Kitabı oku: «Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute», sayfa 4

CHAPTER X. DINNER AT SMITH INSTITUTE

At twelve o’clock the morning session closed. Then came an intermission of an hour, during which the day scholars either ate lunch brought with them, or went to their homes in the village to partake of a warm repast.

At ten minutes past twelve, a red-armed servant girl made her appearance at the back door looking out on the playground, and rang a huge dinner bell. The boys dropped their games, and made what haste they could to the dining room.

“Now for a feast!” said Wilkins to Hector, significantly.

“Does Mr. Smith furnish good board?” asked Hector, for he felt the hunger of a healthy boy who had taken an early breakfast.

“Good grub?” said Wilkins, making a face. “Wait till you see. Old Sock isn’t going to ruin himself providing his pupils with the delicacies of the season.”

“I’m sorry for that. I am confoundedly hungry.”

“Hungry!” exclaimed Wilkins. “I’ve been I hungry ever since I came here.”

“Is it as bad as that?” asked Hector, rather alarmed.

“I should say so. I haven’t had a square meal—what I call a square meal—for four weeks, and that’s just the time since I left home.”

They had reached the door of the dining-room by this time.

In the center stood a long table, but there didn’t seem to be much on it except empty plates. At a side table stood Mrs. Smith, ladling out soup from a large tureen.

“That’s the first course,” whispered Wilkins. “I hope you’ll like it.”

The boys filed in and took seats. The servant girl already referred to began to bring plates of soup and set before the boys. It was a thin, unwholesome-looking mixture, with one or two small pieces of meat, about the size of a chestnut, in each plate, and fragments of potatoes and carrots. A small, triangular wedge of dry bread was furnished with each portion of soup.

“We all begin to eat together. Don’t be in a hurry,” said Wilkins, in a low tone.

When all the boys were served, Socrates Smith, who sat in an armchair at the head of the table, said:

“Boys, we are now about to partake of the bounties of Providence, let me hope, with grateful hearts.”

He touched a hand bell, and the boys took up their soup spoons.

Hector put a spoonful gingerly into his mouth, and then, stopping short, looked at Wilkins. His face was evidently struggling not to express disgust.

“Is it always as bad?” he asked, in a whisper.

“Yes,” answered Wilkins, shrugging his shoulders.

“But you eat it!”

Wilkins had already swallowed his third spoonful.

“I don’t want to starve,” answered Wilkins, significantly. “You’ll get used to it in time.”

Hector tried to dispose of a second spoonful, but he had to give it up. At home he was accustomed to a luxurious table, and this meal seemed to be a mere mockery. Yet he felt hungry. So he took up the piece of bread at the side of his plate, and, though it was dry, he succeeded in eating it.

By this time his left-hand neighbor, a boy named Colburn, had finished his soup. He looked longingly at Hector’s almost untasted plate.

“Ain’t you going to eat your soup?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper

“No.”

“Give it to me?”

“Yes.”

In a trice, Colburn had appropriated Hector’s plate and put his own empty one in its place. Just after this transfer had been made, Mr. Smith looked over to where Hector was sitting. He observed the empty plate, and said to himself: “That new boy has been gorging himself. He must have a terrible appetite. Well, that’s one good thing, he ain’t dainty. Some boys turn up their noses at plain, wholesome diet. I didn’t know but he might.”

Presently the hand bell rang again, and the soup plates were removed. In their places were set dinner plates, containing a small section each of corned beef, with a consumptive-looking potato, very probably “soggy.” At any rate, this was the case with Hector’s. He succeeded in eating the meat, but not the potato.

“Give me your potato?” asked his left-hand neighbor.

“Yes.”

It was quickly appropriated. Hector looked with some curiosity at the boy who did so much justice to boarding-school fare. He was a thin, pale boy, who looked as if he had been growing rapidly, as, indeed, he had. This, perhaps, it was that stimulated his appetite. Afterward Hector asked him if he really liked his meals.

“No,” he said; “they’re nasty.”

He was an English boy, which accounted for his use of the last word.

“You eat them as if you liked them,” remarked Hector.

