“What is the matter? Does your head ache?” asked Jill, one evening in
March, observing that Jack sat with his head in his hands, an attitude
which, with him, meant either pain or perplexity.
“No; but I'm bothered. I want some money, and I don't see how I can earn
it,” he answered, tumbling his hair about, and frowning darkly at the
fire.
“How much?” and Jill's ready hand went to the pocket where her little
purse lay, for she felt rich with several presents lately made her.
“Two seventy-five. No, thank you, I won't borrow.”
“What is it for?”
“Can't tell.”
“Why, I thought you told me everything.”
“Sorry, but I can't this time. Don't you worry; I shall think of
something.”
“Couldn't your mother help?”
“Don't wish to ask her.”
“Why! can't _she_ know?”
“Nobody can.”
“How queer! Is it a scrape, Jack?” asked Jill, looking as curious as a
magpie.
“It is likely to be, if I can't get out of it this week, somehow.”
“Well, I don't see how I can help if I'm not to know anything;” and Jill
seemed rather hurt.
“You can just stop asking questions, and tell me how a fellow can earn
some money. That would help. I've got one dollar, but I must have some
more;” and Jack looked worried as he fingered the little gold dollar on
his watch-guard.
“Oh, do you mean to use that?”
“Yes, I do; a man must pay his debts if he sells all he has to do it,”
said Jack sternly.
“Dear me; it must be something very serious.” And Jill lay quite still
for five minutes, thinking over all the ways in which Jack ever did earn
money, for Mrs. Minot liked to have her boys work, and paid them in some
way for all they did.
“Is there any wood to saw?” she asked presently, being very anxious to
help.
“All done.”
“Paths to shovel?”
“No snow.”
“Lawn to rake, then?”
“Not time for that yet.”
“Catalogue of books?”
“Frank got that job.”
“Copy those letters for your mother?”
“Take me too long. Must have my money Friday, if possible.”
“I don't see what we can do, then. It is too early or too late for
everything, and you won't borrow.”
“Not of you. No, nor of any one else, if I can possibly help it. I've
promised to do this myself, and I will;” and Jack wagged his head
resolutely.
“Couldn't you do something with the printing-press? Do me some cards,
and then, perhaps, the other girls will want some,” said Jill, as a
forlorn hope.
“Just the thing! What a goose I was not to think of it. I'll rig the old
machine up at once.” And, starting from his seat, Jack dived into the
big closet, dragged out the little press, and fell to oiling, dusting,
and putting it in order, like one relieved of a great anxiety.
“Give me the types; I'll sort them and set up my name, so you can begin
as soon as you are ready. You know what a help I was when we did the
programmes. I'm almost sure the girls _will_ want cards, and I know
your mother would like some more tags,” said Jill, briskly rattling the
letters into the different compartments, while Jack inked the rollers
and hunted up his big apron, whistling the while with recovered spirits.
A dozen neat cards were soon printed, and Jill insisted on paying six
cents for them, as earning was not borrowing. A few odd tags were found
and done for Mamma, who immediately ordered four dozen at six cents a
dozen, though she was not told why there was such a pressing call for
money.
Jack's monthly half-dollar had been spent the first week,--twenty-five
cents for a concert, ten paid a fine for keeping a book too long from
the library, ten more to have his knife ground, and five in candy, for
he dearly loved sweeties, and was under bonds to Mamma not to spend
more than five cents a month on these unwholesome temptations. She never
asked the boys what they did with their money, but expected them to
keep account in the little books she gave them; and, now and then, they
showed the neat pages with pardonable pride, though she often laughed at
the queer items.
All that evening Jack & Co. worked busily, for when Frank came in he
good-naturedly ordered some pale-pink cards for Annette, and ran to the
store to choose the right shade, and buy some packages for the young
printer also.
“What _do_ you suppose he is in such a pucker for?” whispered Jill, as
she set up the new name, to Frank, who sat close by, with one eye on his
book and one on her.
