The angry word this time almost escaped Ward's lips, but before he could

speak Jack quickly replied, and as Ward looked at Big Smith again he was

glad he had not spoken. It was evident the big fellow was in "dead

earnest," as the boys phrased it, and Ward thought he even saw traces of

moisture in his eyes. Surprise overcame his feeling of resentment, and

he stopped to listen to Jack, who had resumed his pump-handle gesture.

"The trouble with you, Big Smith, is that you are a prig. It isn't that

you don't do wrong that makes the fellows feel toward you as they do.

In their hearts there isn't a fellow who doesn't respect the chap who

tries to do right, and they wish they were like him too. But you're a

regular grandmother, Big Smith. You've been a big fellow in your own

town, and when you went away to school you thought you were doing a big

thing. Then you come up here and the first thing you do you go to

reaching out and patting all the rest of us bad little boys on our

heads. You rebuke us; you think we're all on the downward road because

we don't do just what you want us to; and then you expect everybody to

do for you instead of trying to be of some use to the fellows. Why,

from the time last Mountain Day, when you left others to carry the

luggage and then when night came took all of Pond's bedquilt to

yourself, every fellow in the school thought you were for Big Smith

first, last, and all the time."

"But I was cold that night," said Big Smith solemnly.

"And what did you think of Pond? And whose bedquilt did you think that

was? Now Pond never was in any scrape, and yet the fellows all take to

him. You're never in any scrape, either, but you've got to do more than

that, let me tell you. You heard about the man who never said a foolish

thing and never did a wise one, didn't you? Well, let me tell you that

a fellow has got to have something more than negative goodness to make

him count in the Weston school."

The boys looked with wonder at Jack as they heard him speak. It was all

so different from his usual manner that not one of them could understand

him, and almost in consternation they turned to see how Big Smith was

receiving the lesson.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*JACK'S SERMON*

"I don't just know that I understand what you mean," said Big Smith

slowly. "Isn't doing right the same as not doing wrong? That's what

I've been taught, that a good fellow was one who didn't drink and swear

and steal."

"You've got the cart before the horse, my distinguished friend," replied

Jack. "A fellow isn't good because he doesn't do those things, but he

doesn't do them because he is good. Now I know a place where there are

more than a thousand men living all together. They neither drink,

swear, nor steal; they don't even fight. Not one of them."

"That must be a fine community, Jack," said Big Smith quickly.

"Well, it isn't. It's one of the toughest places 'in all this broad

land of ours,' to quote from Ward's last speech. Not much. I don't

think you, even you, Big Smith, would like it there, even with all the

virtues I have mentioned, and they're not half of them, let me tell you,

either. I could give you a catalogue more than a yard long, just like

them."

"I don't see, Jack. I think you must be joking. What's the place?"

"Never was more serious in all my life," replied Jack lightly. "Now

listen, and I'll give you the name of the place. It's the State

prison."

Big Smith looked blankly at Jack for a moment, while all the other boys

present burst into a loud laugh. It was not so much what Jack had said

as the expression of amazement which spread over Big Smith's face as he

heard the words.

The laughter of the boys continued for several minutes, and at last Big

Smith said slowly: "I never in all my life before thought of it in that

way, Jack. Up where I live, when they speak of a good boy they always

mean one who doesn't do anything bad."

"And right they are," said Jack, with a laugh; "that is, right as far as

they go. The only trouble is they don't go far enough. Any old pumpkin

out in the field doesn't do any of these things either, but they don't

call the pumpkin 'good' on that account, at least as far as I've ever

observed. Did you ever go to a circus, Big Smith?"

"I never did."

"Well, that's all right; I'm not telling you you ought to. All I mean

is that if you should happen to go some time, just to take the children,

you know, of course, you'd probably see a lot of cages there. And the

cages would be full of awful beasts. Wild animals, you know. There'd

be the hyena, he's a very cheerful bird; and there'd be the rhinoceros,

and the elephant, and the tiger, and the mosquito, and the lion, and all

sorts of gr-o-w-ling, savage beasts of the field," and Jack's voice

became low as if he were trying to imitate the sounds of the animals he

named. "Now, Big Smith, if you ever were so naughty as to take the

children to see such sights, you'd feel perfectly safe, because not one

of those monsters was ever known to devour a man, woman, or even one of

the children, for whose sake you probably had gone. You see they're

held back by the bars, and they can't do any damage, no matter how

tempting your tender flesh might appear to be. But, Big Smith,

honestly, you wouldn't feel any warmer toward the gentle hyena, or the

mild and smiling tiger, would you? or think it any safer to leave those

tender little infants you had gotten together, and for whose sake alone

you had gone to the circus--I mean just to see the animals, of

course--there in the tent, if the bars were all taken away, although not

one of those animals had ever done any damage to any man?"

"I--I--don't just see the point," said Big Smith, somewhat bewildered.

"What do you mean?"

"Alas! alas!" said Jack in mock despair. "Well, what I mean is just

this. You don't trust a lion or a tiger in the menagerie because he

hasn't done any harm. So you don't always take to a fellow just because

he's never done anything very bad, either. He may be held back, he may

be afraid, he may not know anything about the bad, and so not do it

because he doesn't know enough to do it. Now, Ned Butler, who graduated

last year, you know, or Little Puddle's big brother, why either or both

of those fellows just gripped the whole school, you see. They never

were in any of the mean things, but there was something besides that.

They tried not only not to do wrong, but they also tried to do right.

Every fellow in the school knew that both of those boys were just doing

their level best to do the square thing every time, as well as keep out

of the mean things. It wasn't half so much what they did not do as what

they did do that counted, let me tell you. They had good, red blood in

their veins every time, and the boys knew and felt it too, but it seemed

just as if they used every ounce of muscle they had to do something.

They weren't thinking of the things they didn't do."

"I--I--think I'm beginning to see what you mean," said Big Smith

quietly.

"I'm mighty glad you are able to see the point once in your life," said

Jack good-naturedly.

"You'd better be glad," interrupted Ward, who sympathized somewhat with

Big Smith in his manifest trouble, "you'd better be glad that you were

able to make the point plain enough to be seen for once in your life,

Jack, as I've told you so many times lately."

The lad laughed heartily, for he was one of the few boys who was willing

to receive as well as give the bantering of the school.

Turning again to Big Smith, and noting the unusual seriousness of his

manner he said, in a far more gentle tone than he had before used,

"Honestly, Big Smith, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You started

the thing you know, and asked me what I thought was the reason you

didn't stand better with the fellows, and I told you just what I

thought. It was none of my business, and I ought not to have done it.

Who am I to preach to you? I'm one of those who do just exactly the

opposite of the very thing I've been urging on you, for I leave undone

those things which I ought to have done, and do the things which I ought

not to do. Forgive me if I've said what I ought not to have said," and

Jack, in his impulsive way, stretched forth his hand.

Big Smith took it, but made no reply, and in a few moments slipped

quietly out of the room.

As soon as he was gone Jack began to upbraid himself for the words he

had spoken, and in a brief time he too departed. None of the boys ever

knew of the visit he immediately made in Big Smith's room, nor did they

ever hear of the long conversation between the two boys which followed.

It was soon evident, however, that a change of some kind was coming over

Big Smith. Many of his ways were greatly modified, and his devotion to

Jack Hobart became as marked as it was strange.

None of the boys, however, thought very much of the matter, for Jack was

universally popular, and no one could long retain a grudge against him,

and to that fact was probably attributed the new departure in the case

of Big Smith.

Pond returned to the school on the following week, and great was the

rejoicing among his friends. The boy had but little money, and while in

his calm, quiet way he never concealed the fact nor hesitated to give it

as a reason for not entering into many of the projects of his

companions, he never obtruded it nor referred to his poverty as if he

gloried in it. He was one of the most popular boys in the Weston

school, thoroughly respected and warmly loved for his genuine manliness.

He had continued his studies during his absence, and had been able to

keep well up with his class, and as soon as he returned Ward at once

perceived that Pond was determined to retain the laurels he had won in

the preceding year if hard work would accomplish it.

It soon became manifest that the struggle for the first place in the

class lay between Ward, Pond, and Berry, but the three boys lost none of

their regard for one another in the contest.

Ward learned more easily than either of the other two, but he lacked the

steady, dogged, even ways of Pond. There were occasions when he was

strongly tempted to neglect his work, and indeed did even neglect it,

but not for a long time. He had been taught a severe lesson, and with

the higher impulses now in his heart, and the longing to carry home to

his father a report which he was well aware would give him higher

pleasure than anything else he could do for him, he held himself well to

his work in the main, and was recognized as one of the leaders in his

class.

In the even lines of the school work there came many pleasant breaks.

On Mountain Day the summit of the great hill was climbed as it had been

in the preceding year by the most of the boys of the Weston school, and

many of the experiences which have already been recorded were repeated.

The party of friends, with Little Pond and Big Smith occasionally added,

tramped over the hills in quest of chestnuts, and never failed to return

with a goodly store. On the brief half-holidays, until the snow came,

they would take their luncheons and start forth to explore some of the

beauties of the region in which Weston lay, and the hills would echo and

re-echo with the sounds of healthful boyish shouts and laughter, the

best sounds in all this world.

Ward Hill was happy. The past seldom rose before him now, or if it did

come for a moment and awaken a sharp pang, it was soon put aside as the

consciousness of the efforts he was then making came to take its place.

And Ward was working faithfully. He was doing so much more and so much

better than ever he had done before, that it seemed to him as if he was

working intensely. He had yet to learn some of the necessities and

possibilities in that line.

The enmity of Tim Pickard and the "Tangs" still continued, but for the

most part it was expressed in sneers and attempted slights rather than

by any open manifestations; but Ward felt that he could endure all that

easily now in the knowledge he had of the regard with which most of the

boys looked up to him since the day of the great game with the Burrs.

And then too, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was not

neglecting his work, and that results were already becoming more and

more plain.

Once, it is true, his room was "stacked" again, when he had carelessly

left the door unlocked, but he did not care so much for that as he did

that Pond's room was also upset on the same day. Coming up the stairs

together they discovered two of the younger boys at work in very midst

of the mischief. They administered a sound "seniorly" spanking, and made

the little fellows confess that Tim Pickard had told them to do what

they were doing.

As soon as the chastening and some good advice had been given, Pond

insisted upon going at once to Tim's room and "having it out with him"

as he expressed it. Nothing loth, Ward assented, and the two boys at

once went down to Mrs. Perrins' and found Tim by chance in his room.

The presence of his visitors evidently confused the lad at first, but

soon assuming a bold manner he listened to what Pond had to say.

"We've come down here to tell you, Tim, that you're not to set any more

of the little fellows up to stacking our rooms again."

"I haven't stacked your rooms," said Tim boldly.

"I'm not talking about that," said Pond, speaking in a quiet manner,

frequently deceiving to those who were not well acquainted with him. He

was seldom angry, but his very quietness gave the impression that it

would not be wise to push him unduly. "I'm not talking about that,"

repeated Pond. "All I said was that you were not to set any more of the

little fellows up to such tricks as stacking our rooms."

"Have the little imps gone and squealed? I'll fix----"

"Now look here, Tim," said Pond, still speaking quietly, and his manner

betrayed no excitement, "you know me and I know you. There isn't any

use in dodging this thing. Ward and I caught the little fellows right

in the act, and we spanked them till we made them own up. It wasn't

their fault but ours if they told, and it wasn't their fault that they

were in such petty business, either. I don't think they will be in it

again."

"What'll you do to stop it?" sneered Tim. "Go and tell the doctor,

won't you?"

"I'm not making any threats," replied Pond; "all I'm saying is that this

has got to stop. You can't afford to do it, Tim, and as for me, it

costs me too much to come up here to have anybody rob me of what I came

for. I haven't any time to spend in setting up my room. I need all the

time I can get to hold my place in the class," and he turned and smiled

slightly at Ward as he spoke. "Now you know, Tim, what I've come for,

and that's all there is to it. I'm after the work, and I haven't a

spark of the nonsense some of the fellows talk about, putting up with

all sorts of tricks, to call them by no worse names, that any one may

feel disposed to play on them. That's what I came for, and now I've

said all I have to say. Good-night, Tim."

Tim did not reply to the salutation as Ward and Pond turned and went out

of the room.

At the door they met Jack, who had just come down for his supper, and to

him Ward related all that Pond had said and done.

