_MUSIC AND MANNERS._
THE boys at Mr. Morton’s Select School were not the only people at
Laketon who were curious about Paul Grayson. Although the men and women
had daily duties like those of men and women elsewhere, they found a
great deal of time in which to think and talk about other people and
their affairs. So all the boys who attended the school were interrogated
so often about their new comrade, that they finally came to consider
themselves as being in some way a part of the mystery.
Mr. Morton, who had opened his school only several weeks before the
appearance of Grayson, was himself unknown at Laketon until that spring,
when, after an unsuccessful attempt to be made principal of the
grammar-school, he had hired the upper floor of what once had been a
store building, and opened a school on his own account. He had
introduced himself by letters that the school trustees and Mr. Merivale,
pastor of one of the village churches, considered very good; but now
that Grayson’s appearance was explained only by the teacher’s statement
that the boy was son of an old school friend who was now a widower, some
of the trustees wished they were able to remember the names and
addresses appended to the letters that the new teacher had presented.
Sam Wardwell’s father having learned from Mr. Morton where last he had
taught, went so far as to write to the wholesale merchants with whom he
dealt, in New York, for the name of some customer in Mr. Morton’s former
town; but even by making the most of this roundabout method of inquiry
he only learned that the teacher had been highly respected, although
nothing was known of his antecedents.
With one of the town theories on the subject of Mr. Morton and Paul
Grayson the boys entirely disagreed: this was that the teacher and the
boy were father and son.
“I don’t think grown people are so very smart, after all,” said Sam
Wardwell, one day, as the boys who were not playing lounged in the shade
of the school-building and chatted. “They talk about Grayson being Mr.
Morton’s son. Why, who ever saw Grayson look a bit afraid of the
teacher?”
“Nobody,” replied Ned Johnston, and no one contradicted him, although
Bert Sharp suggested that there were other boys in the world who were
not afraid of their fathers—himself for instance.
“Then you ought to be,” said Benny Mallow. Benny looked off at nothing
in particular for a moment, and then continued, “I wish I had a father
to be afraid of.”
There was a short silence after this, for as no other boy in the group
had lost a father, no one knew exactly what to say; besides, a big tear
began to trickle down Benny’s face, and all the boys saw it, although
Benny dropped his head as much as possible. Finally, however, Ned
Johnston stealthily patted Benny on the back, and then Sam Wardwell,
taking a fine winter apple from his pocket, broke it in two, and
extended half of it, with the remark, “Halves, Benny.”
Benny said, “Thank you,” and seemed to take a great deal of comfort out
of that piece of apple, while the other boys, who knew how fond Sam was
of all things good to eat, were so impressed by his generosity that none
of them asked for the core of the half that Sam was stowing away for
himself. Indeed, Ned Johnston was so affected that he at once agreed to
a barter—often proposed by Sam, and as often declined—of his Centennial
medal for a rather old bass-line with a choice sinker.
Before the same hour of the next day, however, nearly every boy who
attended Mr. Morton’s school was wicked enough to wish to be in just
exactly Benny Mallow’s position, so far as fathers were concerned. This
sudden change of feeling was not caused by anything that Laketon fathers
had done, but through fear of what they might do. As no two boys agreed
upon a statement of just how this difference of sentiment occurred, the
author is obliged to tell the story in his own words.
Usually the boys hurried away from the neighborhood of the school as
soon as possible after dismissal in the afternoon, but during the last
recess of the day on which the above-recorded conversation occurred Will
Palmer and Charley Gunter completed a series of a hundred games of
marbles, and had the strange fortune to end exactly even. The match had
already attracted a great deal of attention in the school—so much so
that boys who took sides without thinking had foolishly made a great
many bets on the result, and a deputation of these informed the players
that it would be only the fair thing to play the deciding game that
afternoon after school, so that boys who had bet part or all of their
property might know how they stood. Will and Charley expressed no
objection; indeed, each was so anxious to prove himself the best player
that in his anxiety he made many blunders during the afternoon
recitations.
As soon as the school was dismissed the boys hurried into the yard,
while Grayson, who had lately seen as much of marble-playing as he cared
to, strolled off for a walk. The marble ring was quickly scratched on
the ground, and the players began work. But the boys did not take as
much interest in the game as they had expected to, for a rival
attraction had unexpectedly appeared on the ground since recess; two
rival attractions, more properly speaking, or perhaps three, for in a
shady corner sat an organ-grinder, on the ground in front of him was an
organ, and on top of this sat a monkey. Now to city boys more than ten
years of age an organ-grinder is almost as uninteresting as a scolding;
but Laketon was not a city, organ-grinders reached it seldom, and
monkeys less often; so fully half the boys lounged up to within a few
feet of the strangers, and devoured them with their eyes, while the man
and the animal devoured some scraps of food that had been begged at a
kitchen-door.
