That famous charge of the First Latin is something that must be
explained before this school story can go much further. To begin with,
one has to understand the "lay of the land," or rather the plan of the
school-room. Almost every boy knows how these buildings facing on a
broad business thoroughfare are arranged:--four or five stories high,
thirty or forty or fifty feet front, according to the size of the lot,
perhaps one hundred to two hundred deep, with the rooms from basement to
attic all about of a size unless partitioned off on different lines. In
the days whereof we write Pop had his famous school in the second and
third floors of one of these stereotyped blocks. Two-thirds of the
second floor front was given up to one big room. A high wooden
partition, glazed at the top and pierced with two doors, divided this,
the main school-room, from two smaller ones where the Third and Fourth
Latin wrestled with their verbs and declensions and gazed out through
the long rear windows over a block of back-yards and fences. Aloft on
the third floor were the rooms of the masters of the junior forms in
English, mathematics, writing, etc. But it is with the second, the main
floor and the main room on that floor, that we have to do. This was the
home of the First Latin. It was bare as any school-room seen abroad,
very nearly. Its furniture was inexpensive, but sufficient. A big stove
stood in the centre of the long apartment, and some glazed bookcases
between the west windows and against the south wall at the west end. A
closet, sacred to Pop, was built against the north wall west of the
stairway, which was shut off by a high wooden partition, reaching to the
ceiling. A huge coat-rack stood in the southeast corner. A big open
bookcase, divided off into foot square boxes for each boy's books,
occupied the northeast corner, with its back against the northward wall.
Six or seven benches abutting nearly end to end were strung along the
south side, extending from the west windows almost to the coat-rack, the
farthermost bench being at an obtuse angle. The bookbox, doors, and
partitions were painted a cheerful lead color, the benches a deep dark
green. So much for the accommodation of the lads. Now for their masters.
On a square wooden dais, back to the light, was perched the stained pine
desk at which from one-thirty to three each afternoon sat glorified Pop.
Boy nor man ventured to assume that seat at other time, save when that
front, like Jove, gleamed above the desk to threaten and command, and
the massive proportions, clad in glossy broadcloth of scholarly black,
settled into the capacious depths of that wicker-bottomed chair. In
front of the desk, six feet away, the low stove, so often seasoned with
Cayenne pepper, warmed the apartment, but obstructed not his view. At an
equal distance beyond the stove was the table at which from nine A.M. to
three P.M. sat the master in charge of the room, and thereby hung many
and many a tale. It was a great big, flat-topped table, covered with
shiny black oilcloth, slightly padded, and was so hollowed out on the
master's side that it encompassed him round about like some modern boom
defence against torpedo attack, and many a time that defence was needed.
From the instant of the Doctor's ponderous appearance at the door law
and disciplined order prevailed within this scholastic sanctuary, but of
all the bear-gardens ever celebrated in profane history it was the worst
during the one hour in which, each day from eleven to twelve, Mr. Meeker
imparted to the First Latin his knowledge of the higher mathematics and
endeavored to ascertain what, if any, portion thereof lodged long enough
to make even a passing impression on the minds of that graceless
assembly. There were other hours during which the spirit of mischief had
its sway. There were other masters who found that First Latin an
assemblage of youths who made them wonder why the Doctor had, after
long, long years of observance, finally banished forever the system of
punishment which was of the breech--the _vis a tergo_ order, that was
the mainstay of grammar-school discipline in Columbia's proud past; but
it was left to Mr. Meeker to enjoy as did no other man the full
development of a capacity for devilment, a rapacity for mischief never
equalled in the annals of the school.