Jack whistled when he had heard all and said, "That's what you may call

bearding the lion in his den. Maybe it will work all right and maybe it

won't. They won't bother you again till after Christmas, but my opinion

is that you'll have to look out then."

"What'll he do? Why will he wait until after Christmas?" said Ward.

"Nobody knows what he'll do; it won't be stacking your room, though, I'm

thinking. I think he won't dare to stir things up before that time, for

he knows he's on his good behavior himself; but it'll come somehow, I'm

sure, for Tim's fighting mad."

Jack's prophecy, so far as nothing being done before Christmas, proved

to be correct. Nothing occurred to disturb the quiet and harmony of the

school.

The little flurries of snow were soon followed by heavier falls, and the

wintry winds began to be heard throughout the valley. The crests of the

hills were the first to be covered by the snow, but soon it crept down

the sides and over the meadows, and when at last the end of the term had

come, the snow lay deep over all the landscape, one of the heaviest

falls ever known in Weston, even the oldest inhabitants declared.

Of Ward's welcome home, of the good time he had, and the happiness which

this time was his, we cannot write here.

When his report came, Ward found that he was third in his class. He

knew then that both Pond and Berry must be in advance of him, and he

felt somewhat disappointed. The pride and rejoicing of his father over

the improvement, however, were so great, and as Ward himself was aware

that he had done good work, he did not refer to his own feelings, but he

resolved none the less that he would try to show both Pond and Berry

that in the coming term if they held their laurels it would be only by

the strongest kind of effort.

The "coming term," however, was to be an unusual one even in the annals

of the Weston school, but Ward's heart was light, and not a shadow of

the future at this time darkened it.

The vacation at last was ended, and Ward and Henry departed from

Rockford in the midst of a severe snowstorm. The storm changed to rain

before they arrived at the end of their journey, and that night there

was a sharp freeze.

In the morning, when they left their room to go to their breakfast, they

found that the crust of the snow was strong enough to bear their weight,

and in every direction they could see the boys running, sliding,

slipping, falling over the smooth surface, while all the time shouts and

laughter could be heard on every side.

*CHAPTER XX*

*DOWN WEST HILL*

"Come on, Henry, let's go over to Jack's room," said Ward as they came

out of the dining hall together.

The zest of the meeting with the boys was not yet gone and as they came

into the hall or went together down the steps, the boisterous laughter

still continued.

But Ward was not entirely jubilant, and as he looked about him at his

noisy companions, perhaps he was somewhat suspicious that all were not

so happy as the sounds of their laughter might lead an inexperienced

observer to believe.

The winter term was the long, hard term of the year. In the fall, while

each boy was aware that a long stretch of weeks intervened between him

and the joyous Christmas time when he would again be at home, there were

yet the re-unions after the long vacation, and the formation of new

friendships as well as the renewal of the old ones; there was the

excitement of the outdoor athletic sports, and the long tramps over the

hills and through the valleys, to say nothing of the Mountain Day, which

was one of the features of school life at Weston.

In the spring, in addition to the fact that the term itself was a brief

one, there was also all the joy which the returning summer brought, and

the thought of a speedy return home.

But the winter term was long and sometimes dreary. Storms swept over

the valley, the fierce winds piled the heavy fall of snow into

mountain-like drifts, and there was not very much to vary the monotony

of the school life. It was the time when the hardest work was demanded

and done, and the natural consequence was that as the Weston boys came

thronging back to the school after the Christmas vacation time more than

one of them returned with hearts that were somewhat heavy within them.

But all the boys had a dread of even the appearance of homesickness, and

by every available method each sought to create the impression that he

at least was not suffering from that dreaded disease.

Just why this was so, no one could explain. Surely no boy had any cause

to feel ashamed of his love for his home and his desire to look again

upon the faces of those whom he loved and those who loved him. But

whatever the explanation, or lack of explanation, it was still true that

many of the boys looked forward with anything but pleasure to the days

of the winter term, and yet few were willing to acknowledge their

feelings.

Ward Hill was no exception to the general rule at Weston. As he came

out of the dining hall that evening and the cold, wintry air struck him

full in the face, he lifted his eyes and looked at the snow-clad hills

which shut in the valley. The towering monarchs seemed to be absolutely

pitiless and forlorn in the starlight. Snow and leafless trees, and

cold and lifeless landscapes seemed to be all about him and even the

laughter of the boys sounded noisy and unnatural, as if his boisterous

companions either were striving to drown their thoughts by their

protests, or were endeavoring to force themselves into some kind of a

belief that they really were glad to be back together in school again.

He was sharing in the general depression, and in addition to his desire

to see Jack was the longing to be cheered, and perhaps compelled to

forget the immediate pressure by the contagious and irresistible good

nature of his friend.

Henry gladly yielded assent and in a few moments they entered Jack's

room and had received his somewhat noisy welcome. Berry also was there,

and Pond and his brother came a little later, and in the presence of

such friends Ward's gloomy thoughts soon vanished.

"And how are all the good people at Rockford?" said Jack eagerly.

"That's the best town I ever was in in my life. I don't see why they

need any churches or preachers there for my part; a fellow has to make a

desperate effort if he wants to do anything bad there."

Ward smiled at Jack's words as he replied to his question. He thought

he might be able to explain to his friend that even Rockford was not

free from all temptations, but Jack soon broke in again.

"If I didn't want Pond here to come to New York and take charge of the

church I attend just as soon as he's ready to begin to preach, I'd say

to him go up to Rockford. They are awfully good up there."

"Yes, some of us 'too good to be true,' I'm afraid," said Ward quietly.

"You don't suppose I'm going to a place where I'd have nothing to do but

loaf, do you?" protested Pond. "No sir! I'm going to a place where

there's work, and plenty of it too."

Ward glanced quickly at Henry and noticed the pained expression upon his

face at Pond's innocent reference to the position of a preacher in

Rockford. He was well aware of the almost passionate devotion with which

Henry regarded his father, and indeed the feeling was somewhat shared by

Ward himself as he pictured to himself even then the saintly beautiful

face of Dr. Boyd.

"I don't know about that, Pond," he said quickly. "My impression is that

Henry's father doesn't think he's lying in a bed of roses with such a

scapegrace as I am to look after. I rather think it depends upon the

man almost as much as it does upon the place he's in whether he works or

not."

"That isn't what I mean," said Pond, perceiving at once that he had said

something which might better have been left unsaid. "I know there's

work even in Rockford, and there's a worker for the work too. I was

only speaking for myself, and what I meant was that the place where

there's the most to be done is the one which appeals most to me."

"Good for you, Pond," said Jack hastily. "My church is the place for

you. The men there think if they give lots of money, and pay a good big

salary to the preacher they've done all that's required of them. But

honestly I'm most afraid the missionary part was left out of me. I like

a good time. And fellows," he hastily added, "I've brought something

back with me just for that very purpose. I got one and Tim Pickard's

got one too. He brought his up on the same train with me."

"What's that you've got?" said Ward, voicing the immediate interest of

all in the room.

"I've the daintiest bob you ever saw. Come out in the hall and see it."

The boys followed the eager lad, and there in the hall stood the long

sled which Jack had brought. It was shod with slender steel runners,

and in its narrowness appeared to be even longer than it really was. It

was beautifully upholstered and equipped with the most approved steering

apparatus.

"Isn't she a beauty?" said Jack enthusiastically. "I wouldn't dare tell

you what my father paid for her. I just hinted that I wanted the best

affair in all the city, and behold! just before I started for the train,

this bob put in an appearance."

The enthusiasm of the boys was almost equal to that of the sled's owner,

as they noted its good points and examined it critically.

"We'll have some fun on her," said Jack. "She's like an arrow almost.

What is it we sing in chapel, 'Swift as an arrow cleaves the air'?

Well, that's what this bob can do. She's a good ten feet in length, and

I think she won't tarry very long on her way down West Hill, do you?"

"How many will she carry, Jack?" inquired Ward.

"All I can put on her. I can pack away ten or twelve, and maybe more.

We'll soon see. Come up on West Hill to-morrow afternoon after study

hour, will you, fellows?"

All the boys eagerly accepted the invitation, and on the following

afternoon joined Jack and together dragged the long, slender bob up West

Hill.

West Hill was a long hill with several bends in the road and a number of

very sharp descents, between which were long stretches where the road

ran downward, but in a gradual incline. From the place where the boys

at last stopped, to the street on which the school buildings stood it

was at least a mile, and they were all eager to see in what time the new

bob could carry them that distance.

The pathway was almost like ice, for the cold weather still continued

and the recent sharp freeze had left a hard coating over all the snow.

When at last the party of seven boys halted, for both Big and Little

Smith had joined them, they were far above the valley. The trees had a

coating of frost and glistened in the afternoon sunlight. The pathway

was hard and firm and did not yield beneath their weight. The air was

crisp, but the boys were clothed to meet that and no one thought of the

cold.

"Get ready there!" shouted Jack, as he took his seat in front on the

sled and grasped the little ropes by which he was to steer. He braced

his feet against the ice to hold the sled in its position and waited for

the boys to take their positions behind him.

One after another took his place on the sled, carefully bracing his feet

and grasping the body of the boy in front of him tightly with both arms.

Ward was to have the position in the rear and was to give the push which

should start them on their long journey.

"All ready?" shouted Ward taking his place.

"All ready! Let her go!" shouted Jack in reply.

Ward began to push, and as the sled began to move slowly gave it one

more hard shove and it had started. Then running swiftly behind it he

leaped quickly upon it, braced his feet and tightly grasped Henry, who

was seated next before him.

The sled began to move slowly at first, but in a moment its speed

increased and soon it seemed to the excited boys as if they were almost

flying over the smooth and slippery surface. Faster and faster sped the

long sled and the sharp air seemed almost to cut their faces like a

knife.

Down the long descent the sled swept on and soon came to the first of

the sharp falls. It seemed then almost to leap from the ground and

shoot through the air, as indeed it did for a number of feet, then

struck the ground and swept onward with an ever-increasing speed.

Ward thought of Jack's reference to the arrow cleaving the air, and it

seemed as if that was just what the swift-flying sled was doing.

On and on, swifter and swifter sped the party. Around one of the bends

in the road they passed, and the boys clung more tightly to one another,

for it seemed at first as if they would be flung from their places; but

Jack was doing nobly as steersman and held his beloved sled well to its

place in the road. Down another of the sharp descents they passed and

the speed was again increased. It seemed as if nothing could move more

swiftly than they were sweeping down the long hillside. The vision of

the fences by the roadside and of the few scattered farmhouses and barns

was all confused and indistinct so rapidly did they pass. Down, down,

and ever downward sped the sled, and the excitement of the breathless

boys increased each moment.

Another of the bends in the road lay before them, and almost before they

were aware of it they were sweeping around the curve, and before them

lay the last of the sharp falls in the road.

As they turned the bend a loud warning cry burst from Jack's lips, and

as the frightened boys glanced quickly before them, they had an

indistinct vision of another party of boys coming up the hill dragging a

long bob behind them. The warning cry was heard just in time, and the

startled boys only succeeded in swiftly leaping to one side before

Jack's sled was upon them. It just grazed the edge of the other sled,

and then before any one could utter a word was yards away down the

hillside. Not one of the boys spoke, but their faces were white and

drawn, and the peril they had barely escaped caused their hearts to beat

wildly.

Again the sled seemed to leap and shoot through the air as it came to

the last fall, and swift as its motion had been before, it became even

swifter now. The fences and trees seemed to fly past them. It was even

difficult to breathe in the cold and rushing air. On and on swept the

sled with its load, until at last the long road had been traversed and

they approached the little hill which was near the village.

Up the ascent the sled plunged on its way, then down the hillside on the

farther side, then up again on its way to the last of the rises in the

ground before they approached the school buildings.

But the upward movement now began to tell even on the swiftly flying bob

and its speed visibly slackened. Slowly and still more slowly it moved,

and when at last it had gained the high ground on which West Hall stood

it came to a standstill.

With a heavy sigh the boys leaped off and stood together facing Jack,

who was holding the ropes by which he had steered, in his hand.

"Whew!" said Jack enthusiastically. "That's what I call coasting,

fellows!"

"Coasting!" said Ward. "That isn't any name for it. That's flying,

that's what it is--just flying. I feel as if we'd been shot through the

air and didn't, even touch the ground. I say, Jack, I've got a name for

your bob."

"What is it?"

"'The Arrow.' ,'Swift as an arrow cleaves the air,' you know. You can't

improve on that name if you try ten years. Call her 'The Arrow,' Jack."

