Frank Armstrong at Queens

by Matthew M. Colton

"I don't know about that," said Willie. "I think he's all right, and I'm going up to his room and tell him we are not all grouches like you are," and picking himself up he steered rapidly for Warren Hall to square matters with his own conscience. The bearing of the new boy had won him completely.

Without a hint of the storm of injured feelings left behind, and consequently unheeding, Mr. Parks walked rapidly with Frank across the school quadrangle to Warren, and shortly arrived at the quaint old doorway of the second entry.

"Warren was the first of the buildings of Queen's," said Mr. Parks as they trudged along. "It used to be the whole school when there were only about twenty-five boys. That was fifty years ago, but as the number of pupils increased these other buildings were added, and we have room now for a hundred and eighty boys altogether."

"Yes, I know the school has been growing. Father says it's the best in the state."

"Well, I think there are none better, even though our friends of the Warwick school up the river put on airs occasionally," said Mr. Parks.

"That's Russell Hall across the north end of the yard where the recitation rooms are," he continued, "and the school library and the social hall; and at the north end of Warren there, is the chapel. Just across from Warren is Honeywell where the school officers are. Doctor Hobart, the head of the school—you know him, of course—has his quarters in Warren. So you'll have to be on your best behavior." And Parks smiled down on the lad to whom he was much attracted.

They were now at the foot of the entry where was located No. 18. Mr. Parks plunged up the stairs and Frank followed at his heels, taking time to note the queer old crooked stairway, the newel post which was nothing more than a round block of wood carved with many initials, and the hand rail scarred with many a knife line where the ambitious initial cutters had dug deep to impress their fame on succeeding generations. The painted plaster of one side of the stairway was scrawled with initials, impromptu verses and rude sketches, caricatures evidently of school characters.

"Here we are," said Frank's guide, stopping before a door on the second landing. "Let's see if Gleason's in," and he tapped lightly. There was no response, and turning the knob he stepped within. Frank followed at his heels, and entered what was to be his new home for a number of months at least.