“I’m so hungry,” apologized Colburn, mournfully. “I’m always hungry. I eat to fill up, not ‘cause I like it. I could eat anything.”

“I believe he could,” said Wilkins, who overheard this conversation. “Could you eat fried cat, now?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Colburn, honestly. “There would be something hearty and filling about fried cat. I ain’t half full now.”

It was just after dinner.

Hector might have said the same thing at the end of his first dinner. There was, indeed, another course. It consisted of some pale, flabby apple pie, about half baked. The slices given were about half the size of those that are ordinarily supplied at private tables and restaurants. Hector managed to eat the apple, but the crust he was obliged to leave. He noticed, however, that his fellow pupils were not so fastidious.

When the last fragment of pie had disappeared, Mr. Smith again rang the hand bell.

“Boys,” he said, “we have now satisfied our appetites.”

“I haven’t,” thought Hector.

“We have once more experienced the bountiful goodness of Providence in supplying our material wants. As we sit down to our plain but wholesome diet, I wonder how many of us are sensible of our good fortune. I wonder how many of us think of the thousands of poor children, scattered about the world, who know not where to get their daily bread. You have been refreshed, and have reinforced your strength; you will soon be ready to resume your studies, and thus, also, take in a supply of mental food, for, as you are all aware, or ought to be aware, the mind needs to be fed as well as the body. There will first be a short season for games and out-of-door amusements. Mr. Crabb, will you accompany the boys to the playground and superintend their sports?”

Mr. Crabb also had participated in the rich feast, and rose with the same unsatisfied but resigned look which characterized the rest. He led the way to the playground, and the boys trooped after him.

“Really, Wilkins,” said Hector, in a low tone, “this is getting serious. Isn’t there any place outside where one can get something to eat?”

“There’s a baker’s half a mile away, but you can’t go till after afternoon session.”

“Show me the way there, then, and I’ll buy something for both of us.”

“All right,” said Wilkins, brightening up.

“By the way, I didn’t see Jim Smith at the table.”

“No; he eats with his uncle and aunt afterward. You noticed that old Sock didn’t eat just now.”

“Yes, I wondered at it.”

“He has something a good deal better afterward. He wouldn’t like our dinner any better than we did; but he is better off, for he needn’t eat it.”

“So Jim fares better than the rest of us, does he?”

“Yes, he’s one of the family, you know.”

Just then pleasant fumes were wafted to the boys’ nostrils, and they saw through the open window, with feelings that cannot well be described, a pair of roast chickens carried from the kitchen to the dining-room.

“See what old Sock and Ma’am Sock are going to have for dinner?” said Wilkins, enviously.

“I don’t like to look at it. It is too tantalizing,” said Hector.

CHAPTER XI. HECTOR RECEIVES A SUMMONS

It so happened that Hector was well provided with money. During the life of Mr. Roscoe, whom he regarded as his father, he had a liberal allowance—liberal beyond his needs—and out of it had put by somewhat over a hundred dollars. The greater part of this was deposited for safe-keeping in a savings bank, but he had twenty-five dollars in his possession.

At the time he was saving his money, he regarded himself as the heir and future possessor of the estate, and had no expectation of ever needing it. It had been in his mind that it would give him an opportunity of helping, out of his private funds, any deserving poor person who might apply to him. When the unexpected revelation had been made to him that he had no claim to the estate, he was glad that he was not quite penniless. He did not care to apply for money to Allan Roscoe. It would have been a confession of dependence, and very humiliating to him.

No sooner was school out, than he asked Wilkins to accompany him to the baker’s, that he might make up for the deficiencies of Mr. Smith’s meager table.

“I suppose, if I guide you, you’ll stand treat, Roscoe?” said Wilkins.

“Of course.”

“Then let us go,” said his schoolfellow, with alacrity. “I’d like to get the taste of that beastly dinner out of my mouth.”

They found the baker’s, but close beside it was a restaurant, where more substantial fare could be obtained.

“Wilkins,” said Hector, “I think I would rather have a plate of meat.”

“All right! I’m with you.”