"All right," said Jack laughingly in reply. "'The Arrow' it is then.

I'll have her all painted up in colors in a day or two. Come on,

fellows, and we'll try it again."

The boys turned to follow Jack up West Hill again; but no one spoke for

a time, as the excitement following the swift ride had not yet

disappeared.

Ward was walking by Jack's side assisting in dragging the sled, and when

they were half-way up the hillside they quickly called to their

companions to "look out," and then swiftly darted to one side of the

road drawing the long sled with them. Just before them they could see

the other bob coming swiftly on its way, and as it swept past them they

discovered that Tim Pickard was steering it. Doubtless it was his bob,

and the party consisted of his boon companions.

"I say, Jack," said Ward soberly, "this is lots of fun, but it's

dangerous too. You don't suppose Tim would leave his bob so that we

might happen to strike it on our way down, do you? It would be all day

with us if he should do such a thing."

"No, I don't believe Tim would do that," replied Jack lightly, although

Ward thought he could see that his friend was troubled by the

suggestion. "No, I don't believe Tim would do that," repeated Jack.

"He's got the disposition to upset us, but I don't believe he'd do it.

He thinks too much of his bob to run the risk of a collision."

Nothing more was said by either of the boys, and in a brief time they

arrived at the summit of West Hill and prepared once more for the long

ride.

The party was arranged just as it had been in the preceding ride, and as

soon as Ward saw that all the boys were ready, he began again to push

the heavy load and as the sled started, he ran lightly behind it and

then leaped upon it in his former position.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*THE ARROW AND THE SWALLOW*

Again the swift descent of the long hill was made, and then once more

the boys climbed back to the starting point.

Tim Pickard and his friends were passed each time, but no trouble came,

the owner of the other bob either not caring to disturb them then, or

else, as Jack suggested, he feared the damage which might come to his

own sled from a collision.

When at last the boys returned to their rooms, they were all

enthusiastic over the sport of the afternoon and were eagerly looking

forward to the following day when the experience might be repeated.

Indeed it was not long before the entire school seemed to feel the

contagion of the sport, and sleds and improved bobs were to be seen

every afternoon upon the long course of West Hill. Even the

towns-people came to share in the coasting, and many strange looking

sleds soon made their appearance.

One in particular attracted much attention. It was made of two rude low

sleds such as the farmers used to draw their heavy loads of wood in the

winter. It was an immense affair, and frequently fifteen or twenty young

men would be packed together upon it, and when the rough-looking

contrivance made its appearance it was sure to have every right of way,

as no one cared to stand in its path.

Even the ladies soon joined in the sport and West Hill presented a gay

appearance, covered as it frequently was by the merry crowds. Some of

the towns-people had horses to drag the heavy sleds back up the hill and

to enable the ladies to avoid the trouble of climbing, but the Weston

boys did not consider it much of a task to retrace their steps; and

indeed the pleasure was perhaps increased by the difficult ascent.

Jack soon had the name which Ward had suggested painted in bright colors

on his bob, and the fame and the speed of "The Arrow" seemed to increase

daily.

Among the coasting contrivances none seemed to be equal to it except the

bob which Tim Packard owned and which he had named "The Swallow,"

perhaps from some fancied resemblance between its swiftness and the

flight of that bird.

The school had "gone mad," as Jack phrased it, over the coasting on West

Hill. The time between supper and the evening study hour also was given

up to the sport, and instead of soon tiring of it, the interest and

excitement seemed to increase with every passing day.

But among all the sleds and bobs none appeared to belong to the class of

"The Arrow" and "The Swallow," and they were soon the acknowledged

leaders of them all. The events which followed were perhaps only a

natural outcome of that fact and a trial between the two soon came to be

talked of among the boys.

"Ward," said Jack, one evening about two weeks after the beginning of

the winter term, "Tim wants to have a race between his bob and mine.

What do you think of it?"

"I didn't think he'd condescend to race with us," replied Ward, almost

unconsciously assuming a partial ownership in "The Arrow." Jack

apparently did not notice that there was anything of assumption either

in Ward's words or manner, for while the generous-hearted boy had fully

shared the pleasures of his bob among the boys of the school, his love

for Ward had led to his being a member of every party formed. He

declared that Ward alone knew just how to start "The Arrow" aright, and

that much of its success was due to that very fact. And Ward in his joy

had not stopped long to consider the matter, and soon came almost to

regard the swift-flying bob as a joint possession.

"Condescend?" said Jack. "It's no condescension on his part, let me

tell you, to have a race with 'The Arrow.' His old tub isn't to be

mentioned with it."

"That's all right; I wasn't referring to the bobs, but to Tim's present

feelings."

"Well, I fancy Tim did have to swallow hard once or twice before he

could bring himself up to the point of challenging 'The Arrow.' But,

you see, so many of the fellows are interested and have talked so much

about the two bobs that Tim probably couldn't stand it any longer. So

the upshot of it all is that he wants a race."

"I think we can accommodate him," said Ward. "When does he want it to

come off?"

"Next Saturday afternoon's the time he mentioned. I suppose we can suit

ourselves about that, though. When do you think is the best time?"

"Oh, that'll do as well as any. That is, if the weather holds good.

How many are to be in each party?"

"We shall have you and me, of course, and then there'll be Luscious, and

Henry, and Big and Little Smith, and Puddle and his big brother.

That'll be eight all together."

"Why do you take the little fellows?"

"Oh, it'll be fun for them," replied Jack. "Tim'll carry the same

number, eight."

"Yes, but his load will be heavier. Little Pond and Little Smith are

both so light that they won't count for very much, I'm afraid."

"Oh well, never mind that. They'll get some fun out of it anyhow, and

that'll be almost as good as winning the race. But I'm not afraid, even

if Tim does have a heavier load. I guess 'The Arrow' will cleave the

air all right."

The race was soon arranged and at once became the exciting topic in the

school life. Three days only intervened and the boys of the rival

parties were not idle. Daily they went up on West Hill, and Jack tried

several new methods of steering, while Ward practised the "send-off,"

upon which they all relied.

Saturday dawned clear and bright, and the afternoon promised to be

almost ideal for the race. Long before the time when it was to occur,

the boys of the school took various positions along the roadside to

watch the race, although many of them preferred the place in front of

West Hall, which was to be the terminus, and there they could witness

the finish and at once determine which had won.

Ward had suggested that the race should be "on time," that is, that each

bob should go over the course alone and that the time occupied by each

should be carefully kept, and the merits of the bobs be determined in

that manner. There would be less danger by adopting that method, and he

could not disguise the fact, in spite of his excitement, that the race

was fraught with more or less of peril. The unanimous protest of all

his companions, however, had served to do away with his suggestion, and

he had said no more.

It was arranged that the course should be gone over three times and that

the bob which won two of the three races should be declared the victor.

Much time had been spent in polishing the long, slender steel runners of

"The Arrow," and everything which was likely to add to its speed and

safety was carefully looked to.

At last the appointed time arrived and the eight boys who were to

comprise "The Arrow's" load started up West Hill, each grasping the long

rope and assisting in drawing the bob after them.

A cheer from their friends followed them as they started forth from West

Hall, and at intervals along the road they were greeted by the plaudits

of the boys. It was evident that most of the school desired them to

win, though Tim was not entirely lacking in supporters.

As they drew near the hilltop, it was seen that the rival party was

already there, and a crowd of boys stood about "The Swallow" admiring

her strength and speed, and talking over her various good points.

Many of the boys who were there to see the start, planned to go down the

hill after the first race and be with those who were assembled near West

Hall to witness the finish in the succeeding races. Mr. Blake was to be

the starter, while Mr. Crane was to be the judge at the end of the

course, and they had left him with the crowd in the village.

The excitement was now at the highest pitch. Lots were soon drawn for

choice of sides in the road, and as Jack won he selected the right,

although there was no advantage in that, and the allotment had been made

only to insure perfect fairness for all. The bobs were soon in position

and Ward took his stand behind "The Arrow" ready to make the start,

while Ripley was waiting to do a similar work for "The Swallow."

The pathway was all cleared and the boys along the roadside were to see

that the way was kept clear throughout the course. Ward could see the

eager faces of those who were assembled at the starting-place as he

glanced about him. They stood back from the road, but were leaning

forward intent upon every movement of the rivals.

Jack and Tim had taken their positions in front, for each was to steer

his own sled. Tim's face betrayed no feeling, but as he glanced at

Ripley, Ward could see that in spite of his apparent indifference he

felt confident of winning. Indeed, as he returned Ward's glance a sneer

spread over his face, which served to rouse his rival still more. How

Ward did wish to win that race! They must have it! And the eager lad

determined to give "The Arrow" such a start as she never before had.

"Are you ready?" called Mr. Blake, his tall, angular form bending in the

excitement which he shared with the boys. "When I count three you're to

start."

He took his watch from his pocket and then glanced once more about him

to see that all were ready for the signal to be given.

"One! Two! THREE!"

Instantly Ward bent to his task and "The Arrow" began to move before

him. Harder and harder he pushed, and as the speed instantly increased

he leaped lightly into his seat and tightly grasped the body of Big

Smith who was seated directly in front of him. Unmindful of the frantic

cheers of the boys in the assembly behind him he turned to look at "The

Swallow." Neither side apparently had gained any advantage in the

start, and now the two bobs were speeding onward side by side.

The speed increased, but the two sleds still kept the same relative

positions. On down the hillside swept the rivals, and soon they were

almost flying through the air. The cold wind made their eyes water, but

as yet neither Jack nor Tim had for a moment withdrawn his attention

from the task before him. Both fully realized the necessity of constant

watchfulness and were resolved that not an advantage should be lost.

Cheers arose from the boys waiting by the roadside, but almost before

they could be heard they sounded far away behind them. Both sleds were

well handled and were doing nobly.

Around the first bend in the road they swept almost together, and soon

the first of the steep descents was gained. Almost as if they were not

touching the ground the sleds shot through the air, but the increasing

swiftness apparently was equally shared by them both. Side by side the

two sleds swept onward. The speed increased each moment, and as yet it

was impossible to determine which was gaining the advantage. On and on

they sped, "swifter than the wings of the wind."

Around the next curve, then on down the next fall in the road, then

around the next bend. More than half of the course had now been covered

and still the sleds sped forward side by side.

Before them lay the last of the steep places, and as in an instant they

seemed to be upon it, Ward gave a shout as he saw "The Arrow" push

slightly forward in advance of its rival. The advantage was very slight

but still it was an advantage, for he was nearly abreast of Tim Pickard,

who was seated in front on "The Swallow" and steering his own sled, as

we know.

Before them now there lay the two little hills. The issue of the race

would be decided by the ability to withstand the slackening of speed

which was sure to come there.

Up the first little hill both sleds went, and Ward's shouts redoubled as

he saw that "The Arrow" was forging slightly ahead. They were just

about a sled length beyond their opponents now, and it seemed to him

that he could almost hear the labored breathing of Tim Pickard who was

just behind him. The lighter load was a very decided advantage now,

Ward thought, in climbing the hill, and he blamed himself for having

made any protest against the younger boys being made members of the

party.

As they passed down the little hill "The Swallow" gained slightly, but

as they began the ascent of the last remaining hill again the lighter

weight of "The Arrow's" load began to tell, and when at last they gained

the summit it was once more a full length in advance.

They could see West Hall in the distance now, and as the descent was

begun they all knew that the last stretch of the course was at hand.

The waiting boys had already obtained a glimpse of the racers and their

shouts in the distance could be distinctly heard. Plainer and plainer

grew the sounds, but Ward's heart sank as he glanced behind him and saw

that "The Swallow" was slowly creeping up on them. Her heavier load

began to tell now as the descent was fairly entered upon. Ward felt as

if he must get off and push the bob before him. What was the trouble?

Why was it that "The Arrow" seemed to drag on her way? Slowly and yet

steadily he could see that "The Swallow" was gaining. First Tim Pickard

came alongside, and then one after another was directly by his side. On

and on moved the sleds and soon "The Swallow" was a little in advance.

The cheers of the waiting assembly redoubled now that the bobs were in

plain view and the end of the course had been almost gained.

Still "The Swallow" pushed ahead, and when at last the end had been

gained she crossed the line more than a length in advance of her rival.

Shouts and cheers greeted the outcome of the first race, even the boys

who had not favored "The Swallow" shouting till they were almost beside

themselves in their excitement.

