A week later the First Latin was divided against itself,--a most unusual
thing. That it generally despised Hoover and hated Briggs was an old
story. These two of the twenty-seven had long been excluded from the
fellowship of the twenty-five; but that twenty-five was now reduced to
twenty-four by the loss of Snipe, and the twenty-four was split, much to
the comfort of the two outsiders. A grievous burden had been imposed on
Shorty when the Doctor bade him tell no one about Snipe's letter,--that
he had good reason and desired to investigate on his own account. Shorty
couldn't listen to an insinuation of any kind against his chum, and
there were members of the class who now couldn't help entertaining
suspicion and saying so. Shorty's intentions of observing the Doctor's
caution were of the best, but indignation would find vent, and so would
the boy nature that impelled him to say that he had information when
Snipe's accusers had not. Then he had to lose a point and admit that
his knowledge was of such a character that it must be kept concealed
awhile, which statement many of the class decided to accept, but not a
few to deride. Turner was one of the latter, and at recess one day
openly taunted Shorty with professing what he couldn't prove. Briggs was
on the outskirts of the knot of excited lads at the first sign of
trouble. He was still raging in his heart against Shorty because of the
stinging blows that sent him reeling into the gutter the previous Friday
afternoon. Here was a chance for vicarious vengeance. Shorty was half a
head smaller than his long-armed accuser. Briggs knew that Joy, Julian,
any of the bigger members of the class, would pounce on him if he dared
lay hand on the "little 'un," but Turner was nearer the youngster's
weight. Those were the days when Heenan and Sayers were the models of
the fistic art, when Charlier's boys at Wood's gymnasium or Pop's at
Ottignon's were accustomed to putting on the gloves with the master, and
school affairs were settled in the neighboring stable after the manner
of Tom Brown and Slogger Williams in "School-Days at Rugby." Cooler
heads in the little crowd counselled peace and strove to stem the angry
torrent of words between the boys. Even Turner himself, seeing Shorty's
rage, would probably have been willing to take back what he had said,
but Briggs had other plans. Stooping underneath the elbows of the boys
at Turner's back, he suddenly straightened up, giving Turner a powerful
shove that sent him lunging against his fuming little antagonist, and
like a flash came the first blow, the counter, an instant's clinch, and
then, as the boys broke away, two stinging whacks before the elders
could interpose. "Come round to the stable and finish it!" yelled
Shorty, in his fury. "Come on yourself!" shouted Turner; and, despite
the pleadings of those who hated to see class harmony destroyed, away
went the excited crowd, Hoover and Briggs leering and grinning after
them, while John, the janitor, bolted miserably up-stairs to give
warning to Othello, who had determined there should be no more
stable-fights, and who came breathless into the arena just as the
combatants had shed their coats and collars and, with clinched fists and
flashing eyes, were facing each other for business. The ring broke and
scattered pell-mell at sound of Halsey's voice, but the principals were
caught. Recess was ordered suspended. The bell summoned the class
in-doors, and, in sullen silence, slowly the boys obeyed. Shorty's
prominent nose had suffered in the preliminary skirmish, and he had to
go and stanch the blood. Turner, scowling, was sent to the foot of the
class, where Hoover welcomed him with a malignant grin, and there, along
its accustomed line, sat the First Latin in gloom and despond, while the
head-master penned brief memoranda of the circumstance. Everybody felt
there would be tragedy when the Doctor came. "The next boys I hear of as
fighting around school," he had said the week before, "I'll pack 'em
home to their parents." And yet the First Latin had reason to believe
the Doctor had nothing but disdain for boys who quarrelled and called
names and perhaps cuffed, scratched, or kicked, and couldn't or wouldn't
fight "fair and square." Only a few months before, just at the close of
the school-year, when the twenty-seven were still the Second Latin,
there had been a laughable scuffle between two big, lanky lads in the
senior class. Full ten minutes had they clinched, wrestled, slapped, and
sparred in the vestibule, many of the Second Latin looking--and
egging--on and indulging in satirical comment, until Beach swooped upon
the surging crowd and ordered DeForest and Dominick, the principals, to
their benches. The classes recited together then in Latin Prosody, a
Second Latin boy many a time "taking a fall" out of the First and
getting the head of the combined array. There was no love lost between
the two. Pop was unquestionably partial to the juniors, and had frequent
occasion to torment the seniors with satire over the fact that the
youngsters knew better Latin, if not more, than did the other class. He
listened to Beach's report of the affair with frowning brows, until it
transpired that full ten minutes were consumed before the combatants
were separated. Then his broad features expanded in a smile of
amusement. "What!" he exclaimed, as he studied the crestfallen faces of
the culprits. "Ten minutes' battling and not a scratch to show for it!
