A DAY OF RECKONING.
Jack’s first thought on reëntering the house was for his tea-party,
so he went into the dining-room, where he found Hannah, to his
satisfaction, already setting the table.
“Got the cream cakes?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered Hannah. “Sakes alive, Master Jack, where’ve you
been?”
“Snow-balling. We’ve had an awful fight with the muckers.”
“I guess they gave it to you, then,” replied Hannah, whose sympathies
in the matter of snow-ball fights were not, perhaps, wholly on the side
of her charge, as her home was in the vicinity of Anderson Street.
“You’re wetted from head to foot; go right up-stairs and get off those
things.”
“They didn’t lick us any more than we licked them. I threw Joe Herring,
and they all piled on me, and that’s how we were when the ‘cheese
it’ came,” said Jack. He went to the mirror and examined his cheek,
which was beginning to feel a little swollen where the butcher boy’s
snow-ball had struck it under the eye.
“I guess it won’t be black,” he said, under his breath. “Holloa!” he
exclaimed, as he seated himself on the edge of one of the leather
chairs. “My tails are gone.” By way of explanation he held out his
Scotch cap, from which both the ribbons which ordinarily fluttered in
the breeze had been torn off.
Hannah sighed. “That’s the third time this week,” she said. “Get up
this minute, Master Jack,” she continued vehemently; “you’re ruining
the nice furniture. Your mamma would have a fit if she could see you.”
The cause of this outbreak was that Jack, having plumped himself down
as described, was trying to remove one of his rubber boots by pressing
its heel against the toe of the other. It yielded suddenly, and at the
same time a quantity of loose snow was scattered over the carpet.
“Jiminy!” exclaimed Jack.
“Go right up-stairs the back way this minute. Why, your leg is wet as
sop as high as your knee,” said Hannah.
“The dam was over my boots,” he answered. “We made a bully dam,” he
continued, hobbling toward the door on one leg with his bootless foot
drawn up like a stork.
Hannah followed him up to his room, where she proceeded to pull off
the other boot. It was harder to start than its mate. Accordingly Jack
tipped himself back on the bed so that she could get a purchase with
her foot against the iron frame.
“Golly!” he cried, as a small deluge of water flowed back over him. The
boot stuck like a vise, and came off at last amid a splutter of slosh.
Hannah was breathless.
“Now take off every stitch of clothes, or you shan’t have a bit of
supper this blessed night,” she said with decision, as she turned to go.
Fifteen minutes later Jack sat waiting in the parlor to receive his
friends, looking a pattern of spruceness. His broad white collar was
set off by a cherry tie; he wore knickerbockers, red stockings, and
pumps, and his hair lay smooth and neatly parted. Although he appeared
ordinarily in trousers, his mother still made an exception in favor
of knickerbockers in the case of his Sunday go-to-meeting suit. He had
walked three times round the dining-room table, with his hands in his
pockets, surveying the delicacies, so as to make sure that nothing had
been forgotten, before composing himself. But he had not long to wait;
the bell rang loudly three times in quick succession, and promptly at
the hour set for the feast the three guests and their host took their
seats at table. They all four looked very smiling, and showed no ill
results from the experiences of the day. Bill French, apparently, had
quite forgiven Jack for his ducking, though he took a mild revenge by
observing――“Your eye’ll be black to-morrow.”
“I threw him, any way,” answered Jack, referring, of course, to Joe
Herring.
They talked the fight over in detail, and as they discussed, the good
things disappeared with astonishing rapidity. Nothing was wanting; the
cream cakes were fat fellows, and Jack showed strict impartiality and
skill in dividing the extra two so that each of the company should get
an equal amount of the inside.
Dubsy had received the wishbone of the chicken, which he carefully
picked and held out to Jack to pull with him. “Wish!” he cried.
“I _am_ wishing,” said Jack, after a pause.
The others looked on with interest while the two holders pulled
energetically to tear the forked bone apart. Not being dry, it resisted
their efforts for some moments, but at last broke on Jack’s side
just below the crotch, so that Dubsy retained the larger piece, thus
becoming the winner.
