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ANNA CHAPIN RAY’S BOOKS.
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“A quiet sly humor, a faculty of investing every-day events with a
dramatic interest, a photographic touch which places her characters
before the reader, and a high moral tone are to be remarked in Miss
Ray.”
—Detroit Tribune.
HALF A DOZEN BOYS.
12mo. Illustrated $1.25
HALF A DOZEN GIRLS.
12mo. Illustrated 1.25
IN BLUE CREEK CAÑON.
12mo. Illustrated 1.25
CADETS OF FLEMMING HALL.
12mo. Illustrated 1.25
* * * * *
For sale by all booksellers. Catalogues sent free
upon application.
* * * * *
T. Y. CROWELL & CO.,
NEW YORK AND BOSTON.
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[Illustration: THEIR GUESTS PROCEEDED TO SEAT THEMSELVES AS THEIR TASTES
SUGGESTED.—Page 15.]
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THE CADETS
OF
FLEMMING HALL
BY
ANNA CHAPIN RAY
AUTHOR OF “HALF A DOZEN BOYS,” “HALF A DOZEN GIRLS,”
“IN BLUE CREEK CAÑON”
NEW YORK: 46 EAST 14TH STREET
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
BOSTON: 100 PURCHASE STREET
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COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY T. Y. CROWELL & CO.
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_To_
“MY BOYS.”
“You say you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well.”
SHAKESPEARE.
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PREFACE.
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FROM the days of “Tom Brown at Rugby” to his more modern brothers, the
American “New Senior at Andover,” and the French “Straight On,” stories
of boy school life have gone on multiplying and still the tale is not
all told. Every school has its slightly different atmosphere, and calls
for its different historian. For that reason, I offer this picture of
life at Flemming Hall.
Though Irving Wilde and the doctor may not be portraits, still the
school life of each one of us has known one or more similar teachers,
from whom we have gained the inspiration to do broader, truer work,
inspiration which, although unconsciously received, perhaps
unconsciously given, has yet left its stamp upon all our later work in
life.
It is to the courtesy of one such teacher that I owe the Harrow song
with which my story closes. So far as I know, it has never been in
print, on this side of the Atlantic. My preface, too, would be
incomplete without an expression of my indebtedness to the boy friend
who criticised my athletics, and above all to the kindness of the
artist, Mr. Clephane, whose thorough and practical knowledge of cadet
life has been invaluable to me.
It is to be hoped that I have done no harm to the cause of Yale
athletics, in making use of the incident of Captain “Phil” Allen’s
daring leap, during the Yale-Atalanta race, in May, eighteen hundred and
ninety. I can claim no originality in the climax of my regatta; it is
the mere telling of an historical fact.
If, in spite of my long list of assistants, my boy readers can find a
single line of my story which shall bring me into closer touch with
them, I shall be more than satisfied.
“TREMONT,”
Third January, 1892.
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CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CADETS 9
II. FLEMMING AND ITS WAYS 24
III. LEON’S FIRST DAY AT FLEMMING 40
IV. THE BONIFACE REBELLION 57
V. WAR IN THE COLOR-GUARD 75
VI. VICTORIOUS NINETY-TWO 92
VII. HOW LEON SPENT HIS 110
THANKSGIVING
VIII. MAX MAKES A TREATY OF PEACE 124
IX. IN THE STORM 142
X. THE HOLIDAYS 163
XI. STANLEY CAMPBELL 181
XII. MIDWINTER REVELS 198
XIII. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 218
XIV. SERGEANT-MAJOR ARNOLD 233
XV. ON THE LAKE 247
XVI. IN THE RAVINE 259
XVII. COMMENCEMENT 279
XVIII. FORWARD—MARCH! 291
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THE
CADETS OF FLEMMING HALL.
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CHAPTER I.
THE CADETS.
“THERE comes the stage!”
At the word, four or five boys came leaping down the flight of steps and
joined the lad watching at the gate, as the old coach crept slowly up
the hill. The powerful, iron-gray horses, tired out with their long
climb, plodded onward, quite unconscious of the eager faces above them.
Suddenly a smooth brown head was popped out of the stage window,
followed by an arm that waved vigorously in answer to the ringing cheer
which greeted the owner’s coming.
“Hurrah, there’s Hal!”
The stage turned in under the arching gateway, and the horses,
quickening their pace as they reached their journey’s end, toiled up the
gravel driveway leading to the steps. Before they had fairly stopped,
out jumped a boy of sixteen, dressed in a gray uniform, resplendent with
brass buttons. He was immediately seized and surrounded by his
schoolmates, all talking at once.