Ward and his companions rose from their seats, but they were downcast

and disheartened.

"Never mind, Ward," said Jack lightly as they started again up the hill,

"'one swallow doesn't make a summer,' you know. They haven't won the

race yet. It's the best two out of three and we've a good fighting

chance left."

"'The Arrow's' the swifter bob," said Ward disconsolately. "There's no

doubt at all about that. They beat us by their heavier load. We were

ahead up to the top of the hill, but when we started down then their

weight put in its fine work. We'd have beaten them easily if we'd

carried as many pounds of weight as they did."

"Never mind that," said Jack quickly, glancing behind him as he spoke to

see whether either of the younger boys had overheard the words. "It's

an experience they'll always remember, and it's as great fun to see them

have a good time as it is to win. Maybe we'll win this time."

Ward made no reply, nor did he speak again before they had gained the

summit of the hill. Many of the boys had left it now to go down to West

Hall to witness the finish of the race.

The sleds were soon in readiness for the second race, and this time

Jack's prophecy proved to be correct, for "The Arrow" won by three full

lengths.

Each had now won once and the third trial would be the deciding one.

The excitement of the spectators as well as the boys engaged in the race

became more intense now. Nearly all had gone from the summit when for

the third time the sleds were drawn up there.

They were quickly reversed and placed in position, and then at the word

of Mr. Blake started swiftly down the long course for the third and

decisive trial in the race.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*THE MISHAP OF THE ARROW*

In spite of his excitement, Ward Hill was not unmindful of the danger

which attended the race. While the long road was kept clear of vehicles

and passing teams by the boys who were stationed at intervals along the

course, yet the speed with which the bobs swept over the smooth surface

was terrific, and any little mistake on the part of either Jack or Tim

was likely to prove very serious in its consequences.

He knew that both the boys were skillful, and their control of the sleds

had been superb up to this time, and that there apparently was no cause

for the fear which somehow came upon him when they started on the third

and last descent of West Hill.

In a moment, however, all his attention was absorbed by the excitement

of the race. While not so many of the boys had been on the summit when

they started this time as had been there when the other two starts had

been made, their feelings were more intense, and what they lacked in

numbers they more than made up by their shouts. Each bob had now won a

race, and the third trial would determine which should be the

acknowledged champion of the school.

It almost seemed as if the sleds themselves shared in the feelings of

the boys. The road was in prime condition, and apparently there was

nothing to prevent a full test of the speed of each sled.

At any rate, it seemed to Ward, as he clung tightly to the body of the

boy in front of him, as if the speed had very materially increased. And

yet almost side by side the two bobs sped on down the hillside.

Far away rose the shouts of the waiting boys as soon as they obtained a

glimpse of the oncoming sleds; but almost before the sounds could be

heard the bobs swept on and passed the scattered groups, and then again

the shouts and cheers from below would be heard. No one on either sled

spoke, however, for their feelings were too strong for utterance.

Two of the bends of the road had been passed, and twice had both sleds

shot through the air as they came to the sharp descents in the road, and

while the speed of each had instantly been increased, as yet neither had

gained any perceptible advantage over the other.

As they approached the third bend, however, Ward could see that "The

Arrow" was slightly in advance.

Tim Pickard, who was steering "The Swallow," was now just abreast of

Little Smith, who was seated in the center of the load which Jack's bob

was carrying. The advantage, however, was too slight to be a source of

much comfort to the anxious boys, and the slightest mistake on Jack's

part might forfeit it all in a moment.

Ward looked ahead of him and could see three boys standing directly in

the pathway. They were all waving their arms and shouting together, but

Ward thought nothing of their appearance, and was satisfied that they

would do as all the others had done when the racers came nearer, and

step aside to give them a free course down the hill.

A shout arose from "The Arrow's" load as the boys still retained their

places in the road, and as the bobs swept swiftly forward, the three

still kept their places till the racers were almost upon them. They were

shouting and waving their arms all the time, but no one thought of that,

and as they darted quickly to the side of the road, the sleds came

almost upon them.

"Look out, look out!" suddenly Ward shouted as he glanced at the other

sled for it seemed to him that Tim had changed his course and was

steering directly into "The Arrow."

"Look out, look out!" he screamed again frantically as he saw that Tim

evidently was trying to drive them off from the course. If one or the

other did not instantly change there was sure to be a collision.

All the boys on "The Arrow" looked up at Ward's shout of warning, and

Jack glanced backward as he heard the call.

"Look out! look out, Tim!" he screamed in his excitement, but the course

of "The Arrow" instantly was changed.

Just how it all occurred Ward never knew; whether Jack had for a moment

lost control of the sled as he looked backward, or the forward runners

of "The Swallow" actually struck the bob he never could tell.

There was for a moment a dull grating sound, as if "The Arrow" had

grated on bare ground, and all the boys on it were thrown slightly

forward by the sudden checking of the speed.

However, it instantly became apparent that Jack had lost control of the

bob. The swift-flying sled left the road, started directly down the

bank, and before them, only a few rods away, was a low, rambling stone

wall which still appeared above the crust of the snow. There was a

shout of alarm from the watching boys by the roadside, a feeling of

utter despair in Ward's heart as he perceived there was to be a crash of

some kind. But before he or any of the boys could voice their alarm, or

roll from the sled which was plunging ahead with no apparent slackening

in its speed, there was a sudden shock, and the sled struck the wall,

and in a moment Ward felt himself shooting through the air over the

heads of his companions.

He was only partially aware of the force with which he struck the hard,

smooth crust at last and slid far ahead over its surface. He tried

desperately to check his speed, but all of his efforts were without

avail, till at last he came sharply against the stone wall which

bordered the narrow field on its farther side.

Even then he felt dull and stunned, and for a moment could not move.

Just where he was or how he came to be there was not at first apparent

to him.

In a brief time, however, he was aware of the shouts and cries behind

him and then staggered to his feet. His face and hands were bleeding

and his clothing was torn in many places. But all that was instantly

forgotten as he perceived from the actions of the boys, who had quickly

gathered at the place where the accident had occurred, that something

was wrong there. Stumbling, staggering forward, he made his way back,

though it seemed to him that every bone in his body was aching and every

step gave him pain.

At last he reached the crowd, and as he approached, one of the boys

noticing his appearance, turned to him and said quickly, "Are you hurt,

Ward?"

"No, I think not," though even while he was speaking he was conscious of

the wounds on his face and hands. "No, I think not much," he repeated;

"but some of the boys here are, I fear," he hastily added.

Before him stretched upon the snow lay the bodies of Henry, Big Smith,

and Jack. The others of the party were standing about as if they were

almost as dazed as he, and certainly their appearance was as bad as his

own. Some had bleeding noses, some showed great bruises on their faces,

and all had their clothing more or less torn by the accident.

"What is it? What is it?" he said hastily, as he pushed his way into

the group and approached the three boys who lay stretched upon the snow.

Beneath them some of the boys had placed their overcoats, while others

had rolled theirs into rude pillows and placed them underneath the heads

of the injured boys.

"Are they killed?" he added in a low voice as be gazed at them.

"No, they're not dead," said one in the group; "but Jack's got it the

worst of all. He must have fallen under the bob, for his little finger

had been almost cut off. The runners must have gone over it. We've

tied his hand up with handkerchiefs as best we could. I don't think the

other fellows are anything more than stunned. Here comes Mr. Blake," he

added, as the tall teacher came running toward them.

But Mr. Blake was not able to do anything more than the boys had done,

and the confusion increased.

"Send for a doctor!" "Take them down on the sleds!" "Take the pillows

out from under their heads!" "Rub them with snow!" were among the

expressions now heard on every side, but no one seemed to be able to

take the lead and the confusion increased.

"Here comes Mr. Crane!" shouted one of the boys, and in a moment the

teacher approached the group. Tim's sled had gone on down the hill, and

when it arrived at the end of the course, great was the astonishment of

the assembled boys that it should be alone.

In response to the many questions Tim disclaimed all knowledge of what

had become of "The Arrow," simply declaring that he thought there had

been an accident of some kind, but that he did not know just what it

was.

Mr. Crane had not waited to hear more, and had instantly pressed into

service one of the horses and sleighs which had been halted near the

place so that the racers might have a free course, and had started up

West Hill.

As he obtained a glimpse of the crowd which soon had assembled near the

place of the accident, he had needed nothing more to inform him that

something of a serious nature had occurred, and leaping lightly out, he

left the horse in charge of one of the boys and ran swiftly to the

crowd.

The boys at once made way for him, and just as he bent over the boys Big

Smith opened his eyes and stared wildly about him. Soon Henry too

regained consciousness, and Mr. Crane at once proceeded to make an

examination. Big Smith was declared to be all right, but with Henry it

was impossible to determine whether his left arm had been broken or not.

The slightly movement of it caused him intense pain, and Mr. Crane said:

"We'll have to leave that for a surgeon to determine. We'll now look at

this poor boy," and turning to Jack he began to make a further

investigation.

Jack was still unconscious, and soon it was decided to carry him back in

the sleigh in which Mr. Crane had come. Ward pleaded that he might

assist, but one look at him led the teacher to say, "You look as if you

needed help yourself, Hill. No, I'll let one of the other boys assist

me. Here's another sleigh," he added, as he saw that others had driven

to the place. "Doubtless Boyd and Smith can be taken back in that."

The arrangements were soon completed and the three boys were carried

back to the school. To the offer to carry him and the other remaining

boys on the sleds, Ward said: "No, sir, I don't want any more of that at

present. I can't speak for the others; but for myself I'd rather crawl

back on my hands and knees. Look at 'The Arrow' too, will you?" he

added. "I guess her racing days are done."

"The Arrow" was indeed in apparently a worse plight than that of any of

the boys. The collision with the stone wall had torn it apart. One

runner was broken loose and the seat lay several feet away from the body

of the sled.

It was only about a half-mile back to the school buildings, and in the

midst of the constantly increasing crowd of boys who looked upon their

injured companions much as if they were heroes, the racers returned. It

was a procession in striking contrast with that which had started out.

Just how they made the journey Ward never knew. He felt sore throughout

the whole extent of his body, and every step caused him suffering, but

somehow it was at last accomplished, and when he went up to his room,

Henry was already in bed and one of the other boys, who roomed in West

Hall, was there.

"How are you, Henry? Are you hurt much?" inquired Ward hastily.

"No, I think not. It's my arm that's the worst. It may be broken. The

doctor is coming soon. But how are you, Ward? You look all torn into

pieces."

"Oh, I'm all right," replied Ward hastily. "I got a few scratches and

bumps, but some hot water and arnica will soon fix me all right."

And he proceeded immediately to carry out his own directions. But his

heart was heavy when he thought of Jack and he could not entirely check

the tears that rose in his eyes. Sore and bruised as he was he decided

to go at once over to East Hall and learn how his friend was.

What a good fellow Jack was, thought Ward. He would share anything he

had with any or all who called upon him. And Tim Pickard! His heart

grew bitter and hard when he thought of Tim's dastardly trick. He had

been the one to blame for the accident, for doubtless his threatened

collision had been the cause of "The Arrow's" leaving the road, and the

dire events which had followed.

Ward was a long time washing his wounds and bruises, and by the time he

was ready to go over to East Hall, Doctor Leslie, the Weston physician,

entered the room with the principal of the school.

He at once began to make an examination of Henry and in a few minutes

declared, "There are no broken bones. The left arm has had a bad

sprain, and he'll have to carry it in a sling for a while, but I'm

confident that otherwise he's not seriously injured and will be around

again in a few days."

"Do you think he had better go home?" inquired Doctor Gray anxiously.

"That remains to be seen," replied the physician; "but I hardly think it

will be necessary."

"You'd better look at Ward," said Henry, his face beaming in spite of

the pain he was suffering, at the doctor's verdict. "He's been hurt

too."

"Only a few bruises and scratches," said Ward hastily. "But, doctor,

have you seen Jack?"

Doctor Leslie's face clouded as he said: "Yes, I have just come from his

room."

"How is he? How is he?" said Ward eagerly. "Is he badly hurt? I want

to go over there right away."

"You can't see him, if you do go," said the physician quietly. "I've

left orders with Mr. Crane for no one to be admitted into his room.

He's to keep the boys in the hall quiet too, and I've telegraphed for

his mother."

"Telegraphed for his mother?" said Ward aghast. "Is it as bad as that?

Oh, doctor, is he going to die?"

"I trust not, but he is seriously injured. I've been compelled to

amputate one of his fingers."