Whenever the class was formed for recitation it took seats on those
northward-facing benches, the head of the class in a chair, with his
back to the avenue window, close by the westernmost bench. The others of
the "Sacred Band," as that guileful First Latin had once been derisively
named, strung out in the order of their class rank along the benches,
with Hoover, nine times out of ten, alone at the bottom. The system of
recitation was peculiar to the school, and proved that the "copious
notes," so often scornfully, yet enviously, referred to by outsiders,
were only blessings in disguise. It might be that Virgil was the subject
of the hour, the lesson say some fifty lines in the third book, and in
this event Beach, not Meeker, was in the chair, a man of firmer mould,
yet not invulnerable. One after another, haphazard, the youngsters were
called upon to read, scan, translate, and at the very first slip in
quantity, error in scanning, mistake of a word in translation, the
master would cry "Next," and the first boy below who could point out the
error and indicate the correction stepped up and took his place above
the fellow at fault. A perfect recitation was a rarity except among the
keen leaders at the head, for no error, big or little, was ever let
pass. It was no easy thing for the average boy to read three lines of
the resounding dactylic hexameters of "P. Virgilius Maro" according to
the Columbia system of the day without a slip in quantity. Scanning,
too, was an art full of traps for the unwary, but hardest of all for one
of Pop's boys was it to translate. No matter how easy it might be by the
aid of the oft-consulted "pony" to turn the Latin into English, it was
the rule of the school that the Doctor's own beautiful rendition should
be memorized word for word wherever it occurred, and the instances, like
the notes, were all too copious. At the word "Enough" that checked his
scanning the boy began to translate, and having given the poetic and
flowery version of the great translator, then turned to and, word by
word, followed with the literal meaning. Then came the prodding
questions as to root, verb, subject, etc., and lucky was the youngster
who, when he took his seat, found himself no more than half a dozen
places below where he started. At the end of the hour the marks were
totted up, and he who had the highest number marched to the head of the
class, the others being assigned according to their score. It was all
plain sailing when the Doctor himself was in the chair. Few boys
ventured on fun with him. On the other hand, few other masters could
maintain order on a system that gave such illimitable possibilities for
devilment. To illustrate: It is a brisk October morning. School has
"been in" an hour. The First Latin is arrayed for recitation in the
AEneid, and the boys have easily induced an Italian organ-grinder to
come, monkey and all, to serenade them, and to the lively notes of
"Patrick's Day in the Morning" one of the confirmed scamps of the class
is called upon to begin. He himself was the heaviest subscriber to the
fund which secured the services of the dark-eyed exile and his agile
monkey. Bliss knows nothing whatever of the lesson and is praying for
the appearance of the red-capped simian at the window. The janitor has
been sent down to bid the organ-grinder go away, but the boys have
blocked that game by bidding higher, and the Italian is warned to pay no
attention to such orders, but to hold his ground,--the neighborhood
approves of him and he'll be short a quarter if he goes. John comes
panting up-stairs to report his ill success, and meantime the recitation
cannot go on. Bliss is finally told to pay no attention to "Patrick's
Day" and to push ahead on the most beautiful lines in the book,
"_Non ignara mali, miseris succerere disco_,"
and Bliss slips on the quantity of the first syllable of the third word,
is promptly snapped up by Doremus, next below, who tallies one on his
score and jumps above him. Bliss shuts his book despairingly. "Mr.
Beach," he begins, in tones of deepest injury, "I know that just as well
as anybody else; but I protest, sir, I'm so distracted by that grinding
I can't do myself justice--or the subject either." And if the astute
Beach had any lingering doubt as to whether the boys worked that game
themselves or not the doubt is banished now. Bertram, Doremus, Snipe,
Shorty, all are on their feet and pleading with the master to have that
impudent music stopped. Mr. Beach vainly warns them to their seats and
commands silence.
"Mr. Beach, let me go down and drive him away,--I can do it," implores
Beekman, the pigmy Gothamite. It is three minutes before the master can
compel silence in the class, so great is its sense of the outrage upon
its peace and dignity.
"Mr. Beach, let me fetch a policeman," cries Shorty, who knows there
isn't a blue-coat nearer than the Harlem depot at Twenty-sixth Street,
and is spoiling for a chance to get out-of-doors.