“Glad to see you back, old boy!”
“So late I was afraid you had cut Flemming Hall for good!”
“Why didn’t you wait till Christmas, and done with it?”
“Where’ve you been all summer?”
“Lots of new fellows here and our new teacher; you just ought to see
him!”
Without deigning to reply to the shower of questions, as soon as he had
shaken hands all round, the new-comer turned back to the stage and
said,—
“Come, Leon, step out and show yourself.”
As he spoke, a boy two or three years younger than himself stepped down
from the stage and joined the group, a little shyly, it must be
confessed. But Harry laid a protecting hand on his shoulder, as he said
by way of introduction,—
“See here, you fellows, this kid is my brother, Leon Arnold. He’s a good
fellow, plucky enough to make up for his small size, and I know you’ll
like him. Now come on, one at a time, and I’ll tell Leon who you all
are, so you can start fair and square. This is Louis Keith,” he went on,
turning to a slender lad of fifteen whose dark olive skin and blue-black
hair were suggestive of Japan or China, rather than American birth; “we
call him Ling Wing, or Wing for short. He’s the dude of Flemming Hall,
and immensely proud of himself when he gets on his dress uniform. This
next one,” he added, pointing to a yellow-haired, roly-poly youth of
about the same age; “is Max Eliot. Look out for him; he’ll get you into
all sorts of mischief.”
“Don’t you worry, young Arnold; I’ll get you out again, and that’s more
than Hal does for his friends. Ask him about the night Max and Louis
went after the pies,” interrupted the tallest of the group, a
sixteen-year-old giant who was already past his six feet and was still
stretching upward, while his small sandy head and blue eyes looked
ridiculously boyish at the top of his manly figure.
“This, Leon,” his brother explained, without paying the slightest heed
to the interruption; “is Jack Howard, popularly known as Baby. He’s a
good fellow, but an awful drain on the family purse, for the tailor
always charges him double for his uniforms.”
During the laugh that greeted this sally, a young man drew near the
group, a well-built, athletic-looking young man dressed in army blue,
whose brown eyes brightened behind their spectacles as he put out his
hand, saying cordially,—
“Harry, I am glad to see you at last. We had almost given you up.”
Regardless of Leon and of his introductions, Harry whirled around
quickly and grasped the outstretched hand.
“Lieutenant Wilde! Are you really back here? How jolly!”
“Back again, as well as ever and delighted to be with my boys once more,
after six months of rest. They were all here but you, and the doctor and
I were beginning to be afraid you were not coming, after all. Is this
the brother you wrote about?”
“Oh, yes, this is Leon. Leon, Leon, this is Lieutenant Wilde,” he added,
eagerly pulling his brother by the sleeve.
Lieutenant Wilde looked at the lad with interest. Harry Arnold was one
of his favorites, and on that account he was the more curious to see
Harry’s younger brother. Very different were the two boys who were
standing there in the glare of the September sun, under their teacher’s
gaze. Harry’s broad shoulders, round face, quiet gray eyes and firm lips
seemed to tell of a more lasting strength than the thin, wiry figure of
Leon, his laughing, restless brown eyes and mobile mouth; but the boyish
hearts were the same in their quick, impulsive generosity, in their firm
adherence to a strict code of honor, and in their keen sense of fun.
Though apparently the more yielding of the two, Leon ruled his brother
with an iron rod, and in spite of the difference in age, he was
respected and admired by Harry, who willingly became his abject slave.
“And so you are Leon,” Lieutenant Wilde was saying. “I am glad to
welcome you to Flemming Hall, and I hope you may stay with us as long
and like us as well as Harry has done. The doctor is waiting for me now,
and I must go; but bring your brother to my room this evening at eight,
Harry; I want to have a talk with him, so I can tell into what class he
is to be put.”
“All right, sir.”
And as Lieutenant Wilde walked away, the boys all gave him the stiff
military salute.
“Well done, young Arnold,” remarked Jack Howard condescendingly. “You do
that very respectably for a new fellow.”
Leon laughed outright.
“That’s Hal’s work. He’s been coaching me all summer, so I shouldn’t
disgrace him when I came. It’s been nothing but _salute_, _present
arms_, _recover arms_ and all that, till I could do it to suit him.” And
the boy made a few quick turns with his tightly-rolled umbrella, in
place of a more dangerous weapon.
“There, Leon,” interposed his brother good-naturedly, “you’re telling
family secrets. Come and see our quarters now. Don’t go off, Paul,” he
continued, as one of the group started to turn away; “there’s room for
you all and more too, and I have some fine grub in my trunk.”
