SETTLING DOWN.
The remaining weeks of the school year passed very rapidly with Jack.
Indeed, before he had become accustomed to his new life they were gone.
After Carlisle’s peroration the two new-comers were allowed to drop
into the obscurity which befits small boys, and to find their natural
level among their associates. They made friends easily, and Jack in
his letters home described Utopia in glowing terms. The lack of a
wherry of his own seemed to be the only drawback to his happiness. So
picturesquely did he lay this want before his mother that she wrote
back that if he made a fair showing in the way of scholarship by the
end of the term he should have one, with the consent of Dr. Meredith.
Poor Jack little knew his own propensities in imagining that he would
find slight difficulty in fulfilling this condition.
But as there were several wherries belonging to the school, he was
able within a very short time to gratify his ambition to handle the
sculls. He and Horton went down to the lake before breakfast one
morning, especially to engage two crack boats for the afternoon, as
there was a great demand for them at this time of the year. Jack
started off confidently, hoping to dazzle the occupants of the float
by the knowingness of his style, but at the third stroke caught a crab
which nearly upset him and made him extremely cautious henceforward.
After paddling about a little he managed to get the knack of keeping
his balance in the cranky concern, but he had to own to himself that he
knew very little about rowing, and must begin to learn all over again.
This was rather a come-down for Jack, but he was not alone in his
discomfiture. In spite of Haseltine’s brilliant performance against
Rogers, his place on the Fullham nine was filled by convalescent
players, and he had to endure the mortification of becoming one of
the herd who practiced scrub. It galled his pride to be unattached.
That the ex-third base of the Rising Suns should be shunted off to
find equals among the mass on the practice-field wounded him to the
quick. However, he went in hammer and tongs to improve his game, with
a determination to be satisfied with nothing short of the captaincy
of the school-team at last. It did not take him long to convince the
younger boys that he was an authority on base-ball matters. He knew the
standing of every team, and the record of every player in the country,
and once a week he received from home a newspaper devoted to the
interests of the national game, every item in which he could repeat by
rote.
There is a certain number of people who argue that it makes very little
difference after all whether a boy studies at school or not, provided
he is turned out at the end of the curriculum an upright, honorable
gentleman, with a clean mind, a manly tone, and generous instincts.
While, as between the alternatives of inferior training in the way of
books and neglect of the moral character, one could scarcely hesitate
which to avoid, the parent content to have his or her son graduate
merely a good-natured, well-mannered, easy-going athlete has sadly
misconceived the proper relation between master and pupil. Indeed,
it may be said that nothing can be more deplorable than a system of
education which does not stimulate excellence in scholarship, unless
it be one that promotes it at the expense of high principle. We often
hear it said that the chief benefit of school or college is the effect
on character. Very good; but surely it is no error to maintain that
the character of the boy untrained to use his mind intelligently is
not highly to be extolled. This idea, boys, of becoming easy-going and
nothing else is a very unfortunate one to entertain, especially in our
country, where every man is expected to contribute in some way toward
making the world more civilized, and a sweeter, happier place to live
in. We need to-day the services of keen, disciplined minds in active
life, and in its quiet walks those who love learning for her own sake,
and are ready to devote patient days to the pursuit of ripe scholarship.
Fortunately for Jack――though he was slow to think it fortunate――Dr.
Meredith was determined to have as few dunces as possible at Utopia. He
was a fine scholar himself, and had to help him a corps of enthusiastic
instructors, most of them men fresh from some university. Experience
had already taught him that chronic idleness and dislike for study
cannot be cured in a fortnight. Hence he and his assistants were
content to peg away at incorrigible pupils without expecting to work
wonders all at once, but never yielding an inch nor losing ground once
gained.
This studying business was the only part of the school programme which
Jack did not thoroughly enjoy. He started off in his old way by merely
glancing at his lessons and floundering through them as best he could,
never doubting that after a lecture or two on the subject of idleness,
he would be permitted to lag along at the foot of the class without
remark. He was used to being brought up with a round turn once a month
or so, and after the scolding was over knew that he was safe to relapse
until the next time. But he could count on that comfortable condition
of affairs no longer. The continual pegging away referred to, of which
he was now the victim, was inexpressibly irritating. His masters――he
had a different one in almost every study――excited both his resentment
and his wonder by patiently trying to make him take an interest in his
tasks. Instead of being ordered in a peremptory tone to “sit down,”
after an egregious mistake, he was kept upon his feet and not only
told the answer (generally from the lips of some other boy), but asked
to repeat it, and to remember it too at the next recitation. This was
harassing, especially so when he found himself obliged to spend part of
the afternoon in the schoolroom instead of on the playground, because
he persisted in considering his lessons of no account. His little soul
was fairly in a ferment of indignation. What was the use of study, he
would ask himself. As for books, he would be glad for his part never to
see another, unless, of course, one of adventures on the sea or in the
far West. Would Latin or arithmetic make him a better oar or a surer
short-stop? Not a bit of it, he was certain of that; and so, masters or
no masters, he was disposed to let his lessons slide.