"The next boy who speaks until bidden will have five marks struck off,"
says Beach, and with one accord the First Latin opens its twenty-seven
mouths, even Hoover swelling the chorus, and, as though so many
representatives in Congress assembled were hailing the chair, the
twenty-seven ejaculate, "Mr. Beach, nobody's got five yet." Then little
Post jumps up, in affected horror, and runs from his seat half-way to
the master's table. "Mr. Beach!" he cries, "the monkey!"
"Aw, sit down, Post," protests Joy, in the interest of school discipline
and harmony. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself making such a fuss
about a monkey." Snipe and Carey seize the first weapons
obtainable--the sacred ruler and the Japan tray on the Doctor's
desk--and make a lunge for the windows.
"Lawton--Carey! Back to your seats!" orders Beach.
"We only want to drive the monkey away, sir," protests Snipe, with
imploring eyes. "Post'll have a fit, sir, if you let the monkey stay.
He's subject to 'em. Ain't you, Post?"
"_Yes_, sir," eagerly protests Post, on the swear-to-anything principle
when it's a case of school devilment, and two minutes more are consumed
in getting those scamps back to their places and recording their fines,
"Ten marks apiece," which means that when the day's reckoning is made
ten units will be deducted from their total score. The settlement, too,
is prolonged and complicated through the ingenuity of Snipe and the
connivance of Bagshot and Bertram, who have promptly moved up and
occupied the place vacated by their long-legged, curly-pated, brown-eyed
comrade, and who now sturdily maintain that Snipe doesn't know where he
belongs. As a matter of fact, Snipe doesn't; neither does he greatly
care. He's merely insisting on the customary frolic before the class
settles down to business, but to see the fine indignation in his
handsome face and listen to the volume of protest on his tongue you
would fancy his whole nature was enlisted in the vehement assertion of
his rights.
Mr. Beach fines Snipe another five for losing his place, and then
stultifies himself by ordering Bertram and Bagshot back to their
original station, thus permitting Snipe to resume his seat, whereupon he
promptly claims the remission of the fine on the ground that he himself
had found it, and Bertram, a youth of much dignity of demeanor, gravely
addresses Mr. Beach, and protests that in the interests of decency and
discipline Lawton should forfeit his place, and to prove his entire
innocence of selfish motive offers to leave it to the class, and go to
the foot himself if they decide against him, and the class shouts
approval and urges the distracted Beach to put Snipe out forthwith. Then
somebody signals "Hush!" for Halsey, the head-master, the dark Othello,
has scented mischief from afar, and is heard coming swiftly down from
the floor above, and Halsey is a man who has his own joke but allows no
others. Bliss is the only boy on his feet as the stern first officer
enters and glances quickly and suspiciously about him.
"Go on with the recitation, Mr. Beach," he says. "That Italian was
doubtless hired by these young gentlemen. Let them dance to their own
music now, the eloquent Bliss in the lead. Go on with your lines,
Bliss."
And as this is just what Bliss can't do, Bliss is promptly "flunked" and
sent to the foot, where Hoover grins sardonically. He's ahead of one
fellow anyhow. Just so long now as that organ-grinder does must Halsey
stay--and supervise, and scorch even the best scholars in the class, for
well he knows the First Latin and they him, and their respect for him is
deeper than his for them, despite the known fact that Pop himself looks
upon them with more than partial eyes. The class is getting the worst of
it when in comes an opportune small boy. "Mr. Meeker says will Mr.
Halsey please step into the Fourth Latin room a minute," and Halsey has
to go.
"If those young gentlemen give you any trouble, Mr. Beach, keep the
whole class in at recess," he says, and thereupon, with eyes of saddest
reproach, the class follows him to the door, as though to say, How can
such injustice live in mind so noble? But the moment Halsey vanishes the
gloom goes with him. Beach's eyes are on the boys at the foot of the
class, and with a batter and bang the Japan tray on the Doctor's desk
comes settling to the floor, while Joy, who dislodged it, looks straight
into the master's startled eyes with a gaze in which conscious
innocence, earnest appeal, utter disapprobation of such silly pranks,
all are pictured. Joy can whip the bell out from under the master's nose
and over the master's table and all the time look imploringly into the
master's eyes, as though to say, "Just heaven! do you believe me capable
of such disrespect as that?" Three boys precipitate themselves upon the
precious waiter, eager to restore it to its place, and bang their heads
together in the effort. Five marks off for Shorty, Snipe, and Post.
