Gil and Poke had in due time received the required parental sanction to their change of quarters and had settled down very comfortably in what Poke called the Royal Suite. With three of their rooms rented for the school year Jim and his mother were much encouraged, for even if the fourth room didn’t rent they could, they were certain, more than pay expenses. Mr. Hanks, in spite of Poke’s forebodings, troubled no one. If he found the house rather noisy at times, he made no complaint. Except at meal times they saw very little of him. He was usually very silent at the table, accepting what was placed before him or handed to him and eating it in his funny absentminded way. At school, however, Mr. Hanks was having his troubles. In the first place, he was a new man, and there is an unwritten law at Crofton to the effect that new instructors must be decently hazed. Hazing in Mr. Hanks’ case consisted of taking advantage of his inexperience and diffidence until at the end of his first week at school his Latin and history classes had lost all semblance of order and discipline. The instructor’s worst trial was Latin 2. In this class was Brandon Gary, and Gary knew more ways to make the teacher’s life a burden to him than there were pages in the Æneid.
“Bull makes me very tired,” said Gil one day. “It’s all right to have a little fun; and every faculty ought to stand a little joshing; but Bull is keeping it up too long. First thing we know Nancy will get discouraged and quit. If he only knew enough to sit on a few of those Smart Alecks he wouldn’t have any more trouble.”
“I think it’s just as mean as can be,” declared Hope. “Mr. Hanks is a perfect dear.”
“Oh, he’s all right,” agreed Poke. “Nancy isn’t a half bad sort. Only thing is he hasn’t enough grit.”
“And,” continued Hope, puzzledly, “I don’t see why you want to call him Nancy. He doesn’t look a bit like a horse.”
“A what?” demanded Jeff in surprise.
“A horse. I asked Lady the other day who Nancy Hanks was and she said he—I mean she—was a famous racehorse. And I don’t see—”
But the boys were laughing so loudly that the rest of Hope’s remark was drowned. She viewed them bewilderedly.
“Wasn’t she a horse?” she asked doubtfully.
“Well,” answered Jeff, who had recovered first, “I believe there used to be a horse named that. But the original Nancy Hanks was Abraham Lincoln’s mother. Have you never heard of her?”