“Oh, some notion. He's a queer chap; but I guess it isn't much of a
scrape, or I should know it. He's so good-natured he's always promising
to do things for people, and has too much pluck to give up when he finds
he can't. Let him alone, and it will all come out soon enough,” answered
Frank, who laughed at his brother, but loved him none the less for the
tender heart that often got the better of his young head.
But for once Frank was mistaken; the mystery did not come out, and Jack
worked like a beaver all that week, as orders poured in when Jill and
Annette showed their elegant cards; for, as everybody knows, if one girl
has a new thing all the rest must, whether it is a bow on the top of
her head, a peculiar sort of pencil, or the latest kind of chewing-gum.
Little play did the poor fellow get, for every spare minute was spent
at the press, and no invitation could tempt him away, so much in earnest
was our honest little Franklin about paying his debt. Jill helped all
she could, and cheered his labors with her encouragement, remembering
how he stayed at home for her.
“It is real good of you to lend a hand, and I'm ever so much obliged,”
said Jack, as the last order was struck off, and the drawer of the
type-box held a pile of shining five and ten cent pieces, with two or
three quarters.
“I love to; only it would be nicer if I knew what we were working for,”
she said demurely, as she scattered type for the last time; and seeing
that Jack was both tired and grateful, hoped to get a hint of the
secret.
“I want to tell you, dreadfully; but I can't, because I've promised.”
“What, never?”
“Never!” and Jack looked as firm as a rock.
“Then I shall find out, for _I_ haven't promised.”
“You can't.”
“See if I don't!”
“You are sharp, but you won't guess this. It's a tremendous secret, and
nobody will tell it.”
“You'll tell it yourself. You always do.”
“I won't tell this. It would be mean.”
“Wait and see; I can get anything out of you if I try;” and Jill
laughed, knowing her power well, for Jack found it very hard to keep a
secret from her.
“Don't try; please don't! It wouldn't be right, and you don't want to
make me do a dishonorable thing for your sake, I know.”
Jack looked so distressed that Jill promised not to _make_ him tell,
though she held herself free to find out in other ways, if she could.
Thus relieved, Jack trudged off to school on Friday with the two dollars
and seventy-five cents jingling in his pocket, though the dear gold coin
had to be sacrificed to make up the sum. He did his lessons badly that
day, was late at recess in the afternoon, and, as soon as school was
over, departed in his rubber boots “to take a walk,” he said, though the
roads were in a bad state with a spring thaw. Nothing was seen of him
till after tea-time, when he came limping in, very dirty and tired,
but with a reposeful expression, which betrayed that a load was off his
mind. Frank was busy about his own affairs and paid little attention to
him, but Jill was on tenter-hooks to know where he had been, yet dared
not ask the question.
“Merry's brother wants some cards. He liked hers so much he wishes to
make his lady-love a present. Here's the name;” and Jill held up the
order from Harry Grant, who was to be married in the autumn.
“Must wait till next week. I'm too tired to do a thing to-night, and I
hate the sight of that old press,” answered Jack, laying himself down
upon the rug as if every joint ached.
“What made you take such a long walk? You look as tired as if you'd been
ten miles,” said Jill, hoping to discover the length of the trip.
“Had to. Four or five miles isn't much, only my leg bothered me;” and
Jack gave the ailing member a slap, as if he had found it much in his
way that day; for, though he had given up the crutches long ago, he
rather missed their support sometimes. Then, with a great yawn, he
stretched himself out to bask in the blaze, pillowing his head on his
arms.
“Dear old thing, he looks all used up; I won't plague him with talking;”
and Jill began to sing, as she often did in the twilight.
By the time the first song ended a gentle snore was heard, and Jack lay
fast asleep, worn out with the busy week and the walk, which had been
longer and harder than any one guessed. Jill took up her knitting and
worked quietly by firelight, still wondering and guessing what the
secret could be; for she had not much to amuse her, and little things
were very interesting if connected with her friends. Presently Jack
rolled over and began to mutter in his sleep, as he often did when too
weary for sound slumber. Jill paid no attention till he uttered a name
which made her prick up her ears and listen to the broken sentences
which followed. Only a few words, but she dropped her work, saying to
herself,--
“I do believe he is talking about the secret. Now I shall find out, and
he _will_ tell me himself, as I said he would.”
