FLEMMING AND ITS WAYS.
FAR up among the hills, a short distance back from the Connecticut
River, is the little village of Hilton. It is the smallest of farming
towns, only one or two long streets shaded with tall, arching elms and
bushy maples, and bordered with simple, old-fashioned houses clustered
around the gray stone church and square town hall. At one end of the
main street is the low building, also of stone, that serves for store
and post-office, one corner being given up to the business of
government, while the rest of the room is filled with a motley
collection of dry goods, groceries and confectionery temptingly set
forth in glass cases on the counter, or ranged on the rough pine shelves
which line the walls. This building and the little village hotel that
stands next it, are the favorite resorts of all the old farmers of the
region, for whom the daily trip to the mail furnishes the main
excitement of life. Although the hour for the coming of the stage and
for the opening of the mail has never varied within the memory of that
oldest inhabitant without whom any well-regulated village would be
incomplete; on one pretext or another, the old men come driving up to
the door fully an hour ahead of time, and are apparently much surprised
to find that they are too early and must wait. In a leisurely fashion,
they get down from their mud-bespattered wagons, tie their horses to the
old posts whose uneven sides bear the marks of many an equine tooth, and
go shuffling into the hotel whence they presently emerge, wiping their
lips on their checkered shirt sleeves. Then they settle themselves in
the store, where they while away the hour of waiting by puffing at their
pipes and discussing the weather, the crops and other matters of local
interest, with an indolent disregard of the fact that, at home, their
wives and daughters are busy with many a task which they might help to
lighten.
Into this peaceful community there came, some twelve years ago, the
startling news that buildings were to be at once erected for a large
school for boys; and before the sluggish minds of the farmers had
grasped that main fact, the work was well under way. For a time the busy
laborers and the fast-rising brick walls bade fair to rival the post
office as an attraction for the villagers; but as the buildings drew
near completion and became an old story, the farmers returned to their
former seats in the hard arm-chairs and on the cracker-barrels of the
store, and thought no more about the new school-house, save when some
group of gray-coated lads stepped directly into their pathway.
This school was Flemming Hall, “a military and classical school for
boys,” as ran the circular. It was an excellent school in all respects,
and under the successful management of Dr. Flemming, its founder, it had
gained so high a reputation for systematic work and discipline as to be
overcrowded with applicants for admission. For this reason, the doctor
was able to select his boys with care and, in general, the Flemming
cadets were an honorable, manly set of fellows whose work was well done,
and whose fun and mischief were of a pure, gentlemanly sort. To be sure,
an occasional black sheep would find his way into the flock; but the
moral tone of the place was good, and the real work of the school was
thoroughly and intelligently carried on.
Dr. Flemming was the right man for the head of a boys’ school; he not
only had a fine, well-trained mind, but over and above all that, he was
genuinely fond of his boys and anxious to develop the best possibilities
that lay in each one of them. In this work he was ably seconded by his
nephew, Irving Wilde, who, at the close of his course at West Point, had
resigned from active service, in order to take charge of the military
training in his uncle’s school. Though still very young, during the
three years he had been at Flemming Hall, Lieutenant Wilde had gained a
strong influence over the lads in his care, who adored him for his
quiet, even discipline during school hours, as well as for his apparent
interest in all their games and sports, in which he often had a share.
To Irving Wilde, his pupils were no mere thinking-machines, to be fed
with so much material for their daily allowance. Instead of that, he
watched and studied each lad separately, never content until he had
mastered his subject and understood every boyish nature with all its
vague, restless ambitions, its faults and its chances for a good and
useful manhood. The boys never knew just how it was, but they soon
ceased to be surprised when Lieutenant Wilde seemed to divine their
thoughts, and spoke some word of encouragement for their nobler aims, or
let fall a quiet remark of disapproval for some wild, boyish freak. It
was impossible for them to resent any interference on the part of a man
who was not only an excellent teacher, but a champion in all athletic
sports as well, and always ready to join them in their expeditions up
and down the valley and over the hills. Lieutenant Wilde was such good
company that the boys could not afford to displease him, for fear he
would go with them no more, and, reasoning in this way, the lads vied
with one another to carry out his wishes until his will had become law
for nearly all of his pupils. A more selfish man might have abused this
power, a less conscientious man might have regarded it as of little
importance; but Irving Wilde did neither. On the contrary, he did his
best to increase it and to devote it, not to his own good, but to the
best interests of the boys and of the school. A low fever and a slow
convalescence had forced him to give up his work for a few months, and
the woe of the boys at his going away was only consoled by the joy of
his reappearance, at the time that our story opens.
Of the two other teachers, Herr Linden was an elderly German of majestic
proportions who contented himself, as far as the boys were concerned,
with instilling into them a generous amount of the French and German
tongues. That done, and to his credit it must be distinctly stated that
it was well done, he went his own way in calm unconcern of his pupils
who, on their side, accepted his labors as a necessary evil and thought
no more about him outside of school hours.
