“Ay, Jacob Free,” cried the Irishman, “that’s well said. Give us that one about yoursilf whin ye was a schoolboy. A good story, you know, is niver a bit the worse o’ bein’ twice towld.”
“Hear! hear!” cried Bob, “come along now, Corporal, an’ give us the schoolboy’s story.”
Corporal Jacob Free, who was a gentlemanly man, somewhat advanced in years, said he would rather tell about some one else than himself, but this only made his comrades more determined.
“Well, then,” said he, at last, “since you will have it, I’ll give you what Bob Thorogood has named:— The Schoolboy’s Story.
“It was with an intense hatred of lessons and books that I began my school-days. Not an unusual experience, I believe, with boys. My parents were poor—though I have every reason to conclude that they were scrupulously honest; hence I began my school career rather late in life—at about twelve years of age. But previously to that, my much-loved, much-abused, and long-suffering mother had taught me to read and write, so that my brain was not altogether unfurnished when I went to school.
“It was a village school, in a remote district of Scotland; the master was a tall, thin, cadaverous and kindly man, of considerable attainments, and with a strong affection for boys. Had it been otherwise he must have died younger—of a broken heart. I loved that man—but I worried him. A pang of toothache-like remorse shoots through me still when I think of the sorrows I caused that good man, but the pang is mitigated by the reflection that I lived to make amends to him.
“I liked the school-days well enough at first; chiefly because I devoted myself entirely to play and refused work. Besides, there was something amusing in the novelty of the thing, and there was much interest in the mischief that could be done in school; also in the deeds of daring and violence that could be done out of it, with the able assistance of a score or so of boys of almost every age and size. But the liking moderated with experience, especially when the master, having tried every method of encouragement and persuasion in vain, adopted the trying method of keeping me in during play-hours. To escape this punishment I tried to learn a little.
“I was a bully when I went to school, being big and strong for my age. I mention the fact with shame, but it is some satisfaction to be able to add that I was not a bully when I left it. My chief enemy, and, afterwards, dearest friend, saved me from that state. He and I were the biggest and strongest boys in the school. His name was Tom Turner.
“In nearly all respects Turner and I were opposites. He was clever and studious; I stupid and idle. He was gentle and kind—especially to little boys; I rough and disobliging. He was usually dux, I invariably booby.
“‘You shouldn’t be so hard on little Spinks,’ he said to me in a quiet way, one day in the playground, ‘he can’t defend himself, you know.’