What boy could withstand such an invitation? With one consent, the lads
followed Harry as he led the way up the steps, into the broad hall and
up the oak stairs that wound along three sides of the wall.
“What room are you going to have?” inquired Max, as he brought up the
rear of the procession, with Harry’s bag in his hand.
“Number fifteen, of course,” said Harry, as he turned down a side hall.
“It’s the largest of the double rooms and I spoke for it long ago;
didn’t you know that? I shall take Leon in with me for a term, anyway.
Then, if he gets sick of me, he’s welcome to change. Come in, all of
you, and I’ll have the provisions out in a jiffy.”
While the boys were delaying below, the trunks had been brought
up-stairs, and now stood conveniently planted in the middle of the
floor. Harry and Leon each fell upon one of them, tugging at the straps
and impressively jingling their large bunches of keys, most of which, it
must be explained, were slipped on the rings for effect, since they and
their locks had long ago parted company, never to meet again. In the
meantime, their guests proceeded to seat themselves as their tastes
suggested, perching on any lofty point that presented itself. Jack
Howard arranged himself on the footboard of the bed, with his long legs
curled up until his knees nearly touched his chin; Louis and Max each
took a chair-back, while Paul Lincoln, a slender, brown-eyed,
rosy-cheeked fellow of seventeen, settled himself in the high
window-seat, with his feet on the table near by.
“Glad you’re going to have this room,” remarked Louis, as he passed a
caressing hand over the strap adorning his shoulder. “Max and I are
right across the hall. We couldn’t imagine who was coming in here, when
we saw the room was engaged. Nobody thought of you, for we supposed you
were booked for a single room.”
“So I was,” responded Harry, as he succeeded in opening his trunk and
tossed a pile of clothing out upon the floor; “but early in July father
decided to send Leon here, so I wrote to the doctor, and he said that
the Vernons weren’t coming back and we could have fifteen. Where are you
now? Oh, here you are!”
This apostrophe was addressed to a box of goodly proportions that soon
came to light, and was opened amid the admiring murmurs of the boys who
had learned, in past terms, to know and appreciate the boxes packed by
Mrs. Arnold.
“Your mother is a trump, Hal!” said Max, diving into the box to seize a
piece of cake in one hand and a chicken wing in the other. “I just wish
she’d show herself here. We fellows would make her our best bow,
wouldn’t we, Stan?” he continued, turning to a boy of fourteen who had
not yet spoken, though his rapidly changing expressions had shown him no
uninterested listener to the conversation.
While the boy addressed nodded in answer to the question, Harry
interrupted,—
“Now tell me all the news. Who is back of the old boys? Who is there
that’s new? Didn’t you say there was a new teacher?”
At the last question, Max rolled up his eyes and groaned. It was Jack
who answered,—
“Most of the old boys are back, and there are about twenty new ones,
none of them much account but my young cousin, Harold King. He must be
about Leon’s age, by the looks of him, and he’s a first-rate little
fellow, too. But this new teacher is the worst I’ve seen.”
“What’s his name?” inquired Harry, while he passed the box of sponge
cake to Stanley Campbell.
“Boniface. Luke is his first name, but the fellows call him Bony. He
deserves the name, too.”
“Looks as if he were made of three or four old skeletons patched
together,” remarked Max; and Louis added scornfully, with a satisfied
glance down at his own well-fitting uniform,—
“His clothes are loose where they ought to be tight, and tight where
they ought to be loose. I don’t see how the doctor ever came to pick up
such a man.”
“They say he knows most everything, though,” put in Stanley, rising to
the defence of the absent teacher.
“How old is he?” asked Leon.
“Not so old as he looks,” answered Paul; “but when you see him, you’ll
think he is about fifty, that he’s lost his last friend and never
expects to have another—”
“And doesn’t want any more, either,” Max went on. “He acts as if he
couldn’t bear us boys; not a bit like Lieutenant Wilde, but as if all he
wanted was to get his salary, without caring for us at all.”
“Show Hal the way he looks, Max,” said Jack, clasping his hands around
one of his knees, as he still sat on the footboard of the bed.
Max ran both hands through his soft yellow hair, until it stood rampant
and disorderly on his head. Then he raised his eyebrows, rolled up his
merry blue eyes and drew down the corners of his mouth into a mournful
curve.
“That’s just about it, Hal,” laughed Paul. “Max kept doing that this
morning when he was talking to us, and it was all we could do to keep
from shouting.”
“What does he teach?” Harry asked.
“Latin and Greek, in Mr. Winston’s place. Mr. Winston is going to New
York to study to be a doctor, and this man has come to take his classes.