“What did you wish for, Dubsy?” they all asked.
“I wished that it might always be Washington’s Birthday,” said Dubsy
jubilantly.
This seemed to every one an eminently sensible wish, though Harry Dale
qualified it by remarking, “I’d rather have every day Fourth of July.”
“That’s so,” said Bill French. “Father’s promised me a big show of
fireworks, this year.”
“What was your wish, Jack?” asked Dubsy suddenly.
“That’s telling.”
“Of course you ought to tell,” said Harry.
“Not if I lost.”
“It can’t come true, any way,” said Bill French.
“How do you know?” retorted Jack sharply.
“What was it, then?” asked Bill.
Jack hesitated a moment. “I wished,” he said a trifle bashfully, “that
when I grew up there might be a war and I might be a colonel, like my
father.”
The boys followed Jack’s glance at the oil portrait, over the
mantelpiece, of the handsome officer gazing down on them, whose face
and dark hair were not unlike his son’s, and became contemplative.
“_He_ was a soldier, too,” continued Jack, pointing to a portrait
of Israel Hall at the other side of the room. “He was my
great-great-grandfather, and was killed at the battle of Brandywine.”
“Are all these your relations?” asked Harry, indicating the half-dozen
pictures on the walls, among which the strong features of the old Salem
sea-captain looked forth stanchly.
“Yes,” answered Jack. “The others were merchants.”
“That’s what I mean to be when I’m a man,” said Bill French. “And when
I’m rich I mean to have a steam yacht. Father’s going to give me a
cat-boat, this summer.”
By this time they had got to the puff cakes, which proved to be all
that Hannah had predicted. After finishing his third help, Dubsy patted
his stomach complacently and observed that he was full up to the
muzzle, which seemed to be each one’s sentiment as regards himself,
though to tell the truth there was scarcely anything left to eat on the
table.
How to spend the evening was now the problem. For a while a bagatelle
board sufficed for their amusement, but growing weary of that, Bill
French chanced to draw up the window-shade a little and peep outdoors.
It was a fine night, with plenty of stars, but no moon. The other boys
joined him, and all four stood with their noses pressed against the
pane.
“Golly!” exclaimed Jack suddenly, in a delighted whisper, “I know what
we’ll do.” He put his finger to his lips and proceeded to run up-stairs
two steps at a time, but noiselessly as a cat, until he reached his
room. Without needing to light the gas, for he knew the whereabouts of
everything well enough to find it blindfolded, Jack rummaged in his
tool-chest for a piece of chalk and a ball of twine. Then he started
down-stairs again, stopping in the parlor a moment to obtain a sheet
of paper from his mother’s desk. With these implements the four boys,
having put on their overcoats, slipped out the front way and carefully
closed the door behind them.
As soon as they were outside, Jack stooped and with his piece of
chalk drew on the bottom doorstep the outline of an envelope, which
he whitened and whitened within until it stood out so distinctly that
any one opening the door would be certain to be misled. Then he rang
the bell, after which all four glided across the street to hide in the
shadow of the grocer’s shop. Hannah, who answered the bell, stared with
surprise at first, and then perceiving the envelope, as she supposed,
descended the steps to pick it up, but naturally her fingers scratched
against the cold granite. A second time she made the same attempt,
but with no better result. The chuckle which Harry Dale was just then
unable to repress was not necessary, perhaps, to make clear to her that
she was the victim of a practical joke; at any rate, she bounced up
and slammed the door indignantly behind her.
This trick was repeated once or twice at other houses, varied by a
second of a similar character, which consisted in fastening a string
to the real piece of paper and jerking it away on to the sidewalk as
the street-door opened. The unfortunate maid-servant, supposing that
the wind had carried it away, would follow for some little distance the
paper flitting along at intervals, until the truth dawned upon her that
she had to deal with “them boys.”
