Jim Smith stood leaning indolently against a post, when his emissary,
Bates, returned from his errand. He was experiencing “that stern joy”
which bullies feel just before an encounter with a foeman inferior in
strength, whom they expect easily to master. Several of the boys were
near by--sycophantic followers of Jim, who were enjoying in advance the
rumpus they expected. I am afraid schoolboys do not always sympathize
with the weaker side. In the present instance, there was hardly a boy
who had not at some time or other felt the weight of Jim’s fist, and, as
there is an old saying that “misery loves company,” it was not, perhaps,
a matter of wonder that they looked forward with interest to seeing
another suffer the same ill-treatment which they had on former occasions
received!
Presently Bates came back.
Jim looked over his head for the boy whom he expected to see in his
company.
“Where’s the new boy?” he demanded, with a frown.
“He won’t come.”
“Won’t come?” repeated Jim, with an ominous frown. “Did you tell him I
wanted him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what did he say?”
“That if you wanted to see him, you could come to him.”
All the boys regarded each other with looks of surprise. Was it possible
that any boy in Smith Institute could have the boldness to send such a
message to Jim! Most of all, Jim was moved by such a bold defiance of
his authority. For the moment, he could not think of any adequate terms
in which to express his feelings.
“Did the new boy say that?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Yes, he did.”
Jim nodded his head vigorously two or three times.
“You fellows,” he said, appealing to the boys around him, “did you ever
hear such impudence?”
“No!” “Never!” exclaimed the boys in concert, Bates being the loudest
and most emphatic.
“I have never been so insulted since I was at the institute,” said Jim,
again looking about him for a confirmation of his statement.
“It’s because he’s a new boy. He don’t understand,” suggested one.
“That’s no excuse,” said Jim, sternly. “He needn’t think I’ll let him
off on that account.”
“Of course not,” answered Bates.
“What would you advise me to do, boys?” asked Jim, with the air of a
monarch asking the opinion of his counselors.
“Thrash him till he can’t stand!” said the subservient Bates. He was
always ready to go farther than anyone else in supporting and defending
the authority of the tyrant of the playground.
“Bates, you are right. I shall follow your advice,” said Jim. “Where is
the young reprobate?”
“He is over in Carver’s field.”
“Is anyone with him?”
“Yes, Wilkins.”
“Ha! Wilkins and I will have an account to settle. If he is going to
side with this young rascal he must take the consequences. So, he’s over
in the field, is he? What’s he doing?”
“I think he was going to walk down to the brook.”
Carver’s field was a tract, several acres in extent, of pasture land,
sloping down to one corner, where a brook trickled along quietly. Here
three large trees were located, under whose spreading branches the boys,
in the intervals of study, used often to stretch themselves for a chat
or engage in some schoolboy games, such as nimble peg or quoits. The
owner of the field was an easy-going man, who did not appear to be
troubled by the visits of the boys, as long as they did not maltreat the
peaceful cows who gathered their subsistence from the scanty grass that
grew there.
“He wants to keep out of your way, I guess,” volunteered Bates.
As this suggestion was flattering to the pride of the “boss,” it was
graciously received.
“Very likely,” he said; “but he’ll find that isn’t so easy. Boys, follow
me, if you want to see some fun.”
Jim started with his loose stride for the field, where he expected to
meet his adversary, or, rather, victim, for so he considered him, and
the smaller boys followed him with alacrity. There was going to be a
scrimmage, and they all wanted to see it.
Jim and his followers issued from the gate, and, crossing the street,
scaled the bars that separated Carver’s field from the highway. Already
they could see the two boys--Roscoe and Wilkins-slowly walking, and
nearly arrived at the brook in the lower part of the field.
“He doesn’t seem much afraid,” remarked Talbot, one of the recent
comers, incautiously.
Upon him immediately Jim frowned ominously.
“So you are taking sides with him, Talbot, are you?” he said,
imperiously.
“No, Jim,” answered Talbot, hurriedly, for he now saw that he had been
guilty of an imprudence.
“What made you say he wasn’t scared, then?”
“I only said he didn’t seem afraid,” answered Talbot, apologetically.
“Be careful what you say in future, young fellow!” said Jim, sternly;
“that is, if you are a friend of mine. If you are going over to Roscoe,
you can go, and I shall know how to treat you.”
“But I am not going over to him. I don’t like him,” said the cowardly
boy.
“Very well; I accept your apology this time. In future be careful what
you say.”
By this time Wilkins and Roscoe had reached the clump of big trees, and
had seated themselves under their ample branches. Then, for the first
time, glancing backward toward the school, they became aware of the
advancing troop of boys. Wilkins saw them first.
“There’s Jim coming!” he exclaimed. “Now you are in a pickle. He means
business.”
“I suppose,” said Hector, coolly, “he has decided to accept my
invitation, and come to see me.”
“You’ll find he has,” said Wilkins, significantly.
“He seems to have considerable company,” remarked Hector, scanning the
approaching party with tranquillity.
“They’re coming to see the fun!” said Wilkins.
“I suppose you mean the fight between Jim Smith and myself.”
“Well, not exactly. They’ve come to see you thrashed.”
Hector smiled.
“Suppose they should see Jim thrashed instead--what then?”
“They might be surprised: but I don’t think they will be,” answered
Wilkins, dryly. He was, on the whole, well disposed toward Hector, and
he certainly disliked Jim heartily, but he did not allow his judgment to
be swayed by his preferences, and he could foresee but one issue to the
impending conflict. There was one thing that puzzled him exceedingly,
and that was Hector’s coolness on the brink of a severe thrashing, such
as Jim was sure to give him for his daring defiance and disregard of his
authority.
“You’re a queer boy, Hector,” he said. “You don’t seem in the least
alarmed.”
“I am not in the least alarmed,” answered Hector. “Why should I be?”
“You don’t mind being thrashed, then?”
“I might mind; but I don’t mean to be thrashed if I can help it.”
“But you can’t help it, you know.”
“Well, that will soon be decided.”
There was no time for any further conversation, for Jim and his
followers were close at hand.
Jim opened the campaign by calling Hector to account.
“Look here, you new boy,” he said, “didn’t Bates tell you that I wanted
to see you?”
“Yes,” answered Hector, looking up, indifferently.
“Well, why didn’t you come to me at once, hey?”
“Because I didn’t choose to. I sent word if you wished to see me, to
come where I was.”
“What do you mean by such impudence, hey?”
“I mean this, Jim Smith, that you have no authority over me and never
will have. I have not been here long, but I have been here long enough
to find out that you are a cowardly bully and ruffian. How all these
boys can give in to you, I can’t understand.”
Jim Smith almost foamed at the mouth with rage.
“You’ll pay for this,” he howled, pulling off his coat, in furious
haste.