on the road to-day, especially with a burden to carry, and Pen was glad when Henry Cobb, a neighbor of Grandpa Walker, came along with horse and sleigh and invited him to ride.
It was just after noon when he reached his grandfather's house, and the members of the family were at dinner. They looked up in astonishment when he entered.
"Why, Pen!" exclaimed his mother, "whatever brings you here to-day?"
"I've come to stay with you awhile, mother," he replied, "if grandpa 'll take me in."
"Of course grandpa 'll take you in."
And then, as mothers will, especially surprised mothers, she fell on his neck and kissed him, and smiled through her tears.
"Well, I dunno," said Grandpa Walker, facetiously, balancing a good-sized morsel of food carefully on the blade of his knife, "that depen's on wuther ye're willin' to take pot-luck with us or not."
"I'm willing to take anything with you," replied Pen, "if you'll give me a home till I can shift for myself."
He went around the table and kissed his grandmother who had, for years, been partially paralyzed, shook hands with his Uncle Joseph and Aunt Miranda, and greeted their little brood of offspring cheerfully.
"What's happened to ye, anyhow?" asked Grandpa Walker when the greetings were over and a place had been prepared for Pen at the table. "Dick Butler kick ye out; did he?"
"Not exactly," was the reply. "But he told me I couldn't stay there unless I did a certain thing, and I didn't do it—I couldn't do it—and so I came away."
"Jes' so. That's Dick Butler to a T. Ef ye don't give him his own way in everything he aint no furder use for ye. Well, eat your dinner now, an' tell us about it later."
So Pen ate his dinner. He was hungry, and, for the time being at least, the echo of that awful hiss was not ringing in his ears. But they would not let him finish eating until he had told them, in detail, the cause of his coming. He made the story as brief as possible, neither seeking to excuse himself nor to lay the blame on others.
"Well," was Grandpa Walker's comment when the recital was finished, "I dunno but what ye done all right enough. They ain't one o' them blame little scalawags down to Chestnut Valley, but what deserves a good thrashin' on gen'al principles. They yell names at me every time I go down to mill, an' then cut an' run like blazes 'fore I can git at 'em with a hoss-whip. I'm glad somebody's hed the grace to wallop 'em. And es for Dick Butler; he's too allfired pompous an' domineerin' for anybody to live with, anyhow. Lets on he was a great soldier! Humph! I've known him—"
"Hush, father!"
It was Pen's mother who spoke. The old man turned toward her abruptly.
"You ain't got no call," he said, "to stick up for Dick Butler."
"I know," she replied. "But he's Pen's grandfather, and it isn't nice to abuse him in Pen's presence."
"Well, mebbe that's so."
He rose from the table, got his pipe from the mantel, filled it and lighted it, and went over and deposited his somewhat ponderous body in a cushioned chair by the window. Pen's mother and aunt pushed the wheel-chair in which Grandma Walker sat, to one side of the room, and began to clear the dishes from the table.
"Well," said the old man, between his puffs of smoke, "now ye're here, what ye goin' to do here?"
"Anything you have for me to do, grandpa," replied Pen.
"I don't see's I can send ye to school."
"I'd rather not go to school. I'd rather work—do chores, anything."
"All right! I guess we can keep ye from rustin'. They's plenty to do, and I ain't so soople as I was at sixty."
He looked the embodiment of physical comfort, with his round, fresh face, and the fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at ease in his big chair by the window, puffing lazily at his pipe.
So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but that he earned his keep. He did chores. He chopped wood. He brought water from the well. He fed the horse and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie in the performance of any work requiring the assistance of a horse. He was busy from morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he was up before daylight, he was out in all kinds of weather, he did all kinds of tasks. There were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, before he had hardened himself to his work; for physical labor was new to him; but he never shirked nor complained. Moreover he was treated kindly, he had plenty to eat, and he shared in whatever diversions the family could afford. Then, too, he had his mother to comfort him, to cheer him, to sympathize with him, and to be, ever more and more, his confidante and companion.
And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly all laborious activities about the place, much to his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking and dozing through the days of late winter and early spring, and discussing politics and big business in the country store at the cross-roads of an evening.
One afternoon, about the middle of March, as the old man was rousing himself from his after-dinner nap, two men drove up to the Walker homestead, tied their horse at the gate, came up the path to the house and knocked at the door. He, himself, answered the knock.
"Yes," he said in response to their inquiry, "I'm Enos Walker, and I'm to hum."
The spokesman of the two was a tall young man with a very black moustache and a merry twinkle in his eyes.
"We're glad to see you, Mr. Walker," he declared. "My name is Hubert Morrissey, and the gentleman who is with me is Mr. Frank Campbell. We're on a hunting expedition."
