“One of the brightest, clearest, quickest minds I ever knew,” Dan’s teacher had told Father Regan when awarding the scholarship,—“if he can only keep the track. But he has a bold spirit, and it will be hard on him among all those ‘high-steppers’ of yours at Saint Andrew’s. He is likely to bolt and break away.”
But Dan had been too busy with his books all the year to mind “high-steppers.” His patched jacket kept the head of the classes, and his stubby-toed shoes marched up every month to get the ticket, and he had helped more than one heavy-witted “high-stepper” through conditions that threatened to put him out of the race. Most of the Saint Andrew’s boys were manly youngsters, with whom jackets and shoes did not count against brain and brawn; and strong, clever, quick-witted Dan had held his place in schoolroom and playground unquestioned. But there were exceptions, and Dud Fielding was one of them. He had disliked the “poor scholar” from the first. Dud was a tall, handsome fellow, filled with ideas of his own importance; and Dan had downed him more than once in field and class-room, to his great disgust. Worst than all, in appreciation of his careful costuming, Dan had alluded to him as “Dudey,”—a boyish liberty which, considering the speaker’s patched jacket, Master Fielding could not forgive. It was the repetition of this remark, when Dud had appeared garbed in a summer suit of spotless linen, that had precipitated yesterday’s fight.
Altogether, with all the restraints and interests of school time removed, vacation was proving a perilous period to the “left-overs” at Saint Andrew’s. Dan realized this as, turning his back on the book-lined room, with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking gloomily out of the broad window that opened on the quadrangle, he stood awaiting “judgment.” He expected no mercy: he felt grimly he had no claim to it. Maybe if he had a rich father or uncle or somebody grand and great to speak up for him, he might be given another chance; but a poor boy who, as Dud Fielding said, ought to be “ditch digging”—Dan choked up again at the thought that, after all, perhaps Dud was right: he was not the sort to be pushing in here. He ought to be out in his own rough world, working his own rough way. All those fancies of his for better, higher things had been only “pipe dreams.”
But jing, it would be hard to give up! Dan looked out at the quadrangle where he had led so many a merry game; at the ball field, scene of battle and victory that even Dud Fielding could not dispute; at the long stretch of the study hall windows opposite; at the oriel of the chapel beyond. All spoke to him of a life that had been like air and sunshine to a plant stretching its roots and tendrils in the dark.
And he must leave it all! He must go back again to the old ways, the old work! He was big enough now to drive a butcher’s wagon, or clean fish and stuff sausages at Pete Patterson’s market store; or—or—there were other things he could do that a fellow like him must do when he is “down and out.” And while he still stared from the window, the grim, dogged look settling heavier upon his young face, Dan caught a footstep behind him, and turned to face Father Regan.
“I’ve kept you waiting longer than I expected, Dan, but I had great news for Freddy,—news that took some time to tell.” The speaker sank into the tall stiff-backed chair known to many a young sinner as the “judgment seat.” “Now” (the clear, keen eyes fixed themselves gravely on the boy) “I want to have a talk with you. Things can not go on in this way any longer, even in vacation time. I must say that, after the last year’s good record, I am disappointed in you, Dan,—sorely disappointed.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” was the respectful answer, but the grim, hard look on the young face did not change. “I’ve made a lot of trouble, I know.”
“You have,” was the grave answer, “and trouble I did not expect from you. Still, circumstances have been against you, I must confess. But this does not alter the fact that you have broken strict rules that even in vacation we can not relax,—broken them deliberately and recklessly. You are evidently impatient of the restraint here at Saint Andrew’s; so I have concluded not to keep you here any longer, Dan.”
“I’m not asking it, Father.” Dan tried bravely to steady voice and lip. “I’m ready to go whenever you say.”
“To-morrow, then,” continued Father Regan,—“I’ve made arrangements for you to leave to-morrow at ten. Brother Francis will see that your trunk is packed to-night.”