Bagshot is on the floor, and announces as the sense of the First Latin
that a boy who would do such a thing should be expelled. Mr. Beach says
the First Latin hasn't any sense to speak of, and tells Bagshot to begin
where he left off. Bagshot thereupon declares he can't remember. It's
getting near the "business end" of the hour, and the whole class has to
look to its marks, so it can't all be fun. Thereupon Beach, who is
nothing if not classical, refers to Bagshot's lack of acquaintance with
the Goddess of Memory. "Who was she, Bagshot?" "Mnemosyne." "Very good;
yes, sir." ("Thought it was Bacchante!" shouts little Beekman. "No, sir.
Five marks off, Beekman. No more from you, sir.") "Now, Bagshot, you
should be higher than ten in your class to-day, and would be but for
misbehavior. What was the color of Mnemosyne's hair?" Bagshot glares
about him irresolute, and tries the doctrine of probability.
"Red!"
Beach compresses his lips. "M--n--no. That hardly describes it. Next."
"Carnation," hazards Van Kleeck.
"Next! Next! Next!" says Beach, indicating with his pencil one after
another of the eager rank of boys, and, first one at a time and
distinctly, then in confused tumbling over each other's syllables, the
wiseacres of the class shout their various guesses.
"Vermilion!"
"Scarlet!"
"Carrot color!"
"Solferino!"
"Magenta!"
"Pea-green!"
"Sky-blue!"
"Brick-red!" (This last from Turner, who makes a bolt for a place above
Bagshot, and can only be driven back and convinced of the inadequacy of
his answer by liberal cuttings of ten to twenty marks.) Then, at last,
Beach turns to Carey, at the far head of the class, and that gifted
young gentleman drawls,--
"Fl-a-a-me color."
"Right!" says the master, whereupon half a dozen contestants from below
spring to their feet, with indignation in their eyes:
"Well, what did I say, sir?"
"That's exactly what I meant, sir."
"I'll leave it to Bliss if that wasn't my answer, sir."
And nothing but the reappearance of Othello puts an end to the clamor
and settles the claimants. Shorty submits that his answer covered the
case, that Mnemosyne herself couldn't tell carrot color from flame, and
is sure the Doctor would declare his answer right, but is summarily
squelched by Mr. Halsey, and he has the "_nous_" to make no reference to
the matter when the Doctor comes. The hour is nearly over. Only three
minutes are allowed them in which to stow their Virgils in the big open
bookcase and extract their algebras. Halsey vanishes to see to it that
the Third Latin goes to the writing-room without mobbing the Fourth. The
marks of the First are recorded, not without a volume of comment and
chaff and protest. Then silence settles down as the master begins giving
out the next day's lesson, for the word has been passed along the line
of benches, "Get ready for a charge!" A moment later the janitor sounds
the bell on the landing without, and twenty-six young fellows spring
into air and rush for the bookcase. Not a word is spoken,--Hoover,
alone, holds aloof,--but in less time than it takes to tell it, with
solemnity on every face except one or two that will bubble over in
excess of joy, the First Latin is jammed in a scrimmage such as one sees
nowadays only on the football field. The whole living mass heaves
against those stout partitions till they bend and crack. From the
straining, struggling crew there rises the same moaning sound, swelling
into roar and dying away into murmur, and at last the lustier fight
their way out, algebras in hand, and within another five minutes order
is apparently evolved from chaos.
In such a turmoil and in such a charge Joy's watch disappeared that
October day, and the school had not stopped talking of it yet.