So the two boys went into the restaurant, and ordered plates of roast beef, which they ate with evident enjoyment.

“I guess,” said the waiter, grinning, “you two chaps come from the institute.”

“Yes,” answered Hector. “What makes you think so?”

“The way you eat. They do say old Smith half starves the boys.”

“You’re not far from right,” said Wilkins; “but it isn’t alone the quantity, but the quality that’s amiss.”

They ate their dinner, leaving not a crumb, and then rose refreshed.

“I feel splendid,” said Wilkins. “I just wish I boarded at the restaurant instead of the doctor’s. Thank you, Roscoe, for inviting me.”

“All right, Wilkins! We’ll come again some day.”

Somehow the extra dinner seemed to warm the heart of Wilkins, and inspire in him a feeling of friendly interest for Hector.

“I say, Hector, I’ll tell you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’ve got to keep your eyes open.”

“I generally do,” answered Hector, smiling, “except at night.”

“I mean when Jim Smith’s round.”

“Why particularly when he is around?”

“Because he means to thrash you.”

“What for?”

“You are too independent. You don’t bow down to him, and look up to him.”

“I don’t mean to,” said Hector, promptly.

“If you don’t you’ll see trouble, and that very soon.”

“Let it come!” said Hector, rather contemptuously.

“You don’t seem afraid!” said Wilkins, regarding him curiously.

“Because I am not afraid. Isn’t that a good reason?”

“You don’t think you can stand up against Jim, do you?”

“I will see when the time comes.”

“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he were looking out for you at this very moment, and wondering where you are.”

It seemed that Wilkins was right. As they approached the school grounds, John Bates came running to meet them.

“Where have you been, you two?” he said.

“To the village,” answered Wilkins.

“What for?”

“For a walk,” answered Wilkins, with a warning glance at Hector. It would have been awkward if the principal had heard that they had been compelled to eke out their meager dinner at a restaurant.

“Well, Jim wants you. Leastways, he wants Roscoe.”

Bates looked as if he expected Roscoe would immediately hasten to comply with the wishes of the redoubtable Jim.

“If he wants me, he can come to me,” said Hector, independently.

“But I say, that won’t do. Jim won’t be satisfied.”

“Won’t he? I don’t know that that particularly concerns me.”

“Shall I tell him that?”

“If you choose.”

Bates looked as if Hector had been guilty of some enormity. What, defy the wishes, the mandates, of Jim Smith, the king of the school and the tyrant of all the small boys! He felt that Hector Roscoe was rushing on his fate.

“I advise you to come,” he said, “Jim’s mad with you already, and he’ll lick you worse if you send him a message like that.”

“He will probably have to take blows, as well as give them,” said Hector.

“Then I am to tell him what you said?”

“Of course.”

With a look that seemed to say, “Your fate be on your own head!” Bates walked away.

“John Bates is always toadying to Jim,” said Wilkins. “So he’s prime favorite when Jim is good-natured—when he’s cross, I’ve seen him kick Bates.”

“And Bates didn’t resent it?”

“He didn’t dare to. He’d come round him the next day the same as ever.”

“Has the boy no self-respect?” asked Hector, in a tone of disgust.

“He doesn’t seem to have.”

As soon as school was out, Jim Smith had looked round for the new boy, who seemed disposed to defy his authority. On account of eating at different tables, they had not met during the noon intermission. At any rate, there had not been time to settle the question of subserviency. Through the afternoon session Jim had been anticipating the signal punishment which he intended to inflict upon the newcomer.

“I’ll show him!” he said to himself. “Tomorrow he’ll be singing a different tune, or I am mistaken.”

This was the way Jim had been accustomed to break in refractory new arrivals. The logic of his fist usually proved a convincing argument, and thus far his supremacy had never been successfully resisted. He was confident that he would not be interfered with. Secretly, his Uncle Socrates sympathized with him, and relished the thought that his nephew, who so strongly resembled him in mind and person, should be the undisputed boss—to use a word common in political circles—of the school. He discreetly ignored the conflicts which he knew took place, and if any luckless boy, the victim of Jim’s brutality, ventured to appeal to him, the boy soon found that he himself was arraigned, and not the one who had abused him.