But the novelty of this mischief wore off after a few experiments, and
the culprits arranged themselves on the sill of the grocer’s large
window, like a row of sparrows, to cogitate as to what they should do
next.
“Let’s smash lamp-posts,” said Dubsy.
“I’ve promised my mother not to any more,” answered Jack sadly.
“Well, I haven’t,” said Bill Dale; whereupon he aimed a snow-ball at
the corner gaslight and let drive. A crash of glass followed, and the
boys ran like deer until they were safe in Jack’s alley-way; from this
they cautiously peeped out after a moment or two, and, no policeman or
other censor being in sight, leisurely sauntered forth again.
“I know what let’s do,” said Bill French suddenly in his confidential
tone. “Give me the string, Jack.” Taking the ball of twine, Bill went
noiselessly across the street and up the steps of the house immediately
opposite, which was occupied by a gentleman who was known to them all
as “Stiffy Bacon.” Mr. Bacon, who was regarded by his contemporaries
as a very worthy person, had thus far been unable to preserve friendly
relations with the boys who congregated at the corner, and who, as a
consequence, delighted in making his life miserable. His house and the
one adjoining fronted on a narrow terrace, some six or eight feet above
the level of the sidewalk, which was approached by a few winding stairs
at either end.
Bill fastened the fine twine around the bell-handle, and letting it
unwind returned to the alley-way with the ball, having established a
taut line across the street at a height which would endanger the hat of
any passer. The street was pretty well deserted at this hour, but the
boys were content to wait with a patience worthy of a better cause.
It must have been five minutes before Jack exclaimed, “I hear some one
coming.”
They listened, and could plainly distinguish footfalls and the
resonance from the ferule of a cane on the opposite side. The person
was coming up-hill, and soon, to their delight, proved to be a man
wearing a silk hat.
“Now’s your time,” said Jack to Bill, who had hold of the string.
Bill accordingly pulled the bell and adjusted the line to what seemed
the proper height. The mischief-makers were rewarded by perceiving the
door open and the gentleman, who was walking rather fast, come abreast
of the twine at precisely the same moment, a consummation for which
they had fondly hoped. The unwary pedestrian was brought up short;
his silk hat flew off and striking upon the bricks with a hollow thud
bumped along the street; while the other, who happened by chance to be
no one less than Stiffy Bacon himself, encountering only empty space
and then hearing the mutterings of surprise and indignation below,
stepped forward and peered over the railing. There was a gas lamp a
hundred and fifty yards away which enabled Mr. Bacon, as he thought, to
distinguish the disaster and to divine the cause.
“What do you mean, sir, by ringing at my bell at this hour in that
condition?” he asked angrily.
“What do _you_ mean, sir, by obstructing the highway in such an
outrageous manner?” retorted the stranger, who, having picked up his
hat, was endeavoring to smooth its nap against his coat-sleeve.
“You are intoxicated, sir,” replied Stiffy Bacon.
“How dare you insult a gentleman in such a fashion; you are an insolent
scoundrel, sir! I will enter a complaint against you in the morning for
obstructing the highway and for defamation of character,――yes, sir, for
defamation of character.”
The unfortunate stranger, who drew himself up to his full height as
he delivered this speech, had such an air of injured respectability
and spoke with so much assurance that Mr. Bacon, although very angry,
peered forward a little further and exclaimed, “I obstructing the
highway? Explain yourself.”
“What do you call this, I should like to know, but obstructing the
highway?” replied the victim, pawing the air in search of the twine
which Bill, immediately after the catastrophe, had let drop so that it
lay along the sidewalk. “Fastening a rope across the street to cut the
throats of honest folk at night is akin to manslaughter. Ah, here it
is.”
He picked up the string at his feet, and, perceiving that it dangled
down from the terrace, shook it indignantly at his insulter. “There,
sir, what do you think of that?”
Apprised by the rubbing of the string against his leg that something
was wrong, Mr. Bacon glanced around him and in an instant realized the
situation.
“My dear sir,” Mr. Bacon protested, “you will excuse me. This is none
of my doing; it is the work of some bad boys who are a torment to this
neighborhood.”