Much pleased, she leaned and listened, but could make no sense of the
confused babble about “heavy boots;” “All right, old fellow;” “Jerry's
off;” and “The ink is too thick.”
The slam of the front door woke Jack, and he pulled himself up,
declaring that he believed he had been having a nap.
“I wish you'd have another,” said Jill, greatly disappointed at the loss
of the intelligence she seemed to be so near getting.
“Floor is too hard for tired bones. Guess I'll go to bed and get rested
up for Monday. I've worked like fury this week, so next I'm going in for
fun;” and, little dreaming what hard times were in store for him, Jack
went off to enjoy his warm bath and welcome bed, where he was soon
sleeping with the serene look of one whose dreams were happy, whose
conscience was at rest.
* * * * *
“I have a few words to say to you before you go,” said Mr. Acton,
pausing with his hand on the bell, Monday afternoon, when the hour came
for dismissing school.
The bustle of putting away books and preparing for as rapid a departure
as propriety allowed, subsided suddenly, and the boys and girls sat as
still as mice, while the hearts of such as had been guilty of any small
sins began to beat fast.
“You remember that we had some trouble last winter about keeping the
boys away from the saloon, and that a rule was made forbidding any
pupil to go to town during recess?” began Mr. Acton, who, being a
conscientious man as well as an excellent teacher, felt that he was
responsible for the children in school hours, and did his best to aid
parents in guarding them from the few temptations which beset them in
a country town. A certain attractive little shop, where confectionery,
baseballs, stationery, and picture papers were sold, was a favorite
loafing place for some of the boys till the rule forbidding it was made,
because in the rear of the shop was a beer and billiard saloon. A wise
rule, for the picture papers were not always of the best sort; cigars
were to be had; idle fellows hung about there, and some of the lads, who
wanted to be thought manly, ventured to pass the green baize door “just
to look on.”
A murmur answered the teacher's question, and he continued, “You all
know that the rule was broken several times, and I told you the next
offender would be publicly reprimanded, as private punishments had no
effect. I am sorry to say that the time has come, and the offender is a
boy whom I trusted entirely. It grieves me to do this, but I must keep
my promise, and hope the example will have a good effect.”
Mr. Acton paused, as if he found it hard to go on, and the boys looked
at one another with inquiring eyes, for their teacher seldom punished,
and when he did, it was a very solemn thing. Several of these anxious
glances fell upon Joe, who was very red and sat whittling a pencil as if
he dared not lift his eyes.
“He's the chap. Won't he catch it?” whispered Gus to Frank, for both
owed him a grudge.
“The boy who broke the rule last Friday, at afternoon recess, will come
to the desk,” said Mr. Acton in his most impressive manner.
If a thunderbolt had fallen through the roof it would hardly have caused
a greater surprise than the sight of Jack Minot walking slowly down the
aisle, with a wrathful flash in the eyes he turned on Joe as he passed
him.
“Now, Minot, let us have this over as soon as possible, for I do not
like it any better than you do, and I am sure there is some mistake. I'm
told you went to the shop on Friday. Is it true?” asked Mr. Acton very
gently, for he liked Jack and seldom had to correct him in any way.
“Yes, sir;” and Jack looked up as if proud to show that he was not
afraid to tell the truth as far as he could.
“To buy something?”
“No, sir.”
“To meet someone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it Jerry Shannon?”
No answer, but Jack's fists doubled up of themselves as he shot another
fiery glance at Joe, whose face burned as if it scorched him.
“I am told it was; also that you were seen to go into the saloon with
him. Did you?” and Mr. Acton looked so sure that it was a mistake that
it cost Jack a great effort to say, slowly,--
“Yes, sir.”