Ward was almost overcome by the kind-hearted physician's words and for a

moment he could not speak.

"I think, Hill," said Doctor Gray sympathetically, "that you had better

be in bed yourself. Doctor Leslie, isn't there something you can do for

him?"

Doctor Leslie left a few directions and then departed with the principal

to visit the other boys who had been on the unfortunate "Arrow." Much

against Ward's will he was ordered to remain in his room that night and

have his supper brought to him.

The following morning, although he felt stiff and sore, he resolutely

went down to the dining hall for his breakfast. Henry was in fairly

good spirits also, but he was not to leave his room that day. The

reports of Jack were not very encouraging and a gloom rested over all

the school when the boys assembled in the chapel. The accident of the

preceding day was the one topic of conversation and the subdued manners

of all the boys showed how deeply they had been touched.

At the close of the service Doctor Gray said: "It is not necessary for

me to refer to the distressing accident which occurred yesterday. We

all may rejoice that its effects were no worse, bad as they were. In

view of the results, which might easily have been fatal, you will all

readily understand why it is that from this time forward the use of

so-called 'bobs' is strictly prohibited, and no coasting will be allowed

except by special permission of the house teachers. I bespeak your

sympathy for those who are confined to their rooms and trust you will do

all in your power to aid those who are caring for them. You may now

pass to your class-rooms."

As the boys filed out of the chapel, many were the words of sympathy

heard for Jack Hobart. The popular light-hearted boy would have

rejoiced could he have heard the many expressions of interest and

good-will, but at that time he cared for none of those things. Rolling

and tossing upon his bed in his room in East Hall, he uttered no sounds

except an occasional moan, and even the presence of his mother, who had

arrived that morning, passed unrecognized by the suffering boy.

Ward was passing to the Latin room and glanced up at the windows in

Jack's room. How he did long to go there and do something to aid his

friend! Never before he thought had Jack seemed so dear to him. What

would life in the Weston school be without him? He almost groaned aloud

at the suggestion.

He was in a measure recalled from his sadness by Little Pond who rushed

up to him and said: "Ward, I just heard something."

"What is it?" said Ward, only slightly heeding the boy's eager words.

"I heard that some ashes had been sprinkled on the road where the

accident occurred."

"What?" said Ward, interested in a moment.

He stopped and for several minutes conversed with his little friend and

when he turned to enter the class-room, there was an expression upon his

face which had never been seen there before.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*THE INVESTIGATION*

As soon as the recitations were finished that morning, Ward sought out

Little Pond and as they walked together to the dining hall, he said:

"What did you mean by what you said about ashes having been sprinkled on

the hill yesterday?"

"Brown told me," replied Little Pond. "Brown said he overheard Tim and

Ripley talking together this morning before chapel. He wasn't trying to

listen you know, but they take their meals at the same place, and as

they came out of the house he heard Ripley say something about ashes and

then Tim say 'Yes,' and that 'somebody must go up there right away.'

Then they suddenly stopped short as they looked behind them and saw

Brown so near them. Brown said they looked guilty too, and as they knew

he was a good friend to Jack, they probably were afraid he had overheard

them."

"What did Brown do then?"

"Oh, he said that it flashed into his mind in an instant just what

they'd been up to. He thinks that Tim had arranged with these fellows

who stuck to the road yesterday, you remember, there by the last of

those steep places till we were almost on them. Brown believes that they

had sprinkled ashes over the path, or rather over one of the paths, and

that they held their places as they did to drive 'The Arrow' right on to

it. Then he thinks too that Tim steered in toward us a bit so as to

drive us farther and make sure that we'd be held back."

"The rascal," muttered Ward angrily.

"You don't really think Tim Pickard intended to force us out of the

road, do you, Ward?" inquired Little Pond. "I think all he wanted--that

is, if Brown's right--was to send us on to the ashes, so that we'd be

held back and he'd get a chance to gain enough to let him keep the lead

on the way down the hill. I can't believe he'd do anything so bad as to

drive us into the wall."

"Oh, Tim Pickard's all gentleness! He wouldn't harm any one! He'd

never take a fellow out in a baby carriage and jostle him around over

the rough ground, not he! He wouldn't stack a room. He wouldn't do

anything that isn't just the proper thing to do! Oh no, Tim Pickard's

too good for this world, I mean, of course, the Weston world, you know.

For my part, I wish he was taken out of it too. Weston would be a very

decent sort of a place without him."

Ward spoke bitterly for his heart was hot against Tim Pickard and the

"Tangs." Not that he believed that even Tim would deliberately plan to

run the boys into such danger as the load "The Arrow" carried had

incurred, but he was well aware of his bitter feeling against him, and

to an extent against Jack as well, and also of his desire for "The

Swallow" to win the race, and that he would stop at nothing to carry his

point.

However, he said nothing more to Little Pond, but as soon as he had

finished his dinner, he hastened over to East Hall and had a long

conversation with Brown, the result of which was that Brown and Baxter,

another of the East Hall boys, soon after dinner started up West Hill to

make some investigations near the place where the accident had occurred.

Doctor Leslie came out into the hall as Ward departed and the troubled

lad delayed for a moment to learn of Jack's condition.

"He's better, decidedly better," said the kind-hearted physician. "I

think he's going to pull through all right if we have no setbacks. It

was a great shaking up you boys had."

"It certainly was for Jack and Henry," replied Ward. "The rest of us

got a few bruises and scratches, but we don't mind such little things."

"Well, I understand that a physician's services are not likely to be

required in any similar cases very soon. I hear the principal has

forbidden the use of bobs any more."

"Yes, but our sled's all broken up, so we couldn't use it if we wanted

to."

"And that makes Doctor Gray's prohibition more easily borne, does it?"

said Doctor Leslie with a smile.

Ward made no response as he started toward West Hall. On his way Mr.

Blake overtook him and as they walked on together, the teacher said:

"Well, Hill, I hear that Hobart is likely to be about again soon. That

was a very careless piece of work."

"Careless? I don't understand what you mean," replied Ward angrily.

"Why, Timothy Pickard tells me that you were trying to cut across his

path and get ahead of him in the race. That was hardly fair I think,

and it ended just as all tricks are sure to end. I'm sure honesty is

the best policy, even in a race between bobs."

"Did Pickard tell you that?"

"Yes; I had quite an extended conversation with him this morning.

Timothy has improved greatly since he returned to school this year, as

you know, Hill. I confess I was somewhat dubious as to the advisability

of receiving him back into the school, but Doctor Gray plainly

understood him better than any of us did. There is a certain frankness

about Timothy Pickard that I now greatly admire. He has had many

conversations with me this year, and I am beginning to feel proud of

him. There must be something about the Weston air which is highly

conducive to manliness. And, Hill, while I am speaking, let me say that

I should rejoice greatly if you too were disposed to manifest a little

more friendly disposition toward your teachers. You must bear in mind

that we are here for the sole purpose of aiding you, and yet you

apparently are not eager to receive it."

If Ward had not been so angry, he would have felt inclined to laugh. It

was a new departure for Mr. Blake to assume the role of a helper among

the boys. Indeed, at times Ward had felt so keenly the impositions of

the boys upon him that he had been many times tempted to take his part.

The tall, awkward, ungainly teacher had never been a favorite with any

of them. Of his scholarship no one had any doubt, but apparently he was

lacking in the appreciation of boy nature, and even then Ward recalled

the many pranks which the various classes had played upon him. Even

Doctor Gray's words in the preceding year, when he had almost begged of

Ward and Henry to exert their influence to see that Mr. Blake's pathway

was not made so rough, came back to him now.

And here was Mr. Blake posing as a friend. Ward knew that in his heart

the teacher desired to be popular in the school, but his desire had been

so apparent as to cheapen his very efforts in that direction.

As for himself, Ward had never felt drawn to him and in his heart he did

not respect him. He had done his work in his classes, but never had he

felt the slightest inclination to go to him as he had done so many times

to Mr. Crane.

And yet now he recalled the fact that he had heard and even noticed that

Tim was disposed to be very friendly with the awkward teacher of

mathematics. Just what he had in mind by such a course of action, Ward

could not determine, but he was satisfied that Tim, to whom at the

present time he was not disposed to impute any worthy act or motive,

must have some deep-laid plans in mind.

Ward's silence was not understood by Mr. Blake, and as they entered West

Hall, the teacher said: "I am glad to see that you have been impressed

by what I have said, Hill. You have shown an inclination to do better

in your studies this term than you did last, but I trust you will also

conform to the spirit as well as to the letter of the Weston rules and

life."

Ward said "Thank you" somewhat gruffly, and then hastened up the

stairway to his room. Henry was there when he entered, and he at once

related to him the outcome of his conversation with Brown, and also told

him of the expedition of Brown and Baxter to West Hill.

As he went on to relate the conversation with Mr. Blake, even the staid

and sober Henry could not repress the smile which came at the thought of

the new air which the teacher had assumed, and with Ward he agreed that

Tim must have some deeper motive in his mind than was now apparent in

cultivating the friendship of Mr. Blake.

It had been decided that Henry was not to go home. While his arm pained

him intensely, and he would be compelled to carry it for some time in a

sling, the expense of a journey home and the loss of lessons combined to

render his stay in the school desirable, and all that afternoon Ward

studied steadily with him in getting out their work for the following

day.

After supper that night Brown and Baxter came over to Ward's room to

report the result of their investigations at West Hill. It became

evident at once by the expression upon their faces that they had

something of interest to relate, and after closing and locking the door

to prevent interruptions, Ward turned to them and said: "Well, let's

have it, fellows. What did you find on the hill?"

"We had a funny kind of an experience," said Brown. "We got permission

from Mr. Crane to be excused for a part of the study hour, so we started

out right after dinner. We didn't want any of the fellows to see us, so

we didn't go together till we got down by the bridge. We met there as

we agreed upon and then started up the hill. Well, sir, whom do you

suppose we saw when we got most up to the place where the accident

occurred?"

"I don't know," said Ward. "Maybe it was Tim Packard."

"No, Tim wouldn't be there, you can rest your soul on that. He never

gets his fingers scorched as long as there's some one else to be had to

pull his chestnuts out of the fire for him. It was Ripley."

"Was he alone?" inquired Ward eagerly.

"We couldn't see any one else, though we both suspected some one might

not be very far away, didn't we, Baxter?"

"Go on, go on," said Ward. "What was Ripley doing there?"

"Well, when we first saw him he was right in the road. Before I knew

it, Baxter had called out to him and you never in your life saw a fellow

so scared as Ripley seemed to be. He looked up, for he was on his knees

there in the road right where 'The Arrow' left it, you see, and when he

saw us coming he just jumped over the fence and made a bee line across

lots for home. Oh, it was great fun, let me tell you. We called and

called to him, but every time we shouted he just let out another length

and the way he slipped over the crust then was a caution. I don't

believe 'The Arrow' could have stood a ghost of a show with him. He

never once stopped or looked behind him, and it wasn't but a few minutes

before he was away down the hill, and pretty soon we could see him in

the valley. But even then he never stopped to look back. My opinion is

that he hasn't stopped yet. From the way he was going he made me think

of the wandering Jew and that he never would stop anywhere, only I don't

believe the wandering Jew ever could make such time as Ripley did. He

was in dead earnest too, let me tell you."

"Well, what then?" said Henry. "You didn't follow him?"

"No; after we recovered from our astonishment, for we'd never seen

Ripley in a hurry before, you see, we put straight on up the hill.

Pretty quickly we came to the place where the accident happened and then

we began to make our investigations. We didn't have any trouble in

finding the place, for the crust was all broken in and the holes that

Big Smith made where he placed his tiny 'footies' remain even unto this

day. My impression is that they'll find some hollows in the ground up

there too in the spring when the snow is gone. 'Every time his foot

comes down, the heel of his shoe makes a hole in the ground,' you know."

"Oh, bother Big Smith's heels!" said Ward quickly. "He isn't here to

defend himself, and it isn't fair to go for a fellow behind his back.

What we want is your story."

"That's what I'm giving you. Well, we went right at the road next, to

see if we could find any of those ashes we'd heard so much about."

"You didn't have any difficulty in finding what you were after, did

you?" said Ward.

"Difficulty? Well, I should say we did. We searched up the road and

then searched down the road, but not an ash could we find, sir, not even

a little piece of one."

"Well, what was Ripley doing up there then? What made him run when you

came?"