"Perty late in the season fer huntin', ain't it? The law's on most everything now."
"I don't think the law's on what we're hunting for."
"What ye huntin' fer?"
"Spruce trees."
"Eh?"
"Spruce trees. Or, rather, one spruce tree."
"Well, ye wouldn't have to shoot so allfired straight to hit one in these parts. I've got a swamp full of 'em down here."
"So we understand. But we want a choice one."
"I've got some that can't be beat this side the White mountains."
"We've learned that also. We took the liberty of looking over your spruce grove on our way up here."
"Well; they didn't nobody hender ye, did they?"
"No. We found what we were looking for, all right."
"Jes' so. Come in an' set down."
Grandpa Walker moved ponderously from the doorway in which he had been standing, tohis comfortable chair by the window, seated himself, picked up his pipe from the window-sill, filled it, lighted it and began puffing. The two men entered the room, closing the door behind them, and found chairs for themselves and occupied them. Then the conversation was renewed.
"We'll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Walker," said Hubert Morrissey, "and tell you what we want and why we want it. It is proposed to erect a first-class liberty-pole in the school-yard at Chestnut Hill. A handsome American flag has already been given to the school. The next thing in order of course is the pole. Mr. Campbell and I have been authorized to find a spruce tree that will fill the bill, buy it, and have it cut and trimmed and hauled to town while the snow is still on. It has to be dressed, seasoned, painted, and ready to plant by the time the frost goes out, and there isn't a day to lose. There, Mr. Walker, that is our errand."
"Jes' so. Found the tree did ye? down in my swamp?"
"We certainly did."
"Nice tree, is it? What ye was lookin' fer?"
"It's a beauty! Just what we want. I know it isn't just the thing to crack up the goods you're trying to buy from the other fellow, but we want to be perfectly fair with you, Mr. Walker. We want to pay you what the tree is worth. Suppose we go down the hill and look it over, and then you can doubtless give us your price on it."
"'Tain't ne'sary to go down an' look it over. I know the tree ye've got your eye on."
"How do you know?"
"Oh, sort o' guessed it. It's the one by the corner o' the rail fence on the fu'ther side o' the brook as ye go in from the road."
"That's a good guess. It's the very tree. Now then, what about the price?"
The old man pulled on his pipe for a moment with rather more than his usual vigor, then removed it from his mouth and faced his visitors.
"Want to buy that tree, do ye?" he asked.
"Sure we want to buy it."
"Cash down, jedgment note, or what?"
The man with the black moustache smiled broadly, showing an even row of white teeth.
"Cash down," he replied. "Gold, silver or greenbacks as you prefer. Every dollar in your hands before an axe touches the tree."
Grandpa Walker inserted the stem of his pipe between his teeth, and again lapsed into a contemplative mood. After a moment he broke the silence by asking:
"Got the flag, hev ye?"
"Yes; we have the flag."
"Might I be so bold as to ask what the flag cost?"
"It was given to the school."
"Air ye tellin' who give it?"
"Why, there's no secret about it. Colonel Butler gave the flag."
"Dick Butler?"
"Colonel Richard Butler; yes."
It was gradually filtering into the mind of Mr. Hubert Morrissey that for some reason the owner of the tree was harboring a resentment against the giver of the flag. Then he suddenly recalled the fact that Mr. Walker was the father of Colonel Butler's daughter-in-law,and that the relation between the two men had been somewhat strained. But Grandpa Walker was now ready with another question:
"Is Colonel Richard Butler a givin' the pole too?"
"Why, yes, I believe he furnishes the pole also."
"It was him 't sent ye out here a lookin' fer one; was it?"
"He asked us to hunt one up for him, certainly."
"Told ye, when ye found one 't was right, to git it? Not to haggle about the price, but git it an' pay fer it? Told ye that, didn't he?"
"Well, if it wasn't just that it was first cousin to it."
"Jes' so. Well, you go back to Chestnut Hill, an' you go to Colonel Richard Butler, an' you tell Colonel Richard Butler that ef he wants to buy a spruce tree from Enos Walker of Cobb's Corners, to come here an' bargain fer it himself. He'll find me to hum most any day. How's the sleighin'?"
"Pretty fair. But, Mr. Walker—"
"No buts, ner ifs, ner ands. Ye heard whatI said, an' I stan' by it till the crack o' jedgment."
The old man rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put the pipe in his vest pocket, stretched himself, and reached for his cap. It was plain that he considered the interview at an end. The persuasive Mr. Morrissey tried to get a wedge in somewhere to reopen it, but he tried in vain. Enos Walker was adamant. So, disappointed and discomfited, the emissaries of Colonel Richard Butler bade "good-day," to the oracle of Cobb's Corners, and drove back to Chestnut Hill.