“‘And you, Brutus,’” put in Max with a wink.
Lieutenant Wilde laughed, but took no other notice of the interruption, as he went on with his plea,—
“Besides, Mr. Boniface has one quality that I’ve heard you all admire in other people.”
“What’s that?” inquired Paul skeptically.
“Stick-to-ativeness, in plain Saxon. I’ve often heard you talk about it in the boys, when they wouldn’t give up in some game, or the gymnasium; and you all say that Louis, here, saved the football match for the juniors in that very way. Mr. Boniface is doing just the same thing with his education. He has had disadvantages and setbacks enough to knock down a dozen ordinary men; but he has fought his way along till now, and in the very last battle—scrimmage, if you prefer—he is liable to be beaten and driven out of the field by a dozen thoughtless boys, who would some day be sorry to be responsible for breaking down a man’s courage and spoiling his life’s plans.”
“I don’t think we any of us started to be mean to Bony, Lieutenant Wilde,” said Alex. “We’ve sort of fallen into the habit of running on him, for we don’t any of us like him. He is pretty bad in class.”
“I didn’t suppose he really cared so much,” added Max. “It’s mean to hit a fellow when he’s down. I can’t like him, though, Lieutenant Wilde.”
“Have you tried very hard, Max?” inquired Lieutenant Wilde, laughing.
“Uncommonly,” responded Max with fervor. “I can’t like him, I know; but maybe I can swallow him like a very bitter pill, and he’ll be good for me.” And he rolled up his eyes at his teacher, with such wickedness sparkling in them that Lieutenant Wilde’s dignity broke down, and he joined the boys in their shout.
“But, Lieutenant Wilde,” remonstrated Paul Lincoln; “why do you go for us about it? We aren’t any worse than the other fellows.”