“Where’s that new boy?” asked Jim, as he left the schoolroom.

He had not seen our hero’s departure—but his ready tool, Bates, had.

“I saw him sneaking off with Wilkins,” said Bates.

“Where did they go?”

“To the Village, I guess.”

“They seemed to be in a hurry,” said Jim, with a sneer.

“They wanted to get out of your way—that is, the new boy did,” suggested Bates.

Jim nodded.

“Likely he did,” he answered. “So he went to the village, did he?”

“Yes; I saw him.”

“Well, he’s put it off a little. That boy’s cranky. I’m goin’ to give him a lesson he won’t forget very soon.”

“So you will, so you will, Jim,” chuckled Bates.

“That’s the way I generally take down these boys that put on airs,” said Jim, complacently. “This Roscoe’s the worst case I’ve had yet. So Wilkins went off with him, did he?”

“Yes; I saw them go off together.”

“I’ll have to give Wilkins a little reminder, then. It won’t be safe to take up with them that defy me. I’ll just give him a kick to help his memory.”

“He won’t like that much, oh, my!” chuckled Bates.

“When you see them coming, Bates, go and tell Roscoe I want to see him,” said Jim, with the air of an autocrat.

“All right, Jim,” said Bates, obediently.

So he went on his errand, and we know what success he met with.

CHAPTER XII. THE IMPENDING CONFLICT

Jim Smith stood leaning indolently against a post, when his emissary, Bates, returned from his errand. He was experiencing “that stern joy” which bullies feel just before an encounter with a foeman inferior in strength, whom they expect easily to master. Several of the boys were near by—sycophantic followers of Jim, who were enjoying in advance the rumpus they expected. I am afraid schoolboys do not always sympathize with the weaker side. In the present instance, there was hardly a boy who had not at some time or other felt the weight of Jim’s fist, and, as there is an old saying that “misery loves company,” it was not, perhaps, a matter of wonder that they looked forward with interest to seeing another suffer the same ill-treatment which they had on former occasions received!

Presently Bates came back.

Jim looked over his head for the boy whom he expected to see in his company.

“Where’s the new boy?” he demanded, with a frown.

“He won’t come.”

“Won’t come?” repeated Jim, with an ominous frown. “Did you tell him I wanted him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what did he say?”

“That if you wanted to see him, you could come to him.”

All the boys regarded each other with looks of surprise. Was it possible that any boy in Smith Institute could have the boldness to send such a message to Jim! Most of all, Jim was moved by such a bold defiance of his authority. For the moment, he could not think of any adequate terms in which to express his feelings.

“Did the new boy say that?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Yes, he did.”

Jim nodded his head vigorously two or three times.

“You fellows,” he said, appealing to the boys around him, “did you ever hear such impudence?”

“No!” “Never!” exclaimed the boys in concert, Bates being the loudest and most emphatic.

“I have never been so insulted since I was at the institute,” said Jim, again looking about him for a confirmation of his statement.

“It’s because he’s a new boy. He don’t understand,” suggested one.

“That’s no excuse,” said Jim, sternly. “He needn’t think I’ll let him off on that account.”

“Of course not,” answered Bates.

“What would you advise me to do, boys?” asked Jim, with the air of a monarch asking the opinion of his counselors.

“Thrash him till he can’t stand!” said the subservient Bates. He was always ready to go farther than anyone else in supporting and defending the authority of the tyrant of the playground.

“Bates, you are right. I shall follow your advice,” said Jim. “Where is the young reprobate?”

“He is over in Carver’s field.”

“Is anyone with him?”

“Yes, Wilkins.”

“Ha! Wilkins and I will have an account to settle. If he is going to side with this young rascal he must take the consequences. So, he’s over in the field, is he? What’s he doing?”

“I think he was going to walk down to the brook.”

