THE WRONG SLIDE
The four boys spent some time discussing the affair of the morning, and
speculating as to what John Newton would do now that he could no longer
attend school.
"Guess he'll not worry much," remarked Fenn. "He was saying the other
day he thought he'd go off somewhere and try to get work in the city."
"Work? He's too lazy to work," put in Ned.
"He said he'd like to get a job in a theater," Fenn added.
"Shoving scenery around, or being part of the mob in Julius Caesar would
be his limit, I guess," said Bart.
"Speaking of Caesar reminds me that Fenn fell down in his Latin this
morning," said Frank.
"Yes, I should have boned away on it last night but I didn't," admitted
Stumpy.
"I know why," put in Ned.
"Why?"
"Saw you out walking with Jennie Smith, and I s'pose you didn't get in
until late."
"Did she recite poetry to you?" asked Frank, for Jennie was somewhat
inclined to verse.
"Say you fellows dry up!" exclaimed Fenn. "You don't dare walk with a
girl. Don't know how to behave in company!"
"It takes Fenn to please the girls," retorted Ned, and he dodged to
escape a blow Stumpy aimed at him. Then the gong rang for the afternoon
session and the pupils went back to their classrooms.
While the boys are at their lessons, which is about the only time, save
when they are asleep, that they are not talking or doing something,
there will be opportunity of telling who they are.
Ned Wilding's mother had been dead some years. His father was cashier in
the only bank in Darewell, a thriving manufacturing town not far from
Lake Erie. The Still river ran through the place and it was a journey of
about ten miles to the lake on that stream.
Frank Roscoe lived with his uncle Abner Dent, who was a wealthy farmer,
residing on the outskirts of the town. Frank had been with his relative
as long as he could remember. He never knew his father or mother, and
his uncle never mentioned them. The boy had been brought up with the
idea that both his parents were dead. He was a manly youth, but there
was a certain strangeness and an air of mystery about him. It was
puzzling to his comrades, though they liked him none the less for it.
As for Bart Keene, it would be hard to find a finer specimen of American
boy. He was stout and sturdy, and would rather play ball than eat. His
father, who was proprietor of a large factory, used to say Bart talked
sports in his sleep. Bart had a sister Alice, as gentle as he was rough,
though his roughness was not at all offensive. She had an idea she would
like to be a trained nurse, and used every opportunity of practicing for
her chosen profession. Let any one cut his finger, or run a sliver into
it and Alice would exclaim:
"Oh, do let me bandage it up! I'm so glad it happened--no, I don't mean
that--I mean it's such good practice for me!" Then she would hustle
around for salve and strips of cloth and render first-aid-to-the-injured
after the most approved fashion.
You couldn't help liking Fenn Masterson. "Stumpy" was the jolliest chap
in seven counties, his friends used to say, and, it seemed with truth.
He had blue eyes that always seemed to be laughing at you, as though
his very figure, about as broad as it was long, was the best joke in the
world.
But Fenn was not proud of his shape. He often deplored it, especially
when he went walking with a girl, which he did whenever he got the
chance. Stumpy was fond of the girls, and some of them liked
him,--especially Jennie Smith already mentioned. She used to confide to
her chum, Alice Keene, that Fenn reminded her somewhat of Falstaff, whom
you can read about in Shakespeare, if you wish.
The boys had been chums all through the grammar school and their
friendship was further cemented when they continued on at the high
school. They were four of the best-liked boys in the institution, and
the leaders when it came to sport, fun or doings of any sort. They were
generally seen together and if anything was undertaken the "Darewell
Chums," as they were called from the name of the town, were sure to be
found in the van.
The boys lived in the same neighborhood in the better part of the place,
all save Frank, whose uncle's house was about a mile outside the town,
but on the same highway on which his chums resided.
Going home from school that afternoon the four chums saw John Newton
standing on a street corner. As they passed him John called:
"Hey Stumpy, I want to speak to you a minute."
Fenn dropped behind his chums and spoke to John for some time. Ned, Bart
and Frank walked on, and then waited for him.
"Is he going to pay you off?" asked Ned, as Fenn joined his companions.
"No, he wanted to tell me he was sorry he tried to throw the blame on
me."
"Look out for him, Stumpy," advised Bart.
"Oh John is thoughtless, but he doesn't mean anything bad," Fenn said.
"I guess this was quite a lesson for him."
In school the next afternoon Frank, Bart and Fenn each received a note
from Ned, the papers being passed along in that mysterious postal
fashion which prevails in all schools. The missives read:
"Watch for some fun at the science lecture."
This was a talk given every Friday afternoon by Professor Long, who used
stereoptican slides. The lecture was usually on some popular topic.
It was quite a large class that assembled in the darkened laboratory at
the last period of the afternoon. The professor began his talk. It was
about volcanoes, and he described their formation, the theories
regarding them, and the causes for their terrific action.
"I will now throw on the screen," the instructor said, "a picture of Mt.
Vesuvius in full action. It is a wonderful view of a wonderful
phenomenon."
There was a moment's delay, and he slipped a slide into the lantern. Ned
nudged his chums.
"Watch!" he whispered.
The next instant there was shown on the screen a picture of a boy
setting off a giant fire-cracker under the chair of a sleeping man, who
was depicted in the act of rising high into the air under the propulsion
of the pyrotechnic. It was an irruption, but one not down on the
program.