Accordingly, Mrs. Hall was made to feel badly by receiving, soon after
Jack went home for vacation, a report of his progress as a scholar very
far from satisfactory, accompanied by a few lines from Dr. Meredith,
calling attention to the fact that her son was inclined to be lazy, and
urging her to use her influence to correct this failing. She did, and
so persuasively, that Jack promised with sobs――and he was thoroughly
penitent――to turn over a new leaf when he went back. He got his wherry,
too, in spite of not deserving it, for his mother had not the heart to
disappoint him, which gives one the opportunity to suggest that perhaps
Jack had been a little spoiled ever since he was a baby. However, if
our mothers did not make light of and forgive our shortcomings, who
would? Nevertheless, I think he had been sent to Utopia School none too
soon for his welfare.
There were changes, of course, when he returned in the autumn. Harry
Ramsay, Bedloe, and Goldthwaite of the nine, Burbank captain of the
fifteen, and Hazelhurst the champion oar, were gone and their places
as leaders filled by others. Bobby Crosby was, on the whole, cock of
the school, being captain of the foot-ball team and a rousing fellow
generally. The kid, who was only in the second, had been promoted to
pitch for the school nine, and Chalmers the old captain of Fullham had
succeeded Harry Ramsay, which left two vacancies on the dormitory nine,
for one of which――right field――Haseltine was selected, an unusual
honor for so young a player.
Both he and Jack felt quite like old boys in coming back as members
of the fifth class, and entered upon the new year in the best of
spirits. Foot-ball was the school game just now, at which neither
of them was slow in acquiring some proficiency. Early in November
the autumn athletic meeting was to take place, and there was much
training among the competitors for the various events. The school
interest which had been much exercised over the two-hundred yard dash
waned greatly, however, when it became known that Louis Carlisle
had withdrawn, thereby giving a walk-over (according to the general
opinion) to Coleman, Junior. Rumor was loud in some quarters in
describing Carlisle’s action as a “squawk,” and Jack found difficulty
in understanding the reasons which the champion gave for his refusal to
run.
It is not easy to explain the origin of friendships, but ever since the
evening when Jack had acted so pluckily in not crying out when he felt
what he believed to be the branding-iron on his arm, Carlisle had shown
an interest in him. If this were not the cause that had attracted the
older to the new boy, it may have been the lack of jealousy which our
hero had showed at Haseltine’s success against the Rogerines. At any
rate, for some reason or other Carlisle had taken to him from the very
first, evincing a liking by superintending Jack’s rowing on the lake;
asking him to walk on Sunday afternoons; and, now that as a member of
the second class he had a study to himself, by inviting his young crony
to share its comforts whenever he might see fit to do so. The good will
thus shown was duly appreciated, and the intimacy between them became
marked and firmly established.
At first Jack was chiefly absorbed by and grateful for the instruction
in the way of handling the oars, and of making progress in the
various sports in which he was interested, which he received from
his new friend, so that he thought of very little else; but he found
it pleasant, nevertheless, to establish himself from time to time in
Carlisle’s cosy apartment and listen to his mentor prattle on about
whatever happened to be in his mind at the moment. Carlisle had a way
of ignoring the youngster’s presence and of talking as though he were
all alone, merely appealing to Jack in much the same way as one will
appeal to an imaginary second self, not expecting an answer. Indeed,
Jack was quite incapable of answering the conundrums proposed to him
in this manner, and much of what he listened to was very perplexing
to him. He enjoyed it, however, though he found it very difficult to
understand how anybody could spend so much time over books and study
as Carlisle did. His amazement found voice when, early in the term,
Carlisle announced his intention not to try for the school nine, and to
knock off from exercise of every sort except a daily row on the lake to
keep himself in condition.
“What, not go in training for any of the running races?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“Why not? You’re sure to win.”