“They ought to be arrested; I’d make short work of them if I lived
here,” said the gentleman, brandishing his cane. “Another time, sir,
perhaps you will be more careful as to the aspersions which you cast on
respectable people. Good-evening, sir.” Whereupon the stranger stalked
away at his previous rapid gait.
Meanwhile, the boys had been squatting still as mice in the dark
alley, almost afraid to breathe for fear of giving any indication as
to their whereabouts. The affair had exceeded in dramatic effect their
wildest anticipations, and there had been moments, especially when the
stranger had brandished his stick, during which they had felt a common
impulse to run into the house. But now that they had only Stiffy Bacon
to concern themselves about, terrible as he was, a feeling of relief
so far took possession of them, that the irrepressible Harry Dale,
unable to contain himself longer, chuckled again. Mr. Bacon, who had
stooped to examine the arrangement of the device by which he had been
victimized, caught the sound, and, turning in their direction, shook
his fist and exclaimed, “You young rascals, you!”
At these strenuous words, which were delivered in what seemed to them
a tone of terrible wrath, the young evil-doers turned and fled with
precipitation up the alley, save Jack, who lingered for an instant
to pick up the ball of twine and pull the line as taut as possible
with all his might. He could hear the jangling of the bell as he
followed the footsteps of his companions, who ran through the back
yard into the house again. From the windows of the dining-room the
four peeped once more into the street, but all was still. Stiffy Bacon
had apparently retired to his lair. After watching a sufficient time
to make sure that the enemy was not lying in wait for them, Jack’s
visitors ventured to take leave of their host, as it was now half-past
nine, and in fifteen minutes more Jack himself was sound asleep.
An hour later, Mrs. Hall returned home. Stepping into the laundry, as
was her custom every night before going to bed, to make sure that all
was safe from fire, she saw Jack’s mittens and pea-jacket hanging up to
dry, and smiled to herself as she thought of the happy day he must have
passed. Hannah, who would sooner have cut off her right hand than have
got Jack into trouble, had already reported to her mistress that the
tea party had been a great success, and smothered her own resentment
at having been made to scratch her finger-nails on the stone step.
Before entering her chamber, Mrs. Hall went into Jack’s room, and,
bending over the little iron bedstead, stood watching for some minutes
his peaceful, regular breathing. “Dear boy!” she murmured, “what
should I do without him?” She stooped and kissed his soft cheek, which
unexpectedly aroused him.
[Illustration]
“Is that you, mother?” he asked.
“Yes, dear; good-night.”
“But I’m not asleep; you mustn’t go.” He rubbed his eyes and sat up in
bed.
“It’s late, dear; lie down again. Have you had a happy holiday?”
“Bully, mother; sit down, I want to tell you about it. You _shall_
stay,” said Jack, putting his arm about her neck and drawing her cheek
against his own.
“You shall tell me all about it in the morning.”
“No; now, mother.”
“Well, dear?”
Jack was silent a moment. “I smoked to-day,” he blurted out.
“Smoked?”
“Yes; it wasn’t tobacco, it was rattan. Dubsy and Bill French smoked
too. Dubsy was sick afterwards; I wasn’t sick, but I felt queer.”
“Why, how came you to do that, Jack? You must have known that it was
wrong.”
Jack said nothing, but played with his mother’s hand.
“Didn’t you, dear?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Who put such an idea into your head?” she asked.
“Bill French. I guess he smokes lots; we went on top of his house, so
that no one could see us.”
“You forget, my dear, that God saw you,” said his mother.
Jack was pensive a moment. “And Washington?” he asked.
“Sh!” Mrs. Hall was a little doubtful how to take this observation.
“Do you suppose,” Jack went on after a moment, “that he knows his
birthday is a holiday?”
“I think very likely, dear.”
Jack was again silent. “Mother?”
“Well?”
“Bill French says that when you smoke rattan the blood is sucked out of
your lungs; do you believe it’s true?”