Nobody can deny that a monkey, even when soberly eating his dinner, is a
very comical animal, and no boy ever lived, not excepting that good
little boy Abel, who did not naturally wonder what a strange animal
would do if some one disturbed him in some way. Which of Mr. Morton’s
pupils first felt this wonder about the organ-grinder’s monkey was never
known; the boys soon became too sick of the general subject to care to
compare notes about this special phase of it; but the first one who
ventured to experiment on the monkey was Bert Sharp, who made so skilful
a “plumper” shot with a marble, from the level of his trousers pocket,
that the marble struck the monkey fairly in the breast, and rattled down
on the organ, while the monkey, who evidently had seen boys before, made
a sudden jump to the head of his master, and then scrambled down the
Italian’s back, and hid himself so that he showed only as much of his
head as was necessary to his effort to peer across the organ-grinder’s
shoulder.
“Maledetta!” growled the Italian, as he looked inquiringly around him.
As none of the boys had ever before heard this word, they did not know
whether it was a question, a rebuke, or a threat; but they saw plainly
enough that the man was angry; and although most of them stepped
backward a pace or two, they all joined in the general laugh that a
crowd of boys are almost sure to indulge in when they see any one in
trouble that any one of the same boys would be sorry about were he alone
when he saw it.
The organ-grinder began munching his food very rapidly, as if in haste
to finish his meal, yet he did not forget to pass morsels across his
shoulder to his funny little companion, and the manner in which the
monkey put up a paw to take the food amused the boys greatly. Benny
Mallow thought that monkey was simply delightful, but he could not help
wondering what the animal would do if a marble were to strike his paw as
he put it up. Animals’ paws are soft at bottom, reasoned Benny to
himself, and marbles shot through the air cannot hurt much, if any; the
result of this short argument was that Benny tried a “plumper” shot
himself; but the marble, instead of striking the monkey’s paw, went
straight into the mouth of the organ-grinder, who was just about to take
a mouthful of bread.
Up sprung the Italian, with an expression of countenance so perfectly
dreadful that Benny Mallow dreamed of it, for a month after, whenever he
ate too much supper. All the boys ran, and the Italian pursued them with
words so strange and numerous that the boys could not have repeated one
of them had they tried. Every boy was half a block away before he
thought to look around and see whether the footsteps behind him were
those of the organ-grinder or of some frightened boy. Sam Wardwell
stumbled and fell, at which Ned Johnston, who had been but a step or two
behind, fell upon Sam, who instantly screamed, “Oh, don’t, mister; I
didn’t do it—really I didn’t.”
On hearing this all the other boys thought it safe to stop and look, and
when they saw the Italian was not in the street at all, they felt so
ashamed that there is no knowing what they would have done if they had
not had Sam Wardwell to laugh at. As for Sam, he was so angry about the
mistake he had made that he vowed vengeance against the Italian, and
hurried back toward the yard. Will Palmer afterward said that he
couldn’t see how the Italian was to blame, and Ned Johnston said the
very same thought had occurred to him; but somehow neither of the two
happened to mention the matter, as they, with the other boys, followed
Sam Wardwell to see what he would do. Looking through the cracks of the
fence, the boys saw the Italian, with his organ and monkey on his back,
coming down the yard; at the same time they saw nearly half a brick go
up the yard, and barely miss the organ-grinder’s head. The man said
nothing; perhaps he had been in difficulties with boys before, and had
learned that the best way to get out of them was to walk away as fast as
possible; besides, there was no one in sight for him to talk to, for Sam
had started to run the instant that the piece of brick left his hand.
The man came out of the yard, looked around, saw the boys, turned in the
opposite direction, and then turned up an alley that passed one side of
the school-house.
He could not have done worse; for no one lived on the alley, so any
mischievous boy could tease him without fear of detection. He had gone
but a few steps when Sam, who had hidden in a garden on the same alley,
rose beside a fence, and threw a stick, which struck the organ. The man
stopped, turned around, saw the whole crowd of boys slowly following,
supposed some one of them was his assailant, threw the stick swiftly at
the party, and then started to run. No one was hit, but the mere sight
of a frightened man trying to escape seemed to rob the boys of every
particle of humanity. Charley Gunter, who was very fond of pets, devoted
himself to trying to hit the monkey with stones; Will Palmer, who had
once helped nurse a friendless negro who had cut himself badly with an
axe, actually shouted “Hurrah!” when a stone thrown by himself struck
one of the man’s legs, and made him limp; Ned Johnston hurriedly broke a
soft brick into small pieces, and threw them almost in a shower; and
even Benny Mallow, who had always been a most tender-hearted little
fellow, threw stones, sticks, and even an old bottle that he found among
the rubbish that had been thrown into the alley.
Suddenly a stone—there were so many in the air at a time that no one
knew who threw that particular stone—struck the organ-grinder in the
back of the head, and the poor fellow fell forward flat, with his organ
on top of him, and remained perfectly motionless.
[Illustration: ATTACK ON THE ORGAN-GRINDER.]
“He’s killed!” exclaimed some one, as the pursuers stopped. In an
instant all the boys went over the fences on either side of the alley,
but not until Paul Grayson, crossing the upper end of the alley, had
seen them, and they had seen him.