"That's the very question we put to ourselves, my patient little lad,

but the question was a good deal more easily asked than answered, let me

tell you. If it hadn't been for my friend Baxter here we'd never have

had it solved for us at all. But, you see, Baxter's a descendant of the

great Baxter, and he knows a thing or two."

"Who was the great Baxter?" said Henry solemnly. "I never heard of him."

"Oh, he wrote a book, or took a rest, or did something, I don't know

just what. But this Baxter took no rest. He made a great discovery.

Just when I was about to declare the expedition a failure and was going

to organize a retreat _a la_ Xenophon, my sweet-spirited friend dropped

upon his knees. I was somewhat astonished, you may believe, to behold

my comrade in that attitude, and was about to make a few simple

inquiries as to the purpose in view, for I heartily approved of his

conduct, I have no need of assuring you. But let Baxter tell his own

story. He'll do it justice, a good deal better than I can with my poor

stammering tongue, you see."

"Baxter, will you tell us what you did?" said Ward. "The trip must have

turned Brown's head."

"Why, all there was of it, I saw that some of the snow had been dug out

from the bank and it seemed to me it had been thrown on the road," said

Baxter. "It was trodden down, but it showed that some one had stamped on

it. Of course that made me suspicious and I just got down on my knees

and began to dig with my hands. I didn't have to go very far before I

found what we were after. Ashes had been scattered in the path, and

then some one had gone up and covered it all over with snow, and had

tried to pack it down so that it wouldn't show."

"And that was what Ripley was doing?"

"Precisely. Precisely," said Brown. "Your massive brain has solved the

riddle."

"The rascals," said Henry angrily. "Where do you suppose they got the

ashes?"

"Probably Timothy Pickard, Esquire, looked well to that," said Brown;

"and he had planned to fix you fellows on your third trip down."

"But if we'd struck the ashes fairly, it might have sent us flying in

every direction, at the speed we were going," said Henry. "It was a

dangerous as well as a cowardly trick."

"Precisely so," responded Brown; "but you were saved from flying all

abroad by the sled taking only one direction, and somehow you boys

seemed to be inclined to follow it too."

"I think it ought to be reported to Doctor Gray," said Henry

indignantly. "I'm no tell-tale, but such a thing as that might almost

have been murder."

"And how will you prove that Tim did it? Or that any one did it, for

the matter of that? As for Tim, he didn't do it, you don't need to be

told that, I'm thinking," said Brown.

"And then there's Jack," said Ward. "He's suffered the most, but I

don't think he'd want the thing reported. I don't believe we'd better

do anything before he is well enough to hear all about it. Doctor Leslie

thinks he'll get along all right now."

"All except his little finger," said Brown. "But I think Ward's right.

We don't want to report it before Jack knows all about it. We can keep

our eyes open though, and may be we'll find out who did it. Somebody's

rapping, Ward."

"I know it," replied Ward. "Let him keep on, we don't want him in here,

whoever he is."

Nevertheless he went to the door, but he almost stumbled backward when

he opened it, and beheld Tim Pickard and Ripley standing before him.

He was too astonished to speak, but the new-comers did not wait for an

invitation to enter the room, for they at once came in, and Ward not

knowing what to make of the visit and the visitors, quietly closed the

door and again locked it.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*UNEXPECTED VISITORS*

For a few moments no one in the room spoke, and as the boys glanced at

one another the embarrassment under which they were laboring seemed to

increase. What could have induced Tim and Ripley to visit him, Ward

could not conceive. The intensity with which he disliked both increased

even as he looked steadily at them and waited for them to speak; for

Ward had quickly decided that they must declare their errand without any

questioning on his part.

What an evil face Tim had, Ward thought. And yet his own face flushed

slightly at the recollection that only a few months before this time he

and Tim had stood much in the same position, had engaged in the same

pranks, and had reaped the same result at the end of the year. But Tim

apparently had sunk even lower, and while Ward was fully conscious of

his own failures and falls, yet there was a little feeling of rejoicing

that he certainly was now trying to do better. And his own heart

rebelled against Tim and all his ways. Surely there was a wide

difference between them now, for while they might have started from

almost the same plane both had been moving steadily onward, but drifting

apart, with the consequence that there was now a distance between them

greater than either could conceive.

And too, in that moment of awkward silence, Ward thought of how their

positions had changed since the beginning of the present school year.

Then Tim had seemed to be a leading force in the school. The boys, even

those whose hearts were repelled by him, still outwardly acknowledged

his position, and his word had been law with them in many ways. His

wealth, his fine physique, his ability as a baseball player and a

general athlete, had all their weight, as Ward himself was fully aware.

And indeed, had he not himself felt the influence of all these things in

the previous year, and been among those whom Tim had easily induced to

follow him in his evil ways?

Now, however, it was clearly evident to Ward that to a large extent Tim

had lost in influence in the school, while he himself had risen in the

estimation of his fellows. What had wrought the change? Was it the

winning of the game from the Burrs? Doubtless that had not been without

its influence, but it was something more than that, and although Ward

Hill could not find a name for the cause of the change, and perhaps was

not fully aware of the change itself, it was still due far more to

something within him than to anything he had done which could be seen by

his fellows.

The struggle had been a difficult one, and what the sensitive,

highly-strung lad had suffered no one but himself could know. And

perhaps the battle was not entirely won even now, nor would it ever be

until life itself should be ended, for no matter how high a person may

rise there still lies the unattained before him. The successful

merchant is not willing to rest on the laurels won; the statesman finds

difficulties confronting him even when he has gained the coveted

position, and even the schoolboy is not satisfied with the victories he

has achieved, but is looking out upon fields all untrodden by him. And

all this is because life is at work. When a man ceases to struggle he

ceases to live. Dead men are never hungry. They rest from their

labors, but the living rest for their labors.

The main difference between Ward Hill and Tim Pickard lay not in the

positions they then occupied, widely apart as these at the time seemed

to be, but rather in the direction in which each boy was moving. Tim

was slipping and drifting, and his direction was downward. Ward was

struggling and striving, falling too many times in spite of all his

endeavors, but the direction in which he was moving was after all

steadily upward. If their relative positions were so far apart now,

what would they be at the end of the journey?

Not all of these thoughts had come to Ward in the awkward silence which

had followed the unexpected entrance of Tim and Ripley, but a dim

suggestion of some of them had made itself felt in the heart of the

puzzled lad.

In a moment, however, all his better impulses were swept away as he

thought of the troubles Tim had brought upon them. The "stacking" of

his room, and all the petty annoyances he had suffered at his hands in

the earlier part of the year were as nothing now in contrast with the

condition of Jack and Henry, and even his own body was not without its

witnesses in the shape of bruises and sores.

When he thought of Jack, Ward's anger quickly returned, and a harsh and

bitter taunt arose almost upon his lips, but by a great effort he

restrained himself. After all, who was he to taunt Tim with his

shortcomings? Possibly Tim might not be entirely without flings to give

him in return. No, silence was the better part now, and he need not

stoop because Tim had fallen so low.

Tim was the first to speak. Assuming an air of indifference and

bravado, and looking boldly about the room he said "Well, we might as

well have it out at the beginning as at any time, I suppose. We've come

over to see what you intend to do about it."

"Do about what, Tim?" said Ward. "Of what are you talking?"

Tim laughed noisily, as he replied. "That'll do to tell the doctor, but

it won't go here. You know as well as I do what we've come over here

for."

"You'll have to explain yourself," said Ward coldly.

"All right then, if you must have it; it's the accident. We came over

to see about it. You might as well speak it right out now as any time,

and it may save a heap of trouble."

"I suppose by 'the accident' you mean the ashes you had sprinkled on the

road on West Hill, and your trying to crowd 'The Arrow' upon them," said

Ward.

"Now look here, fellows," said Tim with an air of assumed indifference,

"it's all very well for you to talk about my steering into you. No one

can ever say that I did that purposely. You can't hold two bobs going

as swiftly as ours were right to a chalk line. It's simply impossible.

You happened to have the lower side, that's all there was about it,

anyway, and when 'The Swallow' veered a little from her course, why you

thought we were coming straight for you. But even then you didn't have

to leave the track, and you wouldn't have done it, only Speck lost his

head. He looked behind him and, like Lot's wife, he had to suffer the

consequences of his own mistake, and that's all there was to it."

As none of the boys made any reply, Tim hastily continued. "And it's

all true what I was saying about it's not being necessary for you to

leave the track, even if we had gone out of our course a bit. We know

it's so, because some of us have been up and examined the place again."

"Is that what Ripley was running down the hill so for?" inquired Brown

quietly.

Ripley's face flushed as he said quickly: "I wasn't running away. If

any of you fellows think you can go down West Hill across lots at a walk

when the crust is as hard and slippery as it is now, why just try it,

that's all I've got to say, and you'll sing a different tune. I

couldn't stop and I couldn't turn around. I wasn't running away. What

was there to run from, I'd like to know?"

"I'll tell you what you were running from, Ripley, if you want to know,"

said Brown.

"What was it?"

"Ashes."

Ripley's face could not entirely conceal his alarm as he heard Brown's

words, but he only laughed lightly by way of reply.

"Yes, sir," said Brown. "We found out all about it. We dug over the

snow you had thrown on the road and then tried to tramp down so that it

wouldn't show. We know all about that, my fleet-footed friend."

"No one can say that either of us put any ashes on the road," said Tim

boldly. "We didn't do it, we didn't have anything to do with it--if any

ashes were scattered there, which, for my part, I very much doubt."

"No one would ever accuse you of doing it," said Ward hotly. "You never

yet had the manliness to stand up and have a decent share in the mean

tricks you set the other boys up to. Oh, no, you probably didn't carry

the ashes up the hill. No one would ever think of you as doing that.

You'd rather have some one else do all your dirty work, and then you'll

crawl out when the pinch comes."

"Well, there's one thing I never did, anyway," replied Tim slowly,

although his eyes betrayed the anger which Ward's words had aroused. "I

never went back on my friends by the 'I am holier than thou' dodge. I

never stooped to pose as a pious fraud after I'd been guilty of some

things I could mention. Not much! If ever I went over to Dorrfield and

had a supper at another fellow's expense and got drunk, I never whined

and lied out of it, nor told of the other fellows, anyway. If I ever

stole any examination questions, I never denied it. If I flunked when

it came to the end of the year, I never bootlicked the teachers and

tried the 'good little boy' dodge. Now suppose I did know that ashes

were to be scattered on the path? What could I do about it, I'd like to

know? If some of the fellows couldn't bear the thought of Jack Hobart,

with such a crowd of bootlicks as he had on his bob, coming in ahead of

'The Swallow,' why whose fault was it, I'd like to know? I couldn't

help it, could I? I've got enough to answer for myself, without taking

on my shoulders every fellow that is despised by the school."

The anger which Ward felt when Tim first began to speak soon gave way to

shame and mortification as the brutal lad went on. All his thrusts went

home, and Ward could hardly speak when Tim stopped. All his former

disgrace came back upon him, and he felt as if every boy in the room

must be regarding him as Tim pretended to himself.

But Henry, who felt deeply for his room-mate, with flashing eyes quickly

came to his assistance. Rising from the chair in which he had been

seated and standing directly in front of Tim, he said: "Look here, Tim

Pickard, you'll not gain anything by raking up old scores, or trying to

get us off on the track of last year's work, whether it's true or false

what you say. You know as well as I do that some of these things are

not true; but I don't care anything about them, one way or the other.

And you can't scare us in any such way, either. Now look here, Tim

Pickard! do you see that arm of mine? I've got to carry it in a sling

for weeks, and why? Just because of your sneaking trick. Jack Hobart's

lost a finger and no one knows how long he'll be in bed, or whether

he'll ever leave it alive or not, for that matter. Now what was the

cause of it? Answer me, will you? Where did all these fellows get their

bumps and bruises, and how does it happen that 'The Arrow' is smashed

into pieces? Can you tell me that? You want to know what we're going

to do about it, do you? Well, I could tell you mighty quick what I'd do

if it was left to me. I'd go straight to Doctor Gray and lay the whole

thing before him. We'd arranged for a square race with you, you know

that. And I don't care whether you carried the ashes up there yourself

or had some of your sneaking 'Tangs' do the work for you; it's all one

to me. I don't think the fellow who would be guilty of such a mean,

contemptible trick as that is fit to be in such a school as this. I

haven't a bit of fear of being called a tell-tale. I'd think I was

doing the very best that could be done. Yes, sir, if I could have my

way I'd even get up a petition to the doctor to have you put out of the

school. When you set the little fellows up to stacking rooms, I thought

that was pretty small business for a senior to be engaged in, though I

didn't think it was worth noticing; but when you come to do things that

endanger our lives, it's another matter entirely, and I don't believe in

mincing matters, either. If you'd settle down and behave yourself,

there isn't a fellow in the Weston school that would do a thing against

you; but it's time you put a stop to some of the things you're doing,

and if you won't do it, then I claim the fellows themselves ought to do

it for you."