He isn’t as cross as Mr. Winston used to be; but he’s sort of dismal,
perpetual mullygrubs, you know, and I don’t believe he’ll ever get much
out of the boys.” And Louis slipped down from his chair-back and moved
across the room to join Paul in the window.
“The seniors are all down on him,” added Max; “and most of the juniors
don’t like him. If many more of the boys get to hate him, I don’t
believe the doctor will keep him more than a term.”
“I wish the whole school would get after him, then,” remarked Paul
vindictively. “He uses words a mile long, but I don’t believe he knows
so very much, Stan; and even if he does, the boys won’t learn half as
much from him as they would from somebody that was a little less like a
walking funeral. For my part, I like a man that has some fun and life in
him, like Lieutenant Wilde.”
“Who is there that isn’t back?” asked Harry, while he began to unpack
his possessions, dropping his collars and cuffs in a pile on the floor,
and carefully placing his tennis racket and bat on the bed.
“All our class are back but Williams and Sothern,” answered Jack. “How
is it with the juniors, Stan?”
“There have five or six fellows dropped out of our class,” replied
Stanley; “Boothby and Allen and Crane and the Vernons; not much loss,
any of them except Crane, though. He was one of the best in ninety-two.”
Stanley’s remark ended in a most unmelodious croak, for he had just come
to the age when his voice was changing, and the feats that his throat
performed at times, surprised even its owner and covered him with
confusion. It was not so trying when, as now, he was alone with his
friends; but Stanley’s voice was no respecter of persons, and whether he
was in the class-room or on the parade-ground, in the midst of a Greek
exercise or giving some military command, his tone would suddenly change
from a manly bass to a piping falsetto, and poor Stanley would blush and
long to hide his diminished head in some safe retreat where he could not
see the knowing smiles and glances of his companions.
“Isn’t this a new racket?” asked Max, pouncing on it as soon as it
appeared.
“New in August,” answered Harry proudly. “I won it in a tournament at
Lenox. There were about a dozen of us played, and I took it in doubles.
Leon took the first prize in singles, though, and he was one of the
smallest that played.”
“Good for you, young Arnold,” said Paul. “You are the fellow for
Flemming, if you like that kind of thing. What can you do in football?”
“A little of everything,” replied Leon, with his head in his trunk as he
wrestled with a pile of books. “I’ve played centre rush for the little
fellows and quarter back for the large ones.”
“You ought to see him get over the ground, though,” remarked Harry, in a
confidential aside to Jack Howard. “He’s fine in an end play, and a
first-class man for almost any place you want to put him. What’s the
prospect for the season?” he went on, turning to Paul.
“The second team is a strong one, for the juniors have some splendid
men, and the new fellows are a good-looking set. We are only fair, now
Williams has gone and Brewster has strained his knee and can’t play.
Stan is to play quarter back on second, and Louis and Osborn are half
backs. There isn’t anybody in the second class to help us out, unless
your brother is there. Where are you going to be, Leon?”
“I don’t know yet; second, I think. Lieutenant Wilde is going to tell me
to-night,” answered Leon who, at the beginning of the football
discussion, had abandoned his unpacking and seated himself on the table
with his feet on the edge of his open trunk.
“I hope you will, for Hal seems to think you would be a good man, and
our first team is decidedly weak,” said Jack, uncoiling his long legs
and straightening his shoulders.
“How can I get first team, if I am only second class?” inquired Leon. “I
thought I could only get on second.”
“We used to divide up according to our playing, but that let the games
all end the same way. Then we took juniors and seniors against firsts
and seconds, and that wasn’t much fairer, for it put all the little
fellows against the big ones. Now we have juniors and firsts against
seniors and seconds, so it’s a little more even. We have our great game
of the year on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and we begin training
next week. I’m captain of the first, and if you are a good man, I want
you, even if you are small.” And Paul smiled benignly down upon his new
schoolmate, with the air of being vastly older and wiser and taller than
he.
“Don’t go, Paul,” urged Harry, hospitably waving his hand towards the
box on the table.
“Needs must when Bony drives,” sighed Paul. “He has given out an endless
lesson in Homer for to-morrow, and I must get it, or be disgraced at
once and forever. I’ll see you at supper-time.” And he strolled away, to
be followed almost immediately by Jack and Stanley Campbell who was the
head-boy in the junior class.
Max and Louis, who were not afflicted with too much conscience in the
matter of lessons, remained in the Arnolds’ room, to watch the unpacking
and to talk over any bits of school gossip which had been omitted, their
summer frolics and their winter plans.
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