“I think I am,” Carlisle answered, with a smile. “There’s no one that I
know of who’s come up since last year.”
“There’s Coleman, Junior,” said Jack doubtfully. He did not suspect his
friend of funking, but the remark popped out in spite of himself.
“Yes, I know. Some of the fellows will say I’m scared. Well, let them.
I don’t care. As I’ve told you before, Jessup will beat Coleman, if
nothing happens. I can’t afford to waste my time merely to please a few
fellows.”
Jack could not understand speaking of winning the championship of
Utopia on the running track as a waste of time.
“Shan’t you kick foot-ball either?” he went on.
“No; I’ve had my fill of games for the present,” Carlisle answered, in
his soliloquizing way. “I’ve made up my mind that it pays to do a few
things well, and to stick to them instead of straying all over the lot.
I’ve kept going at full pitch in sixty different directions ever since
I was your age, and it’s time to quit. I can’t stand it, that’s the
long and short of it. ‘Je plie et ne romps pas,’ is a motto that can be
run into the ground.”
“What does that mean?” asked Jack. “I suppose it’s French.”
“Tough on my accent,” responded Carlisle, with a grin. “Yes, it’s
French, and means ‘I bend and do not break.’ But bending is about as
uncomfortable as breaking, in the long run, youngster.”
“What _are_ you going to do then?” continued his interrogator, for
Jack like most American boys was not to be deterred from obtaining
information for lack of persistence in asking questions.
“I’m going to study, chiefly.”
“Study?” Jack stared aghast. “I shouldn’t think there’d be much fun in
that,” he added, after a pause.
“Because you don’t know anything about it.”
“I hate study,” observed Jack dogmatically.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
“I tell you I do. I detest it!”
“Oh, no, you don’t, for you have no conception what it is,” replied
Carlisle, laughing. “I don’t believe you ever did an hour’s real study
in your life.”
This view of the case had not occurred to Jack, and he was not prepared
to gainsay the statement. Something prompted him to glance around the
room at the rows of books nearly covering two walls of the den, and
the three or four poetically conceived pictures in tasteful frames to
which he had never given a second thought before. On the table were
writing-materials and other paraphernalia suggestive of a student.
“You see,” continued Carlisle quietly, “I’m fond of study. I really
enjoy Latin and Greek and history. We’re just beginning Homer, and
there are parts of it that are delightful. I don’t care much for
algebra, but they say it strengthens the mind. I shan’t go in for
anything very desperately, though, this year,” he added. “I’ve been
thinking over Dr. Bolles’s numerous lectures to me on the subject, and
have decided to limit myself to three things,――study, the school paper,
and rowing,――and not to overtax myself at any one of them. If I don’t,
Dr. Bolles says there is no reason why I shouldn’t grow rugged. It’ll
be pleasant to feel at the end of each day that I haven’t used up every
spark of vitality I possess.”
To Jack, whose ideas of responsibility were at this time excessively
vague, this sort of talk must have sounded almost unintelligible.
However, it soaked in with everything else that was part and parcel of
his daily experience; and whatever he may have thought of the views
expressed, he lived to see Carlisle’s prediction regarding Coleman
verified by Jessup’s comparatively easy victory in the two hundred yard
dash at the athletic meeting in November.
These half-yearly meetings were great occasions at Utopia. In addition
to the foot-races, which included both long and short distances, there
was rope-climbing, fence-vaulting, standing and running high jumps,
sparring and wrestling in three classes,――feather, middle, and heavy
weight,――and a tug of war between teams from the several dormitories to
end up with. Altogether the scene was decidedly Olympian. There were
so many events that almost every boy felt that he had a chance in one
direction or another. Jack entered for the feather-weight wrestling,
but only to be thrown, after a savage tussle, flat on his back, and
to have his shoulders pinned to the ground by Carpenter, who, though
a year older, was just about his size. It was a very even contest,
though, everybody admitted. He also was one of the field of seven who
contested with Jessup the two-hundred yard race, having been advised by
Carlisle to go in just to show what he was made of, and he was rather
proud at coming in fifth, being beaten by Hopedale, of the next higher
class, only by a shave. Haseltine, who also entered, was sixth, which
was a considerable comfort to Jack.