Mrs. Hall started a little, but a moment’s reflection enabled her to
answer composedly, “No, dear, certainly not; such a thing would be
impossible.”
“He showed us the dried blood in the rattan, afterwards.”
“Nonsense, dear. Bill French was trying to make sport of you.”
“Charley Buck told him so.”
“Charley Buck ought to know better, then. Charley is too old to tell
such foolish things to little boys. What he says about the blood isn’t
true; but it would make me very unhappy to have you smoke, Jack, until
you are a man. It’s a very bad habit for a boy to get into, no matter
what he smokes, rattan or anything else. But I’m very glad you told me,
Jack. If you had concealed it from me and I had found it out, I should
have been very unhappy.”
“I didn’t want to go to sleep until I’d told you,” answered Jack,
drawing her cheek closer to his own.
“You will promise me not to smoke again?”
Jack promised, and then laid himself down again perfectly happy, still
clasping his mother’s hand, which she did not withdraw until he had
returned to the land of dreams.
But while Mrs. Hall was dressing in the morning, Hannah brought word
that Jack had waked up covered with a rash, and that he complained of a
headache. The doctor was hastily sent for, but on his arrival the fears
of anything serious were promptly dispelled by the announcement that
Jack had a thorough case of measles. The loss of the holiday outdoors
seemed to be very nearly made up to the invalid himself by the news
that he could not be able to return to school for a fortnight at least;
and his mother, who sat beside his bed for a while after the doctor had
gone, was on the point of leaving him with a comparatively light heart
to his own devices, when word was brought her that Mr. Briggs, the
grocer, was down-stairs and would like to see her.
“He has probably come to explain why his last supply of coffee is so
much poorer than I have usually had,” said Mrs. Hall to herself.
But Mr. Briggs had come for a very different purpose. He looked very
grave and a little embarrassed as she entered the sitting-room into
which he had been shown. He was a tall and rather thin man, with a
worried expression, which became intensified as he proceeded to explain
the reason of his visit. “I’ve come, ma’am, to say that something must
be done about that boy of yours. I’ve stood it a good many years,
ma’am, and my patience is pretty much exhausted, I’m free to confess.”
Mrs. Hall colored violently. “Are you speaking of Jack, Mr. Briggs?”
“Yes, ma’am. If I may be so bold, he’s a very troublesome young
gentleman, and there’s plenty in the neighborhood who think as I do,”
he said respectfully.
“Sit down, Mr. Briggs; what has he been doing now?”
“You know it ain’t the first time I’ve had to complain,” he remarked
apologetically.
Mrs. Hall bowed coldly.
“If it isn’t one thing it’s another,” he continued. “I’m willing to
put up with their coming into the shop and purloining beans and dried
apples and figs which they don’t pay for, knowing as boys is boys; but
when it comes to”――
“What! you don’t mean to tell me that my son takes things from your
store which he doesn’t pay for!” interrupted Mrs. Hall, in a horrified
tone. “Why, that would be stealing.”
“Yes, ma’am, strictly speaking, I suppose it would,” replied the
grocer, with a judicial air. “But as I was telling you, I’m willing to
say nothing about that for the sake of your custom, provided as no more
snow is fired into my cellar. The basket into which the baker drops the
rolls for my customers is so wet every morning that they’re mostly
spoiled, to say nothing of the dents in the door from the snow-balls
and stones which don’t go in. I only want to be reasonable, or I’d send
in a bill for my wheelbarrow which some of them broke last week by
upsetting it down the area steps. I’ve told you most of this before,
ma’am,” he continued, after a pause, “and you’ve promised to speak to
your son.”
“I have spoken, Mr. Briggs. I have cautioned him particularly to let
your wheelbarrow alone, and not to fire snow-balls at your door. But
this stealing is a more serious affair, and shall be put a stop to at
once.”
“It isn’t the stealing that I care about,” replied Mr. Briggs dryly.