Scandalous! _Et tunc pugnabant pugnis_---- Hold! Young gentlemen,
there's a capital start on a fine, sonorous line, dactylic hexameter.
Half-holiday to the class that first completes it! Half-holiday except
to those wielders of the wind-stuffed cestus. Set your wits to work--and
your pencils." With that he seated himself in his chair of state, his
fine cambric handkerchief came forth to mop his glowing face, and, still
chuckling with suppressed merriment, the massive rector looked down
along the crowded ranks of his boys, forty-five in all, and then he
wiped his gold-rimmed spectacles and laid them on his desk, and then
little Beekman darted up to his side, a scrap of paper in his hand, and
gave it hopefully to the magnate in the chair. The Doctor glanced over
it, shook his head, and frowned. "No, no," said he. "What we want is
sound and sense combined. You've only got the sound, like the blows of
our gladiators. There's nothing behind them. The words mean nothing.
Mark the rhythm and majesty of mine. _Et tunc--pugna--bant pug_---- All
spondaic. And then--they were--fighting--with fists---- Come, come,
gentlemen, that line needs appropriate close. Ha! the versatile Second
Latin again tenders a contribution!" and the big Doctor took the next
youngster's slate, leaned back in his chair, read, a beaming light shot
into his eyes; then the eyes closed, the massive head fell back, the
capacious waistcoat began to heave and shake from internal convulsion,
and the whole array of boys looked up expectant. For a full minute Pop
lay back in his big chair in solitary enjoyment of his fun, and at last,
bubbling over with merriment, he straightened up and began, "Listen,
young gentlemen of the First Latin, to the satire of the Second.
Triumph, gentlemen of the Second, in the victory of your laureate.
'_Et tunc pugnabant pugnis sine sanguine nasi._'
"And then they were fighting with fists (full ten minutes understood)
and not a drop of blood was drawn from the nose. Poetic license set at
naught! Stern facts related! Half-holiday to the Second Latin! Take your
books and go rejoicing! Gentlemen of the vanquished First, remain where
you are."
That episode widened the breach between the classes and strengthened the
conviction that Pop was "down on" bloodless encounters. Pop was
thorough, argued the boys. He wanted no quarrelling, but if quarrels
came, they were soonest ended when fought to a finish on the spot.
And so despite the frown on Halsey's dark face most of the First Latin
hoped that when the Doctor came he would look with leniency on the
misconduct of the belligerents. Hoover, defrauded of his smoke, pleaded
for permission to go to Duncan's to get his fine silk handkerchief,
which he claimed to have dropped during their brief ten minutes of
recess. This was killing two birds with one stone. He needed his
cigarette, and he hoped to create the impression that he was not among
the crowd at the stable. There had been a solemn conference between the
Doctor and Hoover senior, and solemn warning to the young man on part of
both, and Hoover junior felt that he could risk nothing with the rector
in his present frame of mind. The head-master, with doubtful glance in
his eyes, said go, and not three minutes later wished he hadn't. There
was a sound of angry altercation below-stairs. John's whining voice was
uplifted in protestation. At any other time the class would have had fun
out of it, but the class was in no mood for frolic now.
"Stop that noise and come up here at once!" ordered the master from the
head of the stairs, and sullen and swollen-faced, the janitor came.
"I couldn't help it, sir," he began at once. "I ain't going to be cursed
for obeying orders by any such sneak as that."
And when Halsey could check the angry torrent of his words, it
transpired that Hoover had taken occasion, with much blasphemy and bad
language, to abuse him for having told about the fight. Hoover came in
ten minutes later, glancing shiftingly around. "Say, did that cur tell
on me?" he whispered to Turner, as he sidled into his seat, and Turner
turned his back and bade him go to Halifax, but Briggs nodded yes. It is
an ill wind that blows nobody good. The Doctor came with gloom in his
eye and thunder on his tongue. Things had been going amiss. Not another
word had been heard of Snipe. A favorite pupil had disappeared because
of troubles brought to light at school, and the Doctor felt that his
system, his methods, his discipline and supervision were all being
challenged and dissected by his rivals and opponents, and, like every
successful man, he was the target for the shafts of all the envious. A
high authority at faculty meeting that day had demanded news of the
missing boy and particulars as to the causes of his going, had intimated
that such things ought not to be in a well-regulated school, and the
rector came down ruffled and wrathful. The first thing to attract his
eyes was the sight of Shorty sitting ruefully on the "mourners' bench,"
as the boys called the settee at the foot of the class. Hoover, Turner,
and Briggs were the other occupants.
"Hiyee!" he exclaimed, as he halted at the doorway. "The lad of the long
tongue has let it run away with him again, I suppose! What's he been
saying, Mr. Halsey?"