But the contests with the gloves were what took his fancy more than
anything else, and he was fired at once with the desire to learn
boxing. This was easy to do, for Dr. Meredith was decidedly of the
opinion that boys should understand the art of self-defense, which was
accordingly taught at the gymnasium by Dr. Bolles and his assistant,
to all who desired to receive instruction. There were a good many
competitors for distinction in this line, and the rivalry resulted in
some hitting and receiving of tolerably hard knocks, which now and
then bore fruit in the shape of a bloody nose or black eye in spite of
well-padded gloves. And yet, notwithstanding all this emulation, it
was very rarely, if ever, as Jack soon realized, that the combatants
had occasion to make practical use of the knowledge thus acquired,
so long as they were at Utopia. Indeed, it may almost be stated as a
general truth that the American boy does not go in for the deliberate
slugging contests one reads about as common among the youth of the
Mother Country. Unless from a spirit of sheer imitation, it is unusual,
I believe, for you young fellows to settle bad blood by a cut-and-dried
fight after the manner of “Tom Brown and ‘Slugger’ Williams,” with
whose thrilling set-to you should all be familiar. Plenty of you get
mad and in the heat of the moment slap a fellow’s face, or slang him
until he cuffs you; and then there is give and take for a few moments,
in the course of which science may get in an upper cut or some such
telling stroke; but your friends are almost certain to drag you apart
before much damage is done, and hold you back until you have cooled
down. The idea of forming a “ring” with backers and sponges “to fight
it out” doesn’t seem to occur to either of you, or, if it does, public
opinion――and by that I mean school opinion――is against you. I rather
think that any boy, whether a Utopian or otherwise, can count on the
fingers of a single hand the number of regular out-and-out fights in
the course of his school-days he has either participated in or been
present at.
There must be some reason for this, and you do not need to be told that
American boys are neither effeminate nor afraid to use their fists when
occasion requires. Lack of pluck is not a national failing. We stood
up at Bunker Hill against bullets long enough to convince our enemies
that there was mettle in us, and there are graveyards within walking
distance of every lad under the stars and stripes who may read this
story, in which can be noted the tribute of posterity to those who died
in defense of their country. There is no sort of doubt that our boys
can hit straight from the shoulder whenever it is worth their while to
do so.
I have an idea――it may be a mistaken one, though I am fatuous enough
to have faith in it――that the world in growing older has grown wiser,
and less cruel and brutish. We elders proscribed duels long ago on
the score that they were unmanly and inconsistent with the requisites
of Christian character; and dreadful as are the preparations which
even to-day are going on in so many countries of the globe with an
eye to deadly strife, there can be no doubt that civilized nations
are much less ready to plunge into war than they used to be, and much
more inclined to submit their differences to arbitration. There are
cynics――at least they seem such to me――who maintain that there must
always be wars until the end of time, if for no other reason than
to dispose of the surplus population, and that national reluctance
to engage in them proceeds from economic rather than humanitarian
scruples. But those of us who still believe that mankind is surely,
even if slowly, making progress toward a higher state of civilization,
cannot but be of the opinion that wholesale resorts to force to
settle disputes must inevitably become less and less frequent, from
the growing conviction among human beings that they are a relic of
barbarism. Already has this conviction made such headway that the most
autocratic governments would hesitate at the present day to declare war
without first invoking the aid of referees, if the matter at issue were
capable of peaceable solution.
In like manner it is fair to believe that the doctrine of forbearance
is so much in the air that you boys have become inoculated with its
spirit, and have learned to abstain from blows until every other remedy
has failed. There is no cowardice in such a policy. Mere fighting for
the sake of fighting savors of the brute, not of the gentleman. But
this is to be borne in mind notwithstanding, though I have no doubt
that you do not need the prompting: when you _are_ struck, hit back
with all your might. Be slow to strike the first blow, or to provoke
assault, but beware of letting forbearance outrun its usefulness as a
virtue. Sunday-school teachers may argue as they will, but the world
will never learn to applaud or to respect the man or boy who allows his
rights to be trampled on without stubborn resistance.
December brought with it ice and snow, coasting and skating, which for
the time being overruled all other sports and interests for Jack. For a
good four months the school was face to face with winter, which means
in this country something worthy of the name,――genuine stinging cold,
which makes boys’ cheeks glow if they move briskly, but numbs their
fingers if they sit still; and a roaring fire in the great schoolroom
in the evening, around which it is the fashion to group and sing. At
this last-named trysting-place serviceable friendships are formed, and,
in the case of Jack, an old one is renewed. December brought with it
Bill French, the same Bill as of yore, and yet developed, as it were,
in that he is no longer the street urchin of a year ago, indifferent
as to his clothes and hair. Bill has spruced himself eminently, and
is quite the little gentleman now in his cut and manner. He does not
take much part in sports himself, but he knows all about them, and is
eager to back this sprinter or that oarsman for anything from a nickel
up to five dollars, which is a fabulous sum at Utopia, as you may
well imagine. He has at the very outset created a profound sensation
by managing to retain greenbacks to the amount of five times that
sum about his person, in spite of the school rule that all money,
save a very small stipend for the pocket, is to go into the Doctor’s
strong-box for safe-keeping.
