Miss Trowbridge bowed and passed quickly within the hall.
Mr. Polk acknowledged the introduction with a look on his face that Steve had never seen before, and the boy felt somehow that his good friend had become a stranger as they walked back to the boys’ dormitory for the night. Next morning, too, something had come between them, and when Mr. Polk said he would leave that day instead of staying several days, as he had intended, Steve could make no reply.
Before Mr. Polk left, however, in giving final instructions to his charge, the old kindly manner returned, and as he said, “I hope you will like it here, son,” the boy replied with his old freedom:
“I knows I’m a-goin’ to like it, and that thar Miss Grace Trowbridge is the nicest one of ’em all. She used ter live in New York City, the president said, whar you used ter live. Didn’t you nuver know her thar?” he asked innocently, not yet comprehending in the least city conditions.
Mr. Polk set his lips grimly and answered sternly: “Yes,” as he mounted a mule to ride back the forty miles to the nearest railroad station.
What was the matter again? The boy did not 94 know, and he felt as though a sudden chill had come upon him. But a moment later Mr. Polk looked down at him kindly, reached over, pressed his hand, and said: “Be a good boy,” as he rode away on the ambling mule.
So Steve began his school life. He went into the second reader class, his opportunities at the Follets’ having put him beyond the beginners. In his class were children of all ages and mature men and women, who were just getting their first opportunity to learn. Steve was bright and quick, had a good mind, and made rapid progress.
With the superior social advantages which he had found along the way from Hollow Hut to the school, the boy became a great ally of the teachers in the battle for nightgowns, combs, and brushes for the hair and teeth, also for white shirts, collars and neckties on Sunday, which most of the boys thought “plum foolishness anyways.”
“Here, fellows,” Steve would say when he found them turning in at night with soiled feet, coats and trousers, “this ain’t the way ter git ter be president.” He organized a company of “regulators” in the boys’ dormitory, and when any fellows turned in with soiled feet, coats and trousers, Steve’s shrill whistle summoned the army and a lively pillow fight ensued which was hard on the pillows but always brought 95 victory for nightgowns. And when a boy refused to brush his hair in the morning the regulators invariably caught him, and the penalty was a thorough brushing down of his rebellious locks by at least twenty-five sturdy young arms. Under such methods the cause of nightgowns and brushes was made to thrive.
There was another cause which was more difficult, but which enlisted all Steve’s best endeavour. Mountain children are apt to know the taste of liquor from babyhood, but Steve had never liked it and neither had his mother. Occasionally parents, especially fathers, when they visited the school would bring the children bottles of “moonshine” to hide and drink from as they pleased, and the teachers found Steve a great helper, though his corps of “regulators” could not always be relied upon.