“Don’t go, Paul,” urged Harry, hospitably waving his hand towards the box on the table.
“Needs must when Bony drives,” sighed Paul. “He has given out an endless lesson in Homer for to-morrow, and I must get it, or be disgraced at once and forever. I’ll see you at supper-time.” And he strolled away, to be followed almost immediately by Jack and Stanley Campbell who was the head-boy in the junior class.
Max and Louis, who were not afflicted with too much conscience in the matter of lessons, remained in the Arnolds’ room, to watch the unpacking and to talk over any bits of school gossip which had been omitted, their summer frolics and their winter plans.
CHAPTER II.
FLEMMING AND ITS WAYS.
Far up among the hills, a short distance back from the Connecticut River, is the little village of Hilton. It is the smallest of farming towns, only one or two long streets shaded with tall, arching elms and bushy maples, and bordered with simple, old-fashioned houses clustered around the gray stone church and square town hall. At one end of the main street is the low building, also of stone, that serves for store and post-office, one corner being given up to the business of government, while the rest of the room is filled with a motley collection of dry goods, groceries and confectionery temptingly set forth in glass cases on the counter, or ranged on the rough pine shelves which line the walls. This building and the little village hotel that stands next it, are the favorite resorts of all the old farmers of the region, for whom the daily trip to the mail furnishes the main excitement of life. Although the hour for the coming of the stage and for the opening of the mail has never varied within the memory of that oldest inhabitant without whom any well-regulated village would be incomplete; on one pretext or another, the old men come driving up to the door fully an hour ahead of time, and are apparently much surprised to find that they are too early and must wait. In a leisurely fashion, they get down from their mud-bespattered wagons, tie their horses to the old posts whose uneven sides bear the marks of many an equine tooth, and go shuffling into the hotel whence they presently emerge, wiping their lips on their checkered shirt sleeves. Then they settle themselves in the store, where they while away the hour of waiting by puffing at their pipes and discussing the weather, the crops and other matters of local interest, with an indolent disregard of the fact that, at home, their wives and daughters are busy with many a task which they might help to lighten.
Into this peaceful community there came, some twelve years ago, the startling news that buildings were to be at once erected for a large school for boys; and before the sluggish minds of the farmers had grasped that main fact, the work was well under way. For a time the busy laborers and the fast-rising brick walls bade fair to rival the post office as an attraction for the villagers; but as the buildings drew near completion and became an old story, the farmers returned to their former seats in the hard arm-chairs and on the cracker-barrels of the store, and thought no more about the new school-house, save when some group of gray-coated lads stepped directly into their pathway.
This school was Flemming Hall, “a military and classical school for boys,” as ran the circular. It was an excellent school in all respects, and under the successful management of Dr. Flemming, its founder, it had gained so high a reputation for systematic work and discipline as to be overcrowded with applicants for admission. For this reason, the doctor was able to select his boys with care and, in general, the Flemming cadets were an honorable, manly set of fellows whose work was well done, and whose fun and mischief were of a pure, gentlemanly sort. To be sure, an occasional black sheep would find his way into the flock; but the moral tone of the place was good, and the real work of the school was thoroughly and intelligently carried on.
Dr. Flemming was the right man for the head of a boys’ school; he not only had a fine, well-trained mind, but over and above all that, he was genuinely fond of his boys and anxious to develop the best possibilities that lay in each one of them. In this work he was ably seconded by his nephew, Irving Wilde, who, at the close of his course at West Point, had resigned from active service, in order to take charge of the military training in his uncle’s school. Though still very young, during the three years he had been at Flemming Hall, Lieutenant Wilde had gained a strong influence over the lads in his care, who adored him for his quiet, even discipline during school hours, as well as for his apparent interest in all their games and sports, in which he often had a share.
To Irving Wilde, his pupils were no mere thinking-machines, to be fed with so much material for their daily allowance. Instead of that, he watched and studied each lad separately, never content until he had mastered his subject and understood every boyish nature with all its vague, restless ambitions, its faults and its chances for a good and useful manhood. The boys never knew just how it was, but they soon ceased to be surprised when Lieutenant Wilde seemed to divine their thoughts, and spoke some word of encouragement for their nobler aims, or let fall a quiet remark of disapproval for some wild, boyish freak. It was impossible for them to resent any interference on the part of a man who was not only an excellent teacher, but a champion in all athletic sports as well, and always ready to join them in their expeditions up and down the valley and over the hills. Lieutenant Wilde was such good company that the boys could not afford to displease him, for fear he would go with them no more, and, reasoning in this way, the lads vied with one another to carry out his wishes until his will had become law for nearly all of his pupils. A more selfish man might have abused this power, a less conscientious man might have regarded it as of little importance; but Irving Wilde did neither. On the contrary, he did his best to increase it and to devote it, not to his own good, but to the best interests of the boys and of the school. A low fever and a slow convalescence had forced him to give up his work for a few months, and the woe of the boys at his going away was only consoled by the joy of his reappearance, at the time that our story opens.