Henry ceased, and for a moment all the boys looked at him in

astonishment. He was usually such a quiet fellow that the outburst

seemed to them all the more remarkable. Even Tim apparently had been

affected by Henry's righteous indignation; but in a moment he recovered

himself and said:

"That's just what we came over for. Then we are to understand, are we,

that you intend to report the matter to the teachers?"

"No, Tim," said Ward, who now had somewhat recovered from his

mortification. "No, Tim, we don't say we shall do that. We talked it

all over and made up our minds that it wouldn't be quite fair to Jack to

do that. He's suffered the most and he ought to have the most to say

about what shall be done. We sha'n't do anything till he is better and

can say what he wants."

"Jack Hobart never will squeal, if you leave it to him; but it won't be

left to him, I'm thinking. Some of these pious frauds will not be able

to keep still and wait for him. Well, Ripley," he continued, rising as

he spoke and turning to his companion, "we'll have to face the music, I

suppose." And face the music they did for Dr. Gray in some mysterious

way heard of their part in the almost fatal accident and immediately

expelled Tim from school. He gave Ripley a severe reprimand but did not

deal as severely with him, for the just master realized Tim's mastery

over the weaker boy.

Ward felt greatly relieved when he heard of Tim's expulsion. An evil

genius had passed out of his life.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*JACK HOBART'S PROPOSITION*

Jack Hobart's recovery was rapid. The fear which Doctor Leslie had

first felt that there might be some internal injuries was soon

dispelled, and though the shock to Jack's system had been severe, his

sturdy frame soon asserted itself, and very soon he was pronounced out

of all danger.

The spring and early summer days almost seemed to rush past Ward Hill,

so swiftly did they go. Each day was filled with its routine work, and

as he was working hard to pass Berry in his class, he had little

inclination or time to devote to outside matters.

The boy, however, was no book-worn, or "dig," as the Weston boys

designated one who was devoted to books alone, and the class meetings,

frequent now that the end of the year was so near, the school life, and

the companionship of the boys all appealed to him strongly.

But even stronger than his desire to win a high standing in his

scholarship was his determination to carry off the prize in declamation.

In lieu of the ordinary "graduating exercises," there was each year a

contest for two prizes, in which all of the seniors and a few of the

boys in the class below them whose standing was sufficiently high were

permitted to compete. Preliminary contests were held and the number of

contestants was somewhat decreased before the final trial occurred.

Ward and Henry already had succeeded in passing the first of these

trials and were sure of a place on the program for the final and

deciding contest. This was to occur in the evening of the last day of

the term, and many of the parents and friends of the boys, as well as a

large number of former students who came back to revisit the scenes of

their school-days and perhaps strive to catch something of the contagion

of the spirit of life and enthusiasm, were expected to be present. Jack

Hobart was not to compete for the prize, as he had but little ability in

that line; but he was almost as much interested in Ward's success as he

would have been in his own. Together they went almost every afternoon to

one of the secluded spots on the hillsides, and while Ward awakened the

echoes by his eloquence, Jack sat by and listened in solemn admiration

or passed such criticisms as occurred to him, and Ward found his

friend's suggestions frequently of great value.

Only a week remained now before the prize speaking was to take place.

Ward and Jack were returning from their daily visit to the woods, and as

they walked on their thoughts naturally reflected their feelings.

"I don't know how it is," Jack was saying, "but somehow I have a mighty

queer feeling at the close of this year. This makes four years I have

been in the Weston school, and any one would naturally think I'd be glad

to be out of it. Of course in a way I am, but somehow I'm broken up by

it too. The first thing I do every morning is to take a good look at

the Hump. The old hill is always there just the same, but I'm half

afraid every morning to look out for fear he's hidden himself

somewhere."

"It's become a part of your life, I fancy," said Ward soberly. "Last

year when the end came, it almost seemed to me as if the mountains here

were frowning upon me, but this year they seem like steps or ladders up

to something better."

"And they are," said Jack enthusiastically. "I suppose we're somewhat

broken up to think the end has come and that we've got to scatter now.

Some of the fellows I sha'n't feel very bad about leaving, but when I

think of some of the others, it almost seems to me as if I just couldn't

go on without them, and that is all there is to it. It just seems to

me, Ward, as if I couldn't go on without you. I don't believe, old

fellow, you ever realized how much you are to me. I never had a

brother; but it seems to me, Ward, that if we had both had the same

father and same mother we couldn't be more to each other."

Jack was evidently affected, and Ward's heart responded to that of his

impulsive friend in an instant.

"I never had a brother either, Speck, but I feel as if I had one now."

Almost instinctively the boys stopped and clasping hands looked

earnestly into each other's face. There was something almost sacred in

the hand-clasp, as if it were a pledge of a lifelong love.

The love between brother and sister, father and son, mother and

daughter, husband and wife, are all sacred and beautiful, but the love

between two boys or young men has in it also something that is very

nearly sublime. God pity the man who has never known what it was to

have a deep-abiding love for another of his own sex. Something is

wanting in his make-up to cause such a lack, and his life too will never

know the fullness of its best meaning without that experience. Friends

and friendship! "A man that hath friends must show himself friendly,"

wrote a keen observer of men many centuries ago. But with a friendship

once formed no true man ever ought to let anything break in upon it.

And these lifelong friendships are almost never formed in after years.

They come, if they come at all, in the days of boyhood or young manhood.

That is the seed-sowing time for friendship, as it is for a good many of

the other good things of life.

"I've been thinking it over a good deal, Ward," said Jack, "and I talked

with my mother about it too when she was here. Now you're going on to

college and so am I. I don't want to break up what's been begun between

us here if it can be avoided. Now you know I did think of going away

from home to college, and of course I may do that yet, but whatever

comes I want to go with you. You can't tell how you have helped me by

the fight you've made this year. I ought to have such a fellow with me

all the time. There's no telling what I might do if I had."

Ward smiled but made no other reply. Jack's words had stirred him

deeply, but he had learned too much in the year that was now almost gone

to put a very high estimate upon the value of the "fight" to which his

friend referred.

"What I want to say," said Jack, "if I can only get at it, is, that

rather than not be with you I'd be glad to go to the college in my own

town and have you come right there and live in our house all through the

course. There! I've managed to get it out at last, but that's just

exactly what I mean."

"You are good to me, Jack," said Ward slowly.

"That's not it, for you'd be the one to confer the favor, let me tell

you. My mother would be only too glad to have you come, for she says

that then she'd be sure to have me home for a time. She says my

absence, lo, these many years, has been the only 'speck' on her horizon.

Now if you'll say the word, it's all settled, college, room, chum, and

all."

"I hope you won't think me ungrateful, Jack, but I can't answer you now,

though honestly I don't believe my father would be willing to accept

such a gift. He'll feel proud as a peacock that you thought enough of

me to make me such an offer, and he'll appreciate your kindness too; but

I don't believe you can understand just how he feels about some things.

He wouldn't be quite willing to receive such a favor, I think, unless he

saw some way of returning it."

"But he would return it and more," said Jack eagerly.

"I don't just see how."

"By letting you come. Your company, and the influence of such a fellow

on your humble servant would be something which would be more than just

a mere matter of a gift. We'd be so glad to have you, we'd think it a

great bargain, and if there's anything in all the world, next to me, my

mother loves, it's a bargain."

Ward laughed, but Jack was too much in earnest to be turned from his

purpose.

"Let's go over to Mr. Crane's room and talk with him. Will you do it,

Ward?"

"Yes, I'll go over to his room, but I hope you won't think I don't

appreciate what you've said, Jack, if I say I can't settle the matter

now, and that I am more than half afraid my father won't agree to it,

though I know he'll thank you."

"I don't expect you to give in at once," said Jack. "It's asking too

much. But come on! We'll go right over to Mr. Crane's room now."

Whatever the impulsive lad wished to do must be done at once, and as

Ward consented, in a few minutes both of them were seated in the

teacher's room.

"We want to know, Mr. Crane," said Jack, not broaching his project at

once, "what you think about colleges. We want to get your opinion, if

you're willing to give it to us."

"What I think about college?" replied Mr. Crane. "I thought you

understood pretty well what my opinion about that was, long before this

time. You know I am a strong believer in every boy going who can do so

without too great a strain upon his parents."

"That isn't exactly what I mean," said Jack. "We both of us know how

you feel about that. But what college do you prefer?"

"That depends. I prefer some colleges for certain boys and should

advise others to go to different ones. It is impossible to formulate a

fixed rule for every case."

"But which is better, a large college or small?"

"Again, that depends," replied Mr. Crane with a smile. "If a boy has

means, and his character is fairly well developed when he goes so that

he will not be likely to be lost in the crowd, undoubtedly he can gain

certain advantages in some of the larger colleges he never could find in

the smaller. Their larger endowments and better equipments are

certainly no small matter to be considered. On the other hand, if a boy

is somewhat diffident and immature and needs bringing out more than he

needs to be filled, doubtless he would do better in a small college.

There is more of the personal contact there between the student and his

teachers, and his own individual needs are looked to much better. In

general, I may say if what a boy needs is the development of himself,

the smaller college will do more for him. If what he needs is not so

much the bringing out of himself as the filling up, the larger college

is the place for him."

"That places Jack and me in two different classes, then," said Ward.

"I am not so sure of that," replied Mr. Crane. "You have both of you

been away to school now, and have been thrown back upon yourselves. You

have learned to depend upon your own efforts, and I do not regard it as

in the least probable that either of you would be swallowed up and lost

in the crowd in a large college. It is no slight advantage to have had

two years at Weston before you go."

"I wish we could keep right on at Weston, and not have to go anywhere

else," said Jack.

"No, I hardly think you really wish that, Hobart. Of course, now that

you are about to leave us you forget all the unpleasant things and

remember only the pleasant ones. I would not have it otherwise, and

trust that some of us will still be a part of your lives, even when you

are apart from us. But when one becomes a man he is compelled to leave

childish things. All that you have been doing has been leading up to

this time, and now you must face it."

"Of course I know that must be so," said Jack quietly, "and I suppose if

we really thought we should have to come back we wouldn't like it a

little bit. But what I really wanted to know, Mr. Crane, was what you

thought about Ward coming down and living with me in my home and going

to college there with me."

Ward's face flushed slightly, and he added: "Jack hasn't told it all.

What he wants is for me to live with him and not to pay anything for the

privilege."

"That isn't----" began Jack.

Mr. Crane interrupted him and said: "I think I understand; but it's a

question in which I fancy others besides you boys may be interested."

"That's just it," said Jack quickly, "My mother wants him even more than

I do."

"But there's my father to be thought of too," said Ward. "He may not

want me to do it."

"Precisely," said Mr. Crane. "That's a question I cannot answer. You

see I am the one being examined now, and you are the examiners; and I

have failed."

"There's some hope for me then if the teachers themselves fail," said

Jack laughingly.

"Personally I never had that feeling others describe as being unwilling

to accept a favor," said Mr. Crane. "Few of these so-called 'favors'

are all on one side. They are almost always a species of 'give and

take.' However, I am no judge for others, and sometimes think I have

more than I can do to look after myself. I shall be interested to learn

your decision."

The boys departed, and soon after went to their own rooms with the

problem still unsolved.

Ward was deeply touched by Jack's offer and his eagerness for him to

accept it. If he should do so, he well knew what a load would be lifted

from his father's shoulders, but still he thought he understood what his

father's decision would be.

The few remaining days of the term now rapidly came. Ward was working

busily and the visits to the glen with Jack increased. He was more

anxious than he cared to show about the prize for declamation, but his

anxiety only served to increase his labors. Henry was to compete also,

but somehow the boys did not often refer to the contest in the other's

presence. The best of feeling prevailed, but both were eager to win,

although if either lost he sincerely desired the other to win.