“But if I have to put the matter in the hands of the police, as I’ve
made up my mind to do if my cellar ain’t let alone, I can’t answer for
what’ll happen. I’ve put up with their tricks as long as I can.”
“What makes you think that Jack is still concerned in this mischief?”
asked Mrs. Hall. “I assure you that I have told him repeatedly that he
is not to molest you.”
“It doesn’t seem to make much difference, ma’am, then, for my clerk
see him with his own eyes shy two snow-balls at the door only yesterday
morning, and one of them went through. Besides, he’s a sort of leader
of mischief hereabouts. He and the Perkins boy and the Honorable
Horatio French’s youngest son are up to all sorts of pranks, and it’s
hard to say which of them is the worst.”
Mrs. Hall sighed and looked sad. She said presently, “I will make a
point this time of seeing that Jack avoids your premises, Mr. Briggs,
and if you will send in a bill covering whatever he has taken from your
store, and the cost of a new wheelbarrow, I will pay it.”
“Thank you, ma’am; I should never think of doing that.”
“I insist,” said Mrs. Hall decidedly. She felt fairly ready to cry at
Jack’s depravity.
“Then I shall consider that from this time forth there will be a
change,” said Mr. Briggs, rising. “It’s the last time I shall speak,”
he added, as he stood with his hat in both his hands, evidently feeling
it his duty to be explicit.
“Very well, Mr. Briggs. Let me say that at present there will be no
occasion for you to trouble yourself, so far as――as Jack is concerned,
for he has the measles.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, ma’am; he must have been took sudden.”
“This morning.”
“Well, I hope he’ll get well soon. I bear no malice, ma’am, I hope
you’ll believe, and if it weren’t that I thought him a smart, likely
lad, I should have spoken to the police long since. Good morning,
ma’am.”
“Good morning, Mr. Briggs. Oh, one moment. The last coffee you sent
was very poor,” she said, unable to forego this opportunity to put the
worthy grocer a little in the wrong.
“Very well, ma’am; I will take it back and send you some more.”
When she was alone, Mrs. Hall wiped her eyes, which were full of tears.
The idea of Jack’s taking what did not belong to him! Honesty was
honesty, no matter whether it were a question of dried apples or of
diamonds, and the boy who got into the habit of thinking trifles of no
importance would soon degenerate. Then, too, how often she had warned
him not to interfere with Mr. Briggs! That hole in the area door had
been a constant source of trouble ever since Jack had been able to fire
a snow-ball. What with catapults and bean blowers in addition, which
were the engines of assault when the snow was gone, poor Mr. Briggs had
ample cause to complain. It was evident that he had been goaded to a
point where he would take desperate measures unless something were done
to restrain effectually his tormentors.
This was by no means the first occasion, as Mr. Briggs had seen fit to
remind her, that she had been called to account for Jack’s mischievous
behavior; but somehow or other she had flattered herself from time to
time that the grocer was crabbed and prone to fault-finding, and that
her son’s high spirits would moderate themselves as he learned more
clearly to recognize the rights of others. But of late it had seemed
to her that instead of improving, Jack was growing steadily worse.
Rumors of his ill-doings reached her ears from various sources, and
even Hannah had given her to understand that he had been alluded to in
neighboring kitchens as little inferior, in capacity for wickedness,
to a fiend. His clothes, alternately soaking wet, stiff with mud, or
full of rents, bore silent but eloquent testimony to the recklessness
of his conduct. She felt that she did not, of course, mind the mere
rough usage, though it entailed perpetually washing and mending; that
was to be expected, perhaps, of an active boy; but his constant return
home in a draggled condition made her anxious as to the character of
his amusements. He was perpetually in the company of Bill French, whose
family, though rich, were new-comers in that part of the city, and
to whose society she would have liked to see him less devoted. This
incident of rattan-smoking was another piece of testimony to confirm
her opinion that Bill was an undesirable crony for Jack. Dubsy Perkins
and Harry Dale seemed to her less objectionable, especially Harry, who
was a quieter and more thoughtful-looking boy than most of the others
who made a playground of Mr. Briggs’ corner. As for Dubsy, he imitated
Jack in everything, applauding all he did, and trying his best to keep
up with or even surpass him in whatever was proposed.
