The Cadets of Flemming Hall

by Anna Chapin Ray

“I owe you one for this, Arnold,” he said, in a low, distinct voice; “and if it means reporting me to the doctor, you’ll be sorry for it.”

“You’ll have trouble with Winslow yet, Leon,” said Harry, at bed-time when Leon told him of the day’s events. “I don’t see what started him after you, but he’s always taking just such spites. He’s an awful bully and, if it only wasn’t against the rules of the school, the best thing you could do would be to give him a good sound thrashing.”

In the meantime, matters had not gone well for Mr. Boniface, that morning. The general school-room had been left in his charge, for the doctor was busy with the new cadets, and Lieutenant Wilde’s classes met in the little laboratory up-stairs. The ten or twelve seniors were grouped at the front of the room for their Latin recitation, and Mr. Boniface was trying to give them his undivided attention and, at the same time, to keep a watchful eye on Max and Frank Osborn and half a dozen kindred spirits who occupied the far corner of the room. The poor teacher was nervous, that morning. In spite of the careful preparation which he had given his lesson, he felt sure that he was not holding the interest of his pupils who presented every appearance of languid inattention. As he glanced from Jack Howard who was lounging in his seat, with his eyes fixed on the tree just outside the window, to Harry Arnold who was making an elaborate pattern of dots and dashes on the margin of his Cicero, he raised his eyebrows and gave a deep, though half-unconscious sigh. The sound was promptly echoed from the distant corner; and when Luke Boniface looked over in that direction, he found the boys all laughing except Max who, perfectly serious, was deep in his lesson, swaying to and fro with his eyes fixed on his book and his lips moving silently. Though in his own mind there was no doubt as to the culprit, it was too slight an offence to be taken up, and Mr. Boniface could only resolve to watch himself more closely in the future, that he might present no such opportunities to the fun-loving Max.

The lessons went heavily on, marked by an entire absence of sympathy between teacher and pupil. If Mr. Boniface tried to give some bit of interesting information, it was received with perfect unconcern; if he attempted any pleasantry, it was heard with stolid silence; when he was stern and severe, it produced no more effect. When Irving Wilde came in, at the end of the third hour, to take charge of the room, he found the other teacher looking almost distracted, while the boys were all in a high state of glee over the pranks of Max and Frank Osborn. As Lieutenant Wilde took his place at the desk, with a reproachful glance at the uproarious boys, the older man noted with envy how the faces before him grew bright and interested, and how suddenly the room was stilled. For a moment he stood looking about the room and rubbing his hand up and down over his hair, as was his habit, when annoyed or perplexed. Then he hastily gathered up his books and left the room, with a miserable certainty that his morning had been wasted.

And so it went on, day after day. While there was no open outbreak or breach of discipline, yet the new teacher was subjected to all sorts of petty annoyances by the lads, who had taken a dislike to his gloomy, serious manner. Order was out of the question, and any attempts, on the master’s part, to establish it were worse than useless, for the boys promptly turned the tables and came off victors, again and again. However, it had taken but a short time for Mr. Boniface to single out Max as the leader in much of the iniquity, and after watching him closely for a week, he surprised him, one morning, by an invitation to occupy the seat directly in front of the master’s desk which was extended to serve for both master and boy. With a good-natured smile, Max picked up his books and marched down the aisle to the appointed place, where he seated himself, with a triumphant backward glance at his mates, triumphant, for this was a fresh vantage point for an attack.

It was the habit of the awkward young teacher to sit with his feet stretched far out in front of him, quite regardless of the fact that, in this way, his coarse shoes were exposed to the gaze of the whole school. Max had studied these shoes well, and was never tired of drawing them from every possible point of view, exaggerating their defects with the skill peculiar to boyish caricature.

As soon as the master’s mind was again on his class, Max displayed a bit of paper on which his friends made out the terse inscription: “Got ’em.” It was but two words, it is true; but it was enough to rouse their curiosity, to see what the fertile brain of Max could mean by this novel declaration of war. They watched and waited; but they only saw Max put his elbows on his desk, clutch his yellow top-knot with both hands and fall to studying with a will, as if heartily ashamed of his fault and resolved to make amends. But if their teacher was deceived, the boys, who knew their friend better, were not. His sudden devotion to his book, at such a time and in such a place, could only mean fresh mischief. Suddenly Leon, who was looking on, saw the teacher give a violent start, while Max quite as suddenly raised his head, with an affectation of perfect surprise, and meekly begged his pardon. The face of Luke Boniface flushed, and he looked suspiciously at Max. He could read nothing, however, in the boy’s unconscious expression, so he merely bowed, in recognition of the apology, and went on with his lesson. Half an hour later, the mystified boys saw the same performance repeated. At the close of the morning session, Max was told that he could return to his seat.

Late that afternoon, several of the boys were sitting on the piazza rail, resting after a lively hour of football practice, when Jack Howard suddenly inquired,—

“I say, Max, what was it you did to Bony this morning, to make him jump so?”

Max chuckled at the recollection, but vouchsafed no other reply.