On Monday, the visitors in the village began rapidly to increase. "Old

boys," as the students called the former students, many of them now

gray-haired men and coming up to Weston with their own sons or

grandsons, arrived by every bus. The parents and sisters, and brothers

of the graduating class also came, and the beauty of the little village

was greatly enhanced by the bright apparel of the girls and the

interested groups of the visitors who wandered about among the school

buildings or along the wide streets.

When Ward's father and mother came, the welcome they received from him

was far different from that he had given them in the preceding year. He

was all eagerness, and his happiness was so apparent that it speedily

became contagious, and as he brought the boys up to meet his father and

mother his heart was overflowing as he heard the warm words for him on

almost every side.

On Tuesday night the contest for the prize in declamation was to be

held. As the hour approached Ward's excitement became greater, although

his outward calm was not disturbed. A great audience assembled to

listen to the boys, and at last Doctor Gray, who presided, advanced to

the front of the platform to announce the first speaker of the evening.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*CONCLUSION*

Ward, with the other speakers, was waiting in the rear of the platform,

but the printed program informed each when his time was to come, and so

each was striving to possess his soul in patience.

Berry was the first to be called, and as Ward peered out at him as he

advanced to the front of the platform, bowed gracefully to Dr. Gray, and

then turned to face the audience, he almost envied him his

self-possession and ease.

Soon, however, the boy was speaking, and as he went on even Ward felt

deeply interested in what he was saying. When his declamation was ended

and a storm of applause broke forth, Ward felt as if there was little

use in trying to compete with Berry, and as he rejoined his companions

in the rear of the platform Ward was the first to congratulate him upon

his success.

And his expressions were genuine and hearty too, for while Ward with all

his heart desired to win the prize, he had now no feeling of bitterness

toward his competitors.

Ripley was the next speaker, but Ward at once perceived that he was far

below Berry in his hold upon the audience, and indeed among those who

followed only Pond seemed in any way likely to be a close competitor for

the prize.

Ward's name was the last on the list, and when he heard his name

announced and walked slowly forward, he was somehow conscious that the

audience was becoming somewhat wearied and restless.

His appearance, however, served to arouse the younger portion at least,

and a faint murmur of applause was heard as he bowed low to his hearers.

This was quickly hushed and Ward for the first time looked directly at

his audience.

He was conscious only of an indiscriminate mass of faces at first all

turned toward him. It seemed to him as if he must have more air. His

breath would not come and he felt as if he were choking. For a moment

every sentence of his declamation departed and he could not recall even

the first and opening words.

His momentary hesitation was not noticed or perhaps perceived by his

audience, however, or it may have been that they considered his

hesitancy as only a deliberate movement on his part. It seemed to the

frightened boy as if something were clutching him by the throat.

Everything turned black before him, and he almost felt that he must cry

aloud in his misery. Abject failure seemed to stare him in the face.

Suddenly he caught sight of Mr. Crane seated about half-way back in the

audience, and then right near him were his father and mother and Jack.

The last was leaning forward and regarding him with breathless interest,

and the sight instantly restored Ward's self-possession. The words of

his declamation instantly flashed into his mind and in a low, clear

voice he began to speak.

All his previous confusion which to him had seemed to cover hours, had

in reality lasted but a moment, and as has been said, was not noted by

his audience. But as soon as he heard the sound of his own voice all

his "stage fright" was forgotten and his whole soul was in his immediate

task. Yet out of all the audience Ward seemed to be aware only of the

presence of Mr. Crane. To him he was speaking, and almost as if he was

to be the deciding judge he addressed himself to the teacher. Whenever

he changed his position or faced other portions of the assembly he saw

no one distinctly and soon returned to his favorite teacher. To him he

spoke, for him he exerted himself, his praise was to be his exceeding

great reward.

And Ward Hill threw himself without reserve into his speaking. It

seemed to him as if every word was his own, and he must make his hearers

see what he saw and believe as he believed. The audience became more

and more silent, and almost no one removed his eyes from the eager,

animated, manly-appearing boy.

As he went on his eagerness increased and the interest of his hearers

increased also. Ward almost forgot every one except Mr. Crane, and as

he felt rather than saw the intense interest of his teacher, he

responded to it instantly. There was no hesitation, no faltering, no

lack of words now. His face was glowing, his movements animated, and

his every gesture counted.

When at last he had finished and paused a moment before he made his

final bow, there was a silence in the room that was most intense. But

the instant he turned to depart from the platform the pent-up feelings

of the audience broke forth and a storm of applause followed him which

continued long after he had rejoined his competitors behind the scenes.

"You did nobly, Ward," said Pond eagerly, as he grasped the hand of the

flushed and excited boy. "Not much show for us, is there, Berry?" he

added, as Berry pressed forward to add his congratulations.

"I'm afraid not," replied Berry. "I never heard any one do better,

Ward."

They all instantly became silent as Dr. Gray arose to speak. He spoke

some warm words of praise for the work which had been done that year,

and then announced the honors of the graduating class.

Pond stood at the head, and although the audience applauded heartily,

the announcement created little interest, as the popular boy's position

had been a forgone conclusion. Berry was second and Ward was third.

The applause which followed had hardly begun before Ward rushed forward

to congratulate the boys who had outstripped him.

"Lucky for us, Ward, that you didn't work last year as you have this.

I'm afraid we wouldn't have stood a very good chance if you had," said

Pond.

Ward laughed as he said: "To tell the truth, boys, I should be glad to

have stood first, of course, but there was not much chance for me with

the load I had to carry. Perhaps I learned more, though, by my failures

than I would have if I had worked as hard last year as I have this. The

wound is healed but the scar is left, you see. But honestly, fellows,

I'm glad you are the ones to go ahead if I couldn't."

"Hush, boys! Here comes the committee to report their decision," said

Berry.

The suspense and interest were manifest in the hush which fell over all

as the chairman of the committee who was to award the prize for the best

declamation now returned to the platform and signified his readiness to

make the report.

As in duty bound the man first referred to his own school days in

Weston, now far back in the years, and noted the many changes which had

taken place. Then he went on to speak in glowing terms of the exercises

of the evening, and when he came to the remark which almost every

chairman had made for years, that "seldom from any college platform had

he heard better speaking," a smile crept over the faces of many who

heard him.

"And now," resumed the speaker, "we are to report on the exercises of

this evening. If it had been in our power we should have been glad to

award the first place to every boy on the program, much as Artemus Ward

made each man in his company a brigadier general. But as that is

impossible, we are compelled to do the next best thing and use our

judgment in selecting the speaker who seems best entitled to the award

and to the reward."

"Bother his long speeches," said Berry in a low voice. "Why can't he

say what he has to say and be done with it?"

The three boys were standing together just out of the sight of the

audience, and with breathless interest were peering forward and

listening to the speaker.

"As to the award of the first prize, there has not been much difference

of opinion."

The man was speaking again and the boys at once became silent and intent

upon his words.

"We have decided that the first prize, in view of the points we have

marked, namely: forcefulness, clearness of enunciation, gracefulness,

and self-possession, and the interpretation of the piece, belongs

to--Ward Hill."

The words had hardly been uttered before a loud burst of applause broke

forth from the audience. Jack in his enthusiasm stood up on his seat and

threw his hat into the air, but a quiet touch by Mr. Crane recalled him

to the proprieties of the occasion. The applause, however, was long

continued and hearty, and showed that plainly the assembly concurred in

the decision.

Ward felt the blood surge up in his face and as Berry patted him upon

the shoulder, and Pond's glance betrayed his feeling, Ward felt that

never before had he been so happy.

"The second prize," resumed the chairman as the audience at last became

quiet, "has been a little more difficult to award. The nearly equal

excellence of two of the speakers has led us at last to divide the

prize. The second prize is therefore awarded to Lucius Berry and

Frederick Pond."

Again the applause broke forth, genuine and long continued, and was

redoubled when the three boys advanced to receive their prizes.

Ward glanced down at his father and mother and as he plainly saw them

stealthily wiping their eyes, he felt a suspicious moisture creeping

into his own. How different it all was from the close of the preceding

year! It had been a long, hard struggle, but he had been well repaid in

the happiness which had come to his parents, and in which he fully

shared.

He was only partially aware of what followed. He knew that the audience

had been dismissed and that many of the boys crowded about him with

their words of congratulation and praise. He heard Mr. Crane's quiet

words of praise too, and the warm grasp of the hand which was the sole

expression of his father at the time was inexpressibly dear to him. His

heart seemed to be overflowing and the long-continued effort of the year

had brought him its reward; far more than the prize he had received was

the satisfaction of having faced his difficulties and conquered in the

struggle.

At last all the audience was gone, and Jack and Ward started slowly up

the street together.

"It's been a great night," said Jack: "and, Ward, you have done nobly.

Everybody is proud of you. But do you know, I'm not thinking of the

prize you took."

"What are you thinking of?" said Ward quietly. His own mind had not been

dwelling upon the prize either.

"I was thinking of the way in which you have faced the school, the work,

and yourself, this year. I think I know something of what it has cost

you. It's been a big price, but it was worth it."

Ward made no reply, although his heart responded warmly to his friend's

words. He thought he too knew what he had lost and what he had gained;

but he could not speak of either.

"Now, Ward," resumed Jack, "you've had a chance to talk with your

father. What does he say about my proposition for next year?"

"Jack, old fellow, he was deeply touched, but he doesn't think it will

do."

"Is he afraid to have you with me?"

"No, no; not a bit. That isn't it, but he wants me to go to another

college." Ward did not refer to the other fact of which he was well

aware, that his father was not willing for him to accept so great a

favor at the hands of another, when he had no means of returning it.

"That's all right, then," said Jack; "but you haven't got rid of me yet.

I'm going where you go, and I'm going with you too. Wouldn't it be a

fine thing if Luscious and Henry and you and I could get some rooms

together? Then, if Pond and one or two of the other fellows could go up

to the same college we'd be all fixed out, wouldn't we? Say, Ward,

let's fix that up, will you?" And all of the eagerness and

impulsiveness of Jack's nature seemed to find expression in his words.

"It would be fine," replied Ward. "We'll have to talk that up."

The few remaining days of the closing week passed rapidly, and to Ward

it seemed as if he were almost in a dream. The attentions he received,

the words of love and praise spoken by nearly every one, his pride in

his success, and above all the satisfaction in his own soul, arising

from the consciousness that he had done his best, were with him all the

time.

The last interview with Mr. Crane affected him deeply. He and Jack went

up together for the parting, and it seemed to them as if the quiet

dignity and warm heart of the loved teacher were never more apparent.

"It's a sad break in some ways to us who are to remain," said Mr. Crane.

"You can't understand it, but it seems to me as if you were my younger

brothers, and the home life was being broken. There will be something

lacking next year. Not that we shall not have other boys whom we shall

love and in whom we shall be interested, but they will not fully take

the place of those who have left. Weston is all the home I know and

perhaps shall ever know, and while I never may have any boys of my own,

I trust you will always let me feel at least like an older brother to

each of you."

"Mr. Crane, we owe everything to you," said Ward with shining eyes.

"If I have aided you, then pay the debt by aiding others," replied Mr.

Crane softly. "Weston is only a stopping-place, not the end of the

journey, and there is work for you to do. Some one else needs the

helping hand, and yours I know will not be held back. I shall want to

hear from you often and shall follow you with interest as long as I

live. Whatever else you may become, I know you will be men!"

"I trust so," said Ward, and when for the last time he grasped Mr.

Crane's hand and returned the pressure, his eyes were moist and his

heart went out to the noble teacher with a great love, which never

ended.

Even Mr. Blake was visited by the boys that night, and much of their

dislike for him was forgotten in the fullness of their hearts. All the

world looked bright and there was no room for anything but peace and

good-will to all men.

On the following day, the last good-byes were spoken and they knew as

they started for their homes, that the end of their lives and work at

Weston had come. The peaceful valley, bathed in the sunlight of the

early summer morning, smiled upon them. Around it were the hills, the

everlasting hills, which would beam upon the coming generations of boys,

who might never know of the struggles and triumphs, the failures and

success of Ward Hill; but as for the last time he looked back upon the

familiar scenes he felt that in a peculiar sense they were his own

personal possessions. He might not return to them, but they would not

depart from him.

"We'll meet again," said Jack when the school cheer had been given for

the last time on the platform of the little station at Dorrfield.

Were his words true? Certainly in the college days there was ample

opportunity to test the truthfulness of his prophecy, and as a record of

those days has been kept as well as of the visits to the old familiar

scenes at Weston, perhaps some of our readers may be sufficiently

interested to desire to follow their fortunes in----