But the new teacher, Luke Boniface, though a very common type in
northern New England, was a foreign element at Flemming Hall. The son of
a poor country minister, he had early made up his mind to work his own
way through college and fit himself for the life of a missionary to
India. With this end kept constantly in view, the years of his boyhood
had been years of hard labor and stern self-denial. By working through
all his vacations, and occasionally giving up one year of study, in
order to earn enough money to carry him through the next, he had toiled
his way along until, at the age of twenty-eight, he had just completed
the undergraduate course in a small inland college. Then more money must
be had before he could take his special professional course, and to Luke
Boniface it seemed that a year of teaching was the best and easiest way
to gain that end. Some months of this work in a little country school, a
few years before, gave him the right to call himself experienced; and
with the help of friends, he asked and obtained the position of
classical teacher at Flemming Hall, although his only practical
knowledge of boys was that gained from teaching the overgrown striplings
whose school life was limited to a few weeks of every winter, and the
chubby, pinafored urchins of the A B C class. The boys at Flemming
filled him with terror when they assembled before him, on the first
morning of the term. So elegant and worldly-wise were they that, in
comparison, he felt himself a mere child in their presence. His
embarrassment made him appear even more awkward and constrained than
ever, and long before the hour was over, he heartily wished himself away
from Flemming Hall once more. Could he go through with it? His heart
almost failed him; but Luke Boniface was not the man to abandon the set
purpose of years, in the face of a roomful of rollicking boys. He would
remain in his place and conquer them. During the summer he had often
dreamed of the coming year, of the strong influence for good which he
would exert over the boys, of the popularity he would gain. Now, as he
glanced about the room, he instinctively tried to hide his large feet
under his chair, and to pull down the sleeves of his best coat, which
all of a sudden seemed to him to be pitiably mean and shabby. His years
of toil and care had drawn anxious lines on the face that now flushed a
deep, dark red, as he caught sight of Max who was roguishly imitating
him for the benefit of his mates. The young man raised his eyebrows, and
pressed firmly together his lips which had shaped themselves into a
melancholy droop. It is a true old saying that “God makes the other
features, man makes his own mouth.” In the midst of his petty anxieties
and struggles, Luke Boniface had found neither time nor disposition to
be genial; to him, life was all a hard, stern reality, and his mouth
showed that he felt it to be so. Taken all in all, he was a man to be
honored and respected rather than loved, sensitive and, like many
sensitive people, fond of pulling himself up by the roots occasionally,
to inspect his growth; conscientious and anxious for the good of those
around him, nevertheless he was ill at ease, cold and forbidding in his
manner to the very persons whom he most desired to approach. Moreover,
as has been said, he had little knowledge of boys and their ways and
small desire to increase that knowledge, though he regarded them as a
class of young savages whom it was his duty to try to improve, just as
one day he hoped to work among the heathen of India.
The large grounds of Flemming Hall lay a little to the south of the
town. Turning abruptly from the street, the drive wound up a steep
hillside to the group of brick buildings on the level ground at the top.
From there, a magnificent view opened out in every direction. Old
Flemming, as it was called, the dormitory where the boys all lived,
fronted towards the west, and, standing on its broad piazza, one could
look far away into the Green Mountains, beyond the river whose gray
water shone here and there through the trees below. At the south the
hills rose, range on range, some thickly wooded, others more open and
dotted with white farmhouses, long, rambling barns, and herds of black
and white cattle grazing over the smooth pastures. In the other
direction lay the little village nestled among its trees, and beyond
that, the mountains, blue and misty in the distance. Directly in front,
the smooth green lawn sloped away to the street, and half-way down the
hill was the pretty red cottage where Dr. Flemming lived with his wife
and little daughter. At the right of the dormitory rose the square tower
on the recitation hall; at the left was the armory, with the stars and
stripes flying above it. Back of the armory was the much-trodden
parade-ground, and beyond lay the great fields given up to baseball,
football and tennis, for Dr. Flemming believed that boys needed plenty
of out-door exercise and that, indulged in moderately, such exercise was
a help rather than a hindrance to the lessons. Having once made sure of
sound bodies, by a careful selection of his teachers and a no less
careful oversight of their work, he would succeed in developing the
sound minds to put into them. So well did he carry out his ideas that
there was nearly as much rivalry in the class-rooms as in the games, and
it was by no means uncommon to find the same boy excelling in both
connections.
As Leon followed his brother into the great dining-room, that first
night, he glanced curiously up and down the room to see his new
companions. The seventy or more cadets who were grouped about the four
long tables, looked so much alike, in their gray uniforms, that he had
some difficulty in recognizing the half-dozen of them to whom Harry had
introduced him, in the afternoon. But soon Jack Howard’s tall figure
caught his eye, and the next moment, he found himself sitting down
opposite Max Eliot who was casting significant glances towards the far
corner of the room. Leon followed the direction of his eyes and saw a
young man with a discouraged, anxious face and a head of bristly brown
hair, seated at the upper end of the table diagonally across from the
one at which they were taking their places.
“That’s Bony,” whispered Max, leaning across the table. “Isn’t he fine?”
Leon gave a nod of assent.
“Hope I don’t get at his table,” Max went on, in the same tone; “his
face would sour the milk on the oatmeal, mornings, and I don’t want to
have my appetite destroyed in that way.”