Quite a thrill pervaded the school at this confession, for Jerry was one
of the wild fellows the boys all shunned, and to have any dealings with
him was considered a very disgraceful thing.
“Did you play?”
“No, sir. I can't.”
“Drink beer?”
“I belong to the Lodge;” and Jack stood as erect as any little soldier
who ever marched under a temperance banner, and fought for the cause
none are too young nor too old to help along.
“I was sure of that. Then what took you there, my boy?”
The question was so kindly put that Jack forgot himself an instant, and
blurted out,--
“I only went to pay him some money, sir.”
“Ah, how much?”
“Two seventy-five,” muttered Jack, as red as a cherry at not being able
to keep a secret better.
“Too much for a lad like you to owe such a fellow as Jerry. How came
it?” And Mr. Acton looked disturbed.
Jack opened his lips to speak, but shut them again, and stood looking
down with a little quiver about the mouth that showed how much it cost
him to be silent.
“Does any one beside Jerry know of this?”
“One other fellow,” after a pause.
“Yes, I understand;” and Mr. Acton's eye glanced at Joe with a look that
seemed to say, “I wish he'd held his tongue.”
A queer smile flitted over Jack's face, for Joe was not the “other
fellow,” and knew very little about it, excepting what he had seen when
he was sent on an errand by Mr. Acton on Friday.
“I wish you would explain the matter, John, for I am sure it is better
than it seems, and it would be very hard to punish you when you don't
deserve it.”
“But I do deserve it; I've broken the rule, and I ought to be punished,”
said Jack, as if a good whipping would be easier to bear than this
public cross-examination.
“And you can't explain, or even say you are sorry or ashamed?” asked Mr.
Acton, hoping to surprise another fact out of the boy.
“No, sir; I can't; I'm not ashamed; I'm not sorry, and I'd do it again
to-morrow if I had to,” cried Jack, losing patience, and looking as if
he would not bear much more.
A groan from the boys greeted this bare-faced declaration, and Susy
quite shivered at the idea of having taken two bites out of the apple of
such a hardened desperado.
“Think it over till to-morrow, and perhaps you will change your mind.
Remember that this is the last week of the month, and reports are
given out next Friday,” said Mr. Acton, knowing how much the boy prided
himself on always having good ones to show his mother.
Poor Jack turned scarlet and bit his lips to keep them still, for he had
forgotten this when he plunged into the affair which was likely to cost
him dear. Then the color faded away, the boyish face grew steady, and
the honest eyes looked up at his teacher as he said very low, but all
heard him, the room was so still,--
“It isn't as bad as it looks, sir, but I can't say any more. No one is
to blame but me; and I couldn't help breaking the rule, for Jerry was
going away, I had only that time, and I'd promised to pay up, so I did.”
Mr. Acton believed every word he said, and regretted that they had not
been able to have it out privately, but he, too, must keep his promise
and punish the offender, whoever he was.
“Very well, you will lose your recess for a week, and this month's
report will be the first one in which behavior does not get the highest
mark. You may go; and I wish it understood that Master Minot is not to
be troubled with questions till he chooses to set this matter right.”
Then the bell rang, the children trooped out, Mr. Acton went off without
another word, and Jack was left alone to put up his books and hide a
few tears that would come because Frank turned his eyes away from the
imploring look cast upon him as the culprit came down from the platform,
a disgraced boy.
Elder brothers are apt to be a little hard on younger ones, so it is not
surprising that Frank, who was an eminently proper boy, was much cut up
when Jack publicly confessed to dealings with Jerry, leaving it to be
supposed that the worst half of the story remained untold. He felt it
his duty, therefore, to collar poor Jack when he came out, and talk to
him all the way home, like a judge bent on getting at the truth by main
force. A kind word would have been very comforting, but the scolding
was too much for Jack's temper, so he turned dogged and would not say a
word, though Frank threatened not to speak to him for a week.