“How did you manage to hold on to it?” whispered Jack, whose admiration
for Bill’s cunning ways is still deep.
“Didn’t give it to him, that’s all.”
“Didn’t he ask you for it?”
“What if he did? It’s my money, not his. Father gave it to me, and I
mean to spend it as I choose.”
This deliberate springing in the teeth of authority was something new
at Utopia, and, like most novelties, gave its originator notoriety
at once. Jack felt proud at being on such terms with the new school
favorite, who before long took upon himself the airs of a leader
among the younger boys, with revolt as a motto. The Doctor was all
very well, but he, Bill French, was not going to bend the knee to any
Doctor, no matter how wise and good. He had come there to have a good
time, and he meant to have it.
It took Bill some months, naturally, to raise his standard. His
methods, as you know, were for the most part underground like the
mole. He did not believe in being found out, and he had no intention
of getting into open trouble with the powers that were, if he could
help it. His fad was for managing and directing, and he was content
to suggest, and to let others work out his theories without asking
for more than a tithe of the glory. Great schemes must move slowly to
insure success.
So Bill to the ordinary eye appeared rather a desirable addition than
otherwise to the make-up of the school. He had always been rather quick
at his books, and found no difficulty now in taking a respectable
place in Jack’s class, where he kept his head above water easily,
thus hoodwinking one of the eyes of Argus. Where Bill really showed
himself in his true kidney was about the aforesaid fire on cold winter
nights, when he had an opportunity to fascinate the circle snuggled
around him by hints as to what might be done if one only dared. Many
listened, and Jack most eagerly of all. Were they not Americans? Bill
argued. And when did a true-born patriot, whether man or boy, put up
with being hedged about with laws which he despised? As a proof of what
might be accomplished in the way of resistance without difficulty,
the arch-conspirator excited the envy of all whom he took into the
secret by exhibiting on his return to school at the beginning of the
fourth-class year a pair of white mice in the corner of one of his
bureau-drawers. Nor was Bill stupid enough to let them remain there
long enough to fall under the eagle eye of Mrs. Betty, who was liable
to come prowling round at any time with power paramount to overhaul to
her heart’s content. When the little creatures, a month later, presided
over a family,――another triumph for their proprietor,――it was in the
pocket of a pair of trousers hanging harmlessly from a peg.
The influence of genius such as this was hard to resist, and had
it stopped here, authority might justifiably have been disposed to
regard it without concern; but Bill was not always so happy in his
infringements of the law. He was wont to exhibit with pride a small
silver case in which reposed real cigarettes,――no blood-sucking
rattan subterfuges, but the genuine aristocratic article, which he
was in the habit of smoking when he could safely do so with the air
of a thorough-going sport, as any one at Utopia who witnessed the
performance would agree. At such times Bill was a decidedly agreeable
companion. In the first place he could talk knowingly by the hour on
dogs and horses, a subject which was imperfectly understood at Utopia
prior to his arrival. All the cant phrases of the stable were at his
command, and he replenished them by the perusal of a weekly sporting
paper to which he subscribed, and which put Haseltine’s base-ball sheet
completely in the shade. In his opinion, life at the school was tame,
and stood in need of thorough reorganization.
Much as Jack admired Bill, he was not really surprised to hear Carlisle
observe, some weeks after the first appearance of that wily youth, “I
don’t care much for your new friend, youngster.”
“Why not, Louis?”
“I guess he’s sneaky, isn’t he? Looks it, any way.”
“He’s mighty smart,” answered Jack evasively.
“I dare say.”
“You ought to like him,” pursued Jack, “for he’s a first-rate scholar.
He could stand a good deal higher if he chose to study.”
Carlisle laughed. “I set store by study I know,” he said, “but it isn’t
a free pass to my favor, as you appear to think. Strange as it may
seem, I prefer you, idle as you are, to your industrious friend. And by
the way, Jack, you have been worse than ever, lately. You must brace up
or you will have the Doctor down on you.”