Little by little, it had come over Mrs. Hall of late that the best
thing for Jack would be to send him to some school away from home.
The growing city seemed no place for a high-spirited boy, for whatever
he did was pretty sure to be mischief or against the law. Time was
when the Common had been an ample play-ground, but the crews of
children which crowded it now, to the annoyance and even peril of adult
persons, had induced the municipal authorities to consider whether
the population had not become so large as to make it imperative to
forbid ball-playing and other healthy sports to go on there. One strong
argument in favor of the proposed restriction was that the playground
was usurped by youths of seventeen and upwards, large and powerful as
men, who kept away the smaller boys. For a time the vacant lots on
the outskirts of the city had become favorite resorts, but these were
rapidly being occupied by houses. Only the streets were left, and boys
who tried to play there were involved in an incessant warfare with the
police. To keep Jack indoors was impossible, and she reasoned that if
the natural outlets for youthful energy were obstructed, others of an
unwholesome kind would be found by him. Nothing disturbed her more
than the thought of Jack becoming old before his time, one of the
knowing little gentlemen of fifteen, who sauntered about the streets in
standing collars and kid gloves with an eye to the girls. She wished to
see Jack remain an unsophisticated manly boy as long as possible, and
she feared that another year of city life might bring about a change in
him far more to be deplored than any amount of mischievousness.
But the thought of parting with him was unbearable. He was her idol
and the delight of her existence. At present he was under her eye, at
least for a part of the time, and could not go very far wrong without
her perceiving it. Would it be possible to find a school in the country
where, in addition to the advantages of a natural boyish development,
Jack would find also the watchful care of a home? There were, she knew,
academies――some of them large ones――to which certain of her friends
had sent their boys, but she had derived the impression that at them
excellence in instruction was the chief consideration, and that the
masters were not expected to concern themselves with the morals of
the pupils――many of whom were day-scholars who lived in adjoining
towns――outside of the class-room, unless any boy became conspicuously
disreputable. She had discussed the matter somewhat with her adviser,
Mr. Warren, who agreed with her that Jack would be better off away
from the bricks and mortar, and who promised to make inquiries as to
where it was advisable to send him. He had further made her understand
that the question had only latterly been forced upon the attention
of parents by the growth of our cities. Hitherto there had been, and
there was still in the smaller places, facilities for children to
play naturally and yet to go to school at home. Our system of free
education, which dated from noble John Winthrop’s time, had properly
been our boast, and we had, accordingly, always rather regarded it
as superior to the English system of large public schools away from
the cities, without perceiving that it might not always suffice for
our needs. Home training was, doubtless, the key to many virtues, but
there was unquestionably a more preponderating danger to be feared, to
the growth of the muscles, and to the action of the liver, lungs, and
heart, and, most important of all, to the character itself, in the
cramped, unwholesome life which a boy is in danger of leading who goes
to school in a large city.
There was another point of which Mrs. Hall had thought in this
connection. She knew that her husband had been very anxious that his
son should grow up an American, without false notions of equality, and
with pride and faith in his country. It had been his intention to send
Jack to the public schools so that he might mix early with all sorts of
boys. And yet she could remember hearing him remark shortly before he
went to the war, that it might well be a question how far, to insure
this, one would be justified in subjecting a child to the companionship
of rough or vicious boys. Since then she had discussed the matter with
Mr. Warren from this point of view. She was far from wealthy, but she
could afford to pay a reasonable sum for Jack’s tuition. Would sending
him to a school to which the mass of boys were not well enough off to
go tend to foster in him undemocratic notions? As her adviser explained
to her, it would be folly to assume that because free education was
open to all for the sake of the poor, all were obliged to take
advantage of it in order not to be regarded as aristocrats. As well say
that a man was no lover of republicanism because he lived in a more
expensive house than his neighbor.