At tea-time both boys were very silent, one looking grim, the other
excited. Frank stared sternly at his brother across the table, and no
amount of marmalade sweetened or softened that reproachful look. Jack
defiantly crunched his toast, with occasional slashes at the butter,
as if he must vent the pent-up emotions which half distracted him. Of
course, their mother saw that something was amiss, but did not allude to
it, hoping that the cloud would blow over as so many did if left alone.
But this one did not, and when both refused cake, this sure sign of
unusual perturbation made her anxious to know the cause. As soon as tea
was over, Jack retired with gloomy dignity to his own room, and Frank,
casting away the paper he had been pretending to read, burst out with
the whole story. Mrs. Minot was as much surprised as he, but not angry,
because, like most mothers, she was sure that her sons could not do
anything very bad.
“I will speak to him; my boy won't refuse to give _me_ some
explanation,” she said, when Frank had freed his mind with as much
warmth as if Jack had broken all the ten commandments.
“He will. You often call me obstinate, but he is as pig-headed as a
mule; Joe only knows what he saw, old tell-tale! and Jerry has left
town, or I'd have it out of him. Make Jack own up, whether he can or
not. Little donkey!” stormed Frank, who hated rowdies and could not
forgive his brother for being seen with one.
“My dear, all boys do foolish things sometimes, even the wisest and best
behaved, so don't be hard on the poor child. He has got into trouble,
I've no doubt, but it cannot be very bad, and he earned the money to pay
for his prank, whatever it was.”
Mrs. Minot left the room as she spoke, and Frank cooled down as if her
words had been a shower-bath, for he remembered his own costly escapade,
and how kindly both his mother and Jack had stood by him on that trying
occasion. So, feeling rather remorseful, he went off to talk it over
with Gus, leaving Jill in a fever of curiosity, for Merry and Molly
had dropped in on their way home to break the blow to her, and Frank
declined to discuss it with her, after mildly stating that Jack was “a
ninny,” in his opinion.
“Well, I know one thing,” said Jill confidentially to Snow-ball, when
they were left alone together, “if every one else is scolding him I
won't say a word. It's so mean to crow over people when they are down,
and I'm sure he hasn't done anything to be ashamed of, though he won't
tell.”
Snow-ball seemed to agree to this, for he went and sat down by Jack's
slippers waiting for him on the hearth, and Jill thought that a very
touching proof of affectionate fidelity to the little master who ruled
them both.
When he came, it was evident that he had found it harder to refuse his
mother than all the rest. But she trusted him in spite of appearances,
and that was such a comfort! For poor Jack's heart was very full, and he
longed to tell the whole story, but he would not break his promise,
and so kept silence bravely. Jill asked no questions, affecting to be
anxious for the games they always played together in the evening, but
while they played, though the lips were sealed, the bright eyes said as
plainly as words, “I trust you,” and Jack was very grateful.
It was well he had something to cheer him up at home, for he got little
peace at school. He bore the grave looks of Mr. Acton meekly, took the
boys' jokes good-naturedly, and withstood the artful teasing of the
girls with patient silence. But it was very hard for the social,
affectionate fellow to bear the general distrust, for he had been such a
favorite he felt the change keenly.
But the thing that tried him most was the knowledge that his report
would not be what it usually was. It was always a happy moment when he
showed it to his mother, and saw her eye brighten as it fell on the 99
or 100, for she cared more for good behavior than for perfect lessons.
Mr. Acton once said that Frank Minot's moral influence in the school was
unusual, and Jack never forgot her pride and delight as she told them
what Frank himself had not known till then. It was Jack's ambition to
have the same said of him, for he was not much of a scholar, and he
had tried hard since he went back to school to get good records in that
respect at least. Now here was a dreadful downfall, tardy marks, bad
company, broken rules, and something too wrong to tell, apparently.
“Well, I deserve a good report, and that's a comfort, though nobody
believes it,” he said to himself, trying to keep up his spirits, as the
slow week went by, and no word from him had cleared up the mystery.