THE boys at Mr. Morton’s Select School were not the only people at Laketon who were curious about Paul Grayson. Although the men and women had daily duties like those of men and women elsewhere, they found a great deal of time in which to think and talk about other people and their affairs. So all the boys who attended the school were interrogated so often about their new comrade, that they finally came to consider themselves as being in some way a part of the mystery.
Mr. Morton, who had opened his school only several weeks before the appearance of Grayson, was himself unknown at Laketon until that spring, when, after an unsuccessful attempt to be made principal of the grammar-school, he had hired the upper floor of what once had been a store building, and opened a school on his own account. He had introduced himself by letters that the school trustees and Mr. Merivale, pastor of one of the village churches, considered very good; but now that Grayson’s appearance was explained only by the teacher’s statement that the boy was son of an old school friend who was now a widower, some of the trustees wished they were able to remember the names and addresses appended to the letters that the new teacher had presented. Sam Wardwell’s father having learned from Mr. Morton where last he had taught, went so far as to write to the wholesale merchants with whom he dealt, in New York, for the name of some customer in Mr. Morton’s former town; but even by making the most of this roundabout method of inquiry he only learned that the teacher had been highly respected, although nothing was known of his antecedents.
With one of the town theories on the subject of Mr. Morton and Paul Grayson the boys entirely disagreed: this was that the teacher and the boy were father and son.
“I don’t think grown people are so very smart, after all,” said Sam Wardwell, one day, as the boys who were not playing lounged in the shade of the school-building and chatted. “They talk about Grayson being Mr. Morton’s son. Why, who ever saw Grayson look a bit afraid of the teacher?”
“Nobody,” replied Ned Johnston, and no one contradicted him, although Bert Sharp suggested that there were other boys in the world who were not afraid of their fathers—himself for instance.
“Then you ought to be,” said Benny Mallow. Benny looked off at nothing in particular for a moment, and then continued, “I wish I had a father to be afraid of.”
There was a short silence after this, for as no other boy in the group had lost a father, no one knew exactly what to say; besides, a big tear began to trickle down Benny’s face, and all the boys saw it, although Benny dropped his head as much as possible. Finally, however, Ned Johnston stealthily patted Benny on the back, and then Sam Wardwell, taking a fine winter apple from his pocket, broke it in two, and extended half of it, with the remark, “Halves, Benny.”
Benny said, “Thank you,” and seemed to take a great deal of comfort out of that piece of apple, while the other boys, who knew how fond Sam was of all things good to eat, were so impressed by his generosity that none of them asked for the core of the half that Sam was stowing away for himself. Indeed, Ned Johnston was so affected that he at once agreed to a barter—often proposed by Sam, and as often declined—of his Centennial medal for a rather old bass-line with a choice sinker.
Before the same hour of the next day, however, nearly every boy who attended Mr. Morton’s school was wicked enough to wish to be in just exactly Benny Mallow’s position, so far as fathers were concerned. This sudden change of feeling was not caused by anything that Laketon fathers had done, but through fear of what they might do. As no two boys agreed upon a statement of just how this difference of sentiment occurred, the author is obliged to tell the story in his own words.