Carver’s field was a tract, several acres in extent, of pasture land, sloping down to one corner, where a brook trickled along quietly. Here three large trees were located, under whose spreading branches the boys, in the intervals of study, used often to stretch themselves for a chat or engage in some schoolboy games, such as nimble peg or quoits. The owner of the field was an easy-going man, who did not appear to be troubled by the visits of the boys, as long as they did not maltreat the peaceful cows who gathered their subsistence from the scanty grass that grew there.

“He wants to keep out of your way, I guess,” volunteered Bates.

As this suggestion was flattering to the pride of the “boss,” it was graciously received.

“Very likely,” he said; “but he’ll find that isn’t so easy. Boys, follow me, if you want to see some fun.”

Jim started with his loose stride for the field, where he expected to meet his adversary, or, rather, victim, for so he considered him, and the smaller boys followed him with alacrity. There was going to be a scrimmage, and they all wanted to see it.

Jim and his followers issued from the gate, and, crossing the street, scaled the bars that separated Carver’s field from the highway. Already they could see the two boys—Roscoe and Wilkins-slowly walking, and nearly arrived at the brook in the lower part of the field.

“He doesn’t seem much afraid,” remarked Talbot, one of the recent comers, incautiously.

Upon him immediately Jim frowned ominously.

“So you are taking sides with him, Talbot, are you?” he said, imperiously.

“No, Jim,” answered Talbot, hurriedly, for he now saw that he had been guilty of an imprudence.

“What made you say he wasn’t scared, then?”

“I only said he didn’t seem afraid,” answered Talbot, apologetically.

“Be careful what you say in future, young fellow!” said Jim, sternly; “that is, if you are a friend of mine. If you are going over to Roscoe, you can go, and I shall know how to treat you.”

“But I am not going over to him. I don’t like him,” said the cowardly boy.

“Very well; I accept your apology this time. In future be careful what you say.”

By this time Wilkins and Roscoe had reached the clump of big trees, and had seated themselves under their ample branches. Then, for the first time, glancing backward toward the school, they became aware of the advancing troop of boys. Wilkins saw them first.

“There’s Jim coming!” he exclaimed. “Now you are in a pickle. He means business.”

“I suppose,” said Hector, coolly, “he has decided to accept my invitation, and come to see me.”

“You’ll find he has,” said Wilkins, significantly.

“He seems to have considerable company,” remarked Hector, scanning the approaching party with tranquillity.

“They’re coming to see the fun!” said Wilkins.

“I suppose you mean the fight between Jim Smith and myself.”

“Well, not exactly. They’ve come to see you thrashed.”

Hector smiled.

“Suppose they should see Jim thrashed instead—what then?”

“They might be surprised: but I don’t think they will be,” answered Wilkins, dryly. He was, on the whole, well disposed toward Hector, and he certainly disliked Jim heartily, but he did not allow his judgment to be swayed by his preferences, and he could foresee but one issue to the impending conflict. There was one thing that puzzled him exceedingly, and that was Hector’s coolness on the brink of a severe thrashing, such as Jim was sure to give him for his daring defiance and disregard of his authority.

“You’re a queer boy, Hector,” he said. “You don’t seem in the least alarmed.”

“I am not in the least alarmed,” answered Hector. “Why should I be?”

“You don’t mind being thrashed, then?”

“I might mind; but I don’t mean to be thrashed if I can help it.”

“But you can’t help it, you know.”

“Well, that will soon be decided.”

There was no time for any further conversation, for Jim and his followers were close at hand.

Jim opened the campaign by calling Hector to account.

“Look here, you new boy,” he said, “didn’t Bates tell you that I wanted to see you?”

“Yes,” answered Hector, looking up, indifferently.

“Well, why didn’t you come to me at once, hey?”

“Because I didn’t choose to. I sent word if you wished to see me, to come where I was.”

“What do you mean by such impudence, hey?”

“I mean this, Jim Smith, that you have no authority over me and never will have. I have not been here long, but I have been here long enough to find out that you are a cowardly bully and ruffian. How all these boys can give in to you, I can’t understand.”

Jim Smith almost foamed at the mouth with rage.

“You’ll pay for this,” he howled, pulling off his coat, in furious haste.