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 at him
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 of a
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, these same 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 her pupils 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 has been 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."
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 he turned 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, to his 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 what I 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.