"Nothing, sir," said Halsey, briefly. "Fighting again."
"What! And after my prohibition! Here, you, sir!" he exclaimed, with
indignation in his tone. "Take your books and pack yourself out of
school, at once!"
Slowly Shorty found his legs and, uttering no word, went drearily to the
bookcase, obeying the pointing, menacing cane in the rector's hand, and
trembling and with heavily beating heart began to gather and strap his
few possessions. For a moment there was dead silence. Pop still
standing at the doorway, glaring at the culprit, perhaps wishing the boy
would speak. But Shorty's spirits were crushed by the sorrows of the
past ten days, and he didn't much care what happened. It was Bertram who
broke the silence.
"May I say a word, sir?" he asked, as he rose respectfully.
"Not unless you wish to quit the school the same way, sir. Young people
will speak when spoken to and not before. Come, you, sir," he continued,
turning again on Shorty, "I am waiting for you to go."
"So'm I, sir," said the youngster, desperately, "but I can't--till you
get out of the way."
For an instant the silence was intense. The Doctor stared, then dropped
his threatening cane, closed his eyes and began to shake. In another
instant the room rang with a shout of laughter, even the saturnine
features of Halsey relaxing in a grin.
"Who's the other belligerent, Mr. Halsey?" asked Pop, as soon as he
could regain severity of mien. "The illustrious Turner, I apprehend.
What did you wish to say, Bertram?"
"Nothing, sir, in view of the penalty," was the prompt answer.
"It wasn't his fault, I suppose you wish to imply," said the Doctor. "Go
back to the bench, sir," was his stern order to Shorty. "Remain after
school, both of you, until I investigate this and send you home with a
letter apiece. Any other enormities to report, Mr. Halsey?"
"Yes, sir,--Hoover. The janitor says that he cursed and abused him at
recess for obeying your orders."
The Doctor's face had mellowed a moment before; now it hardened. He
stood with his cane tucked under his arm, his top-hat in one hand, the
polishing handkerchief in the other, flicking away the dust and
smoothing the glossy crown. Foul language on part of boy or man was
something he abhorred, and Hoover had been reported more than once. For
John, the janitor, the Doctor had but faint regard. He was a blundering
booby, said he. But that in no wise relieved Hoover. Watching his
angering face, the silent boys could almost foretell the words they saw
framing on his compressed lips. "Out of my school, sir," were beyond
doubt the first he would have spoken, but there sat two other culprits
who deserved the temporary expulsion that was at the time his favorite
method of punishment. If Hoover went, they too must go, or Hoover senior
would hear and ask the reason, and the Doctor hated to be
cross-questioned about his school. His methods were his own; one might
almost say the boys were too.
"Using blasphemous and profane language again!" he finally began, as he
stood and glared at the scowling pupil. "Gentlemen never abuse a servant
for obeying orders. Gentlemen avoid the use of profanity. We must have a
new name,--a more descriptive title for our _monstrum horrendum_, our
roaring Polyphemus. What say you, Bertram, Imperator? What say you, Joy?
Come, wake your nimble wits, young gentlemen. The astute head of the
class is silent, the second is dumb, the third sits mute," and now the
great but shapely white hand, with its taper index, points to one after
another, "the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. What? Have we no wits left
to-day? You, Beekman; you, Satterlee; the iconoclastic Bagshot, the
epicurean Doremus" (a titter now, for Doremus's taste for cream-puffs is
proverbial). Speak up, Van Sandtvoordt. Gihon, Post, Dix, Bliss,
Seymour, Grayson, next, next, next; the late belligerent Mr. Turner, the
benignant Briggs, Hoover we'll skip, and now the other gladiator,
Loquax. _What?_"
"Polyblasphemous!" says Shorty, with twitching lips, the Irish in him
coming to the top despite his weight of woe.
An instant of silence, then, shaking from head to foot, the tears fairly
starting from his eyes, unable for the moment to speak at all, laughing
himself to the verge of apoplexy, the Doctor motions the youngster from
the foot to the head of the class, and it is a full minute before order
is restored and the laughter of the First Latin subsides. Even then,
every little while some boy bursts out into a chuckle of merriment, and
Hoover glares at him with new malevolence. Every little while the Doctor
settles back in his chair and shakes anew. That _jeu d'esprit_ saves
three culprits from deserved suspension and brings sunshine through the
storm-clouds for the day at least. But it thickens the hide of Hoover's
hate.
"You think you were smart this afternoon" (with an adjective to the
smart), sneers Hoover to the youngster after school. "You'll find out
where the smart comes in before you're a month older, young feller."
And Hoover means it.
[Illustration: She was permitted to read and to weep over Snipe's
pathetic letter.]