“You look as if you were pining away, Max,” remarked Leon’s right-hand
neighbor.
“So I am,” responded Max, with a pretended sigh. “You could pack my
appetite in a pill-box, and put on the cover. By the way, Alex, this is
Leon Arnold, Hal’s brother. Arnold, this fellow is Alex Sterne, a bright
and shining light of the senior class.”
Leon turned slightly, to be met by two blue eyes which gazed so squarely
and steadily into his own that they would have had a look almost of
defiance, had they not been softened by the mouth below them. There was
an air of candor and truthfulness about the lad, about his broad, open
forehead and the clear eyes which looked into Leon’s, that gave the
new-comer a sudden feeling that this was a friend to be trusted. Moved
by this attraction, he said, with a laugh,—
“Max doesn’t seem to fancy the new teacher.”
“He’s not so bad,” answered Alex, as he scientifically speared an olive.
“He isn’t pretty to look at, I know; but he would be well enough in
class, if the fellows would let him alone. Have you seen the doctor?”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll like him; all the boys do. He’s a good man, and Lieutenant Wilde
is another.”
“I’ve seen him,” said Leon; “and he told us to come to his room
to-night. Where does he live, at the doctor’s?”
“No; he’s down there now, but he rooms here and sits at the head of this
table. There’s always a squabble among the boys, to see who shall sit
near him. He’s so jolly that he keeps them in a roar, all meal-times. Is
this the first time you have been away to school?”
Leon modestly confessed his inexperience.
“Well, Flemming is a good place to come to, and I know you’ll like it.
You start at an advantage,” Alex went on, in a lower voice; “in being
Harry Arnold’s brother. Everybody here likes Hal, and if you’re the
fellow you look, they’ll like you too, provided you keep out of
mischief.” And he turned away from Leon, and began to talk with the boy
on the other side of him.
“I saw you chumming with Alex Sterne at supper to-night,” remarked
Harry, as the boys were starting for Lieutenant Wilde’s room. “How did
you like him?”
“Immensely,” responded Leon, with unexpected fervor.
“You’re all right there,” answered Harry; “Alex is one of the finest
fellows at Flemming. He’s older than most of us, nineteen, and adjutant
of our battalion, the truest, steadiest, most all-round sort of fellow
we’ve ever had here. I don’t believe he has an enemy in the school, and
that’s more than anybody else can say. I’ll tell you more about him some
day; but this is Lieutenant Wilde’s room.”
A cordial “come in” answered Harry’s knock, and the boys entered the
bright, attractive room, half bedroom, half study. Lieutenant Wilde
tossed his magazine on the table.
“It’s you, is it, Arnold?” he said, as he came forward to greet the
boys. “And I am glad to see you too, Leon. Sit down by the fire; I have
it for looks, not warmth.” And he drew up two or three chairs before the
ruddy grate that lent an air of cosy comfort to the chilly September
evening.
“We may as well proceed to business at once,” remarked the young man,
when they were seated. “Some of the other boys may be in soon, and I
want to find out what Leon knows, while we are alone.” And in a
pleasant, off-hand way, he began to question the boy about his past
work, while Harry amused himself with the magazine that Lieutenant Wilde
had laid aside. The examination was a most informal one, and was over
and done before Leon had time to be frightened.
“Your brother will easily go into the second,” Lieutenant Wilde said
then, as he turned back to Harry. “And now tell me what you have been
about, all summer.”
Harry was just entering on an account of his doings, when a knock
announced the arrival of Alex Sterne and Jack Howard, who were closely
followed by Max Eliot and Stanley Campbell; for Lieutenant Wilde’s room
was a favorite resort with the boys, and it had long been his habit to
hold a sort of open court in it, on every Wednesday and Saturday
evening. Though any and all of the cadets were welcome, it was Harry and
his half-dozen intimates who were most often to be met with, gathered
around the fire, or walking up and down the long room, now talking over
their lessons, now planning some holiday excursion or, quite as often,
listening meekly to a timely little lecture from Lieutenant Wilde, for
some thoughtless, mischievous freak, too slight to be brought before the
doctor’s notice.
This evening was the first Saturday of the new year, and with one
consent the boys grouped themselves about their teacher, waiting to hear
of the way he had spent his time during the six months that he had been
away from them. It was all so pleasant and sociable, so unlike the usual
relation between teacher and pupil that, for a time, Leon was content to
sit quiet and listen to the spirited narrative of Lieutenant Wilde, to
his lively description of the quaint little southern town where he had
gone for rest and change, of his summer camping tour in the Yellowstone
Park, where he caught his fish for dinner in one stream and cooked them
in the boiling waters of the next one, only a few paces distant. But it
was impossible to feel himself an outsider long, for Lieutenant Wilde
constantly turned the conversation in his direction, in such a winning,
friendly way that the lad was soon as much at home as any of the others;
and long before “lights out” had sounded, he had mentally sworn
allegiance to this young man who joked and laughed like a boy, yet never
failed to keep a certain quiet, kindly dignity of his own which made the
lads feel that, although he was a real friend and companion, still he
was never to be trifled with or opposed.
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