Both were silent for a moment. It was something new for Carlisle
to lecture, as he would have called it. He had always shrunk from
preaching to his friend deliberately, intimate as were their relations,
preferring to indicate by chaff and indirect suggestions what might be
in his mind regarding Jack’s needs. But these few words were spoken so
seriously that the culprit looked at him astonished.
There was a reason for them. Dr. Meredith, having great faith in
the influence for good which the larger boys at a school like Utopia
can exert upon their juniors, lost no occasion to impress upon his
favorites their duty in this respect. Only the day before he had
chanced upon Carlisle strolling down toward the river alone, and had
joined him.
“You’re looking better, Louis, I’m glad to see. Your more sober life
agrees with you.”
Somehow or other the Doctor knew the imperfect joint in the armor
of every one of his pupils, and he was no less prompt to seize an
opportunity to speak a word of encouragement, than he was courageous in
probing a weakness to the core.
“I’m in first-rate condition, sir. Gained five pounds this term.”
“I wish, now that your hand is in, you’d see what you could do with
Hall,” the Doctor had continued. “I am disturbed at the way the boy is
going on. He seems a manly, spirited fellow, and I like him, but he
won’t study. In fact, he’s getting more of a shirk every day.”
“Yes, sir, he doesn’t study much, that’s a fact,” observed Carlisle.
“A word from you, Louis, might do an immense amount of good. He’d
listen to you when he wouldn’t to me.”
Carlisle had hung his head and remained silent. He knew very well
what Doctor Meredith meant, for had he not observed Jack’s idleness
with increasing regret, and yet been content to pass it off with an
occasional jest? All his talk during their intercourse had been about
himself, concerning which he could discourse glibly enough; but such
speculation as he was wont to indulge in, however suggestive to an
intelligent listener, was scarcely the sort of pabulum by which to
convert a hobble-de-hoy offender like Jack. He had been conscious for
some time of what with his disposition to call things by their right
names he considered his own selfishness and self-absorption, and this
solicitation of the Doctor’s thrust them forward into the light.
“I know what you would say,” his master had continued. “You have a
horror of sermonizing. You don’t wish to spoil your relations with him,
as you think, by being serious. You are right, Louis, in that. But I
don’t believe, if you look at the matter squarely, that you would drive
Hall into his shell by letting him see that you don’t approve of his
present way of going on.”
“He knows I approve of study.”
“Yes, for yourself,” had answered the sagacious Doctor. “Let him
understand thoroughly that it is just as imperative for him.”
“I’ll try, sir,” the older boy had answered, after a pause.
“I shall be infinitely obliged to you; and while we are on the subject,
what sort of a boy is this William French? I understand that he and
Hall are old cronies. Don’t answer if you’d rather not,” had added
the Doctor, who sympathized with the code of honor which prompts a
schoolboy to abstain from speaking ill of one of his companions.
“He doesn’t seem to me very straightforward,” had blurted out
Carlisle, instigated perhaps by a desire to protect Jack from the evil
machinations of the new-comer.
“Indeed! That is not a pleasant trait. Thank you, Louis. Such boys as
you can do a great deal to help me, if you only will, without in any
way impairing your obligations as ‘good fellows.’”
The first result of this conversation has been indicated. Carlisle’s
words, limited as they were, came at a moment when Jack was sorely
in need of them. Although he made no comment at the time, other than
to look grave, and though he sought to brush the remembrance of them
away as speedily as possible, he was nevertheless face to face with
the consciousness――a consciousness of which he had caught occasional
glimpses before of late――of dissatisfaction with himself. What was
more, it enthralled him like a net, and the more he struggled held
him the tighter. Vague lack of content with one’s own career is not
synonymous with an intention to reform, but it is a step in the right
direction. Jack would never be able to feel again, except through utter
callousness of soul, that satisfaction in wrong-doing which exists
before the sense of responsibility is awakened.
There is little further to chronicle regarding the second year of
Jack’s school-life, which sped along from week to week without
revealing much outward change in his daily routine of duties and
pleasures; the former endured with unwillingness and neglected so far
as was possible, the latter participated in with untiring enthusiasm.
In the class-room he was the same mischief-making, idle urchin as
ever, distinguished for his dog’s-eared, caricature-lined books of
study, and an utter ignorance of their contents. On the playground
every faculty seemed alert, and all his energy centred in excelling at
whatever pastime he was for the moment fascinated by.