It has been said that two boys were the observed of gloomy eyes the
Monday following Snipe's misfortune. One, Hoover, of course. The other a
fellow who in turn had sought to be everybody's chum and had ended by
being nobody's. His name was Briggs. He was a big, powerful fellow,
freckle-faced, sandy-haired, and gifted with illimitable effrontery. He
was a boy no one liked and no one could snub, for Briggs had a skin as
thick as the sole of a school-boy's boot, and needed it. One
circumstance after another during the previous year had turned one boy
after another from him, but Briggs kept up every appearance of cordial
relations, even with those who cold-shouldered him and would have naught
to do with him. During the previous school-year he had several times
followed Snipe, Shorty, and their particular set, only to find that they
would scatter sooner than have him one of the party. He had been denied
admission to the houses of most of the class. He had been twice
blackballed by the Uncas, and it was said by many of the school when
Briggs began to consort with Hoover that he had at last found his proper
level. One allegation at his expense the previous year had been that he
was frequently seen at billiard-rooms or on the streets with those two
Hulkers, and even Hoover had hitherto eschewed that association. Perhaps
at first the Hulkers would not have Hoover. The class couldn't tell and
really didn't care to know. One thing was certain: within the fortnight
preceding the opening of this story Briggs and Hoover had been together
more than a little and with the Hulkers more than enough.
"Are you sure of what you say?" both Carey and Joy had asked Shorty that
exciting Monday morning, as the eager youngster detailed for the tenth
time the incidents of the assault on Snipe.
"I'm as sure of it as I am of the fire," said Shorty, positively. "Jim
Briggs was with the Metamora crowd, running in the street. He looked
back and laughed after he saw Snipe down."
But when confronted with this statement by the elders of the "Sacred
Band" Briggs promptly and indignantly denied it.
"I never heard of it till to-day!" said he. "'Spose I'd stand by and see
one of my class knocked endwise by a lot of roughs? _No_, sir!"
It was a question of veracity, then, between Briggs and Shorty, the
class believing the latter, but being unable to prove the case. Snipe
himself could say nothing. Being in the lead, he had seen none of the
runners of the Metamora except the heels of a few as they bounded over
him when he rolled into the street. There was an intense feeling
smouldering in the class. They were indeed "laying" for Hoover as they
had been for Briggs when they tumbled out for recess. The latter, with
his characteristic vim and effrontery, denied all knowledge of the
affair, as has been said, and challenged the class to prove a thing
against him. The former, as has been told, lurked within-doors. What had
he to fear? He was not at the scene of the fire and the assault. He
never had energy enough to run. There was some reason why he shrank from
meeting or being questioned by the boys. There was some reason why Snipe
Lawton should have left them and returned to the school, and was
discovered standing there at the doorway, looking fixedly at the
head-master's angered face as it glowered on Hoover and the tearful
John. Whatever the reason, it could not well be divulged in the presence
of Mr. Halsey. Hoover stood off another proposed demonstration in his
honor after school at three o'clock by remaining behind, and only coming
forth when he could do so under the majestic wing of the Doctor himself.
Pop looked curiously at the knots of lingering First Latins, and raised
his high-top hat in response to their salutations. Hoover huddled close
to his side until several blocks were traversed and pursuit was
abandoned. Then he shot into a street-car, leaving the Doctor to ponder
on the unusual attention. And so it happened that while the class was
balked for the time of its purpose, and the victim of Saturday's assault
was debarred from making the queries he had planned, Mr. Halsey was
enabled to pursue his bent. Just as the little group of five, gazing in
disappointment up the avenue after the vanishing forms of the Doctor and
Hoover, was breaking up with the consolatory promise that they'd
confront Hoover with their charges first thing in the morning, the
open-mouthed janitor came running.
"Oh, Lawton!" he panted, "Mr. Halsey says he wishes to speak with you,
and to please come right back."
"I'll wait for you, Snipe," said Shorty. "Day-day, you other fellows."
And wait he did, ten, twenty minutes, and no Snipe came, and, wondering
much, the smaller lad went whistling down the avenue, forgetful, in the
fact that he still wore the jacket, of the dignity demanded of a lad of
the First Latin and full sixteen. He wondered more when eight o'clock
came that evening and without Snipe's ring at the door-bell. He wondered
most when he saw Snipe's pallid, sad-eyed face on the morrow.