Glengarry Schooldays

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By this time the other boys had pulled a number of boards and planks out
of the jam, and laying them across the logs, made a kind of raft upon
which the exhausted swimmers were gradually hauled, and then brought
safe to shore.

"Oh, Ranald," said Tom, almost weeping, "I didn't mean to--I never
thought--I'm awfully sorry."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Ranald, who was taking off Hughie's shirt preparatory
to wringing it, "I know. Besides, it was you who pulled us out. You were
doing your best, Don, of course, but we would have gone under the jam
but for Tom."

For ten minutes the boys stood going over again the various incidents
in the recent dramatic scene, extolling the virtues of Ranald, Don, and
Thomas in turn, and imitating, with screams of laughter, Hughie's gulps
and splashings while he was fighting for his life. It was their way of
expressing their emotions of gratitude and joy, for Hughie was dearly
loved by all, though no one would have dared to manifest such weakness.

As they were separating, Hughie whispered to Ranald, "Come home with
me, Ranald. I want you." And Ranald, looking down into the little
white face, went. It would be many a day before he would get rid of the
picture of the white face, with the staring black eyes, floating on the
dark brown water beside him, and that was why he went.

When they reached the path to the manse clearing Ranald and Hughie were
alone. For some minutes Hughie followed Ranald in silence on a dog-trot,
through the brule, dodging round stumps and roots and climbing over
fallen trees, till they came to the pasture-field.

"Hold on, Ranald," panted Hughie, putting on a spurt and coming up even
with his leader.

"Are you warm enough?" asked Ranald, looking down at the little flushed
face.

"You bet!"

"Are you dry?"

"Huh, huh."

"Indeed, you are not too dry," said Ranald, feeling his wet shirt and
trousers, "and your mother will be wondering."

"I'll tell her," said Hughie, in a tone of exulting anticipation.

"What!" Ranald stood dead still.

"I'll tell her," replied Hughie. "She'll be awful glad. And she'll be
awful thankful to you, Ranald."

Ranald looked at him in amazement.

"I think I will jist be going back now," he said, at length. But Hughie
seized him.

"Oh, Ranald, you must come with me."

He had pictured himself telling his mother of Ranald's exploit, and
covering his hero with glory. But this was the very thing that Ranald
dreaded and hated, and was bound to prevent.

"You will not be going to the Deepole again, I warrant you," Ranald
said, with emphasis.

"Not go to the Deepole?"

"No, indeed. Your mother will put an end to that sort of thing."

"Mother! Why not?"

"She will not be wanting to have you drowned."

Hughie laughed scornfully. "You don't know my mother. She's not afraid
of--of anything."

"But she will be telling your father."

This was a matter serious enough to give Hughie pause. His father might
very likely forbid the Deepole.

"There is no need for telling," suggested Ranald. "And I will just go in
for a minute."

"Will you stay for supper?"

Ranald shook his head. The manse kitchen was a bright place, and to see
the minister's wife and to hear her talk was to Ranald pure delight. But
then, Hughie might tell, and that would be too awful to bear.

"Do, Ranald," pleaded Hughie. "I'll not tell."

"I am not so sure."

"Sure as death!"

Still Ranald hesitated. Hughie grew desperate.

"God may kill me on the spot!" he cried, using the most binding of all
oaths known to the boys. This was satisfactory, and Ranald went.

But Hughie was not skilled in deceiving, and especially in deceiving his
mother. They were great friends, and Hughie shared all his secrets with
her and knew that they were safe, unless they ought to be told. And so,
when he caught sight of his mother waiting for him before the door, he
left Ranald, and thrilling with the memory of the awful peril through
which he had passed, rushed at her, and crying, "Oh, mother!" he flung
himself into her arms. "I am so glad to see you again!"

"Why, Hughie, my boy, what's the matter?" said his mother, holding her
arms tight about him. "And you are all wet! What is it?" But Hughie held
her fast, struggling with himself.

"What is it?" she asked again, turning to Ranald.

"We were running pretty fast--and it is a hot day--and--" But the clear
gray-brown eyes were upon him, and Ranald found it difficult to go on.

"Oh, mother, you mustn't ask," cried Hughie; "I promised not to tell."

"Not to tell me, Hughie?" The surprise in the voice was quite too much
for Hughie.

"Oh, mother, we did not want to frighten you--and--I promised."

"Then you must keep your promise. Come away in, my boy. Come in,
Ranald."

It was her boy's first secret from her. Ranald saw the look of pain in
the sweet face, and could not endure it.

"It was just nothing, Mrs. Murray," he began.

"Did you promise, too, Ranald?"

"No, that I did not. And there is nothing much to tell, only Hughie fell
into the Deepole and the boys pulled him out!"

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Hughie, "it was Ranald. He jumped right down
from the tree right into the water, and kept me up. You told yourself,
Ranald," he continued, delighted to be relieved of his promise; and on
he went to give his mother, in his most picturesque style, a description
of the whole scene, while Ranald stood looking miserable and ashamed.

"And Ranald was ashamed for me to tell you, and besides, he said you
wouldn't let me go to the Deepole again. But you will, won't you mother?
And you won't tell father, will you?"

The mother stood listening, with face growing whiter and whiter, till
he was done. Then she stooped down over the eager face for some moments,
whispering, "My darling, my darling," and then coming to Ranald she
held her hand on his shoulder for a moment, while she said, in a voice
bravely struggling to be calm, "God reward you, Ranald. God grant my boy
may always have so good and brave a friend when he needs."

And from that day Ranald's life was different, for he had bound to
him by a tie that nothing could ever break, a friend whose influence
followed him, and steadied and lifted him up to greatness, long after
the grave had hidden her from men's sight.



CHAPTER III

THE EXAMINATION


The two years of Archibald Munro's regime were the golden age of the
school, and for a whole generation "The Section" regarded that period as
the standard for comparison in the following years. Munro had a genius
for making his pupils work. They threw themselves with enthusiasm into
all they undertook--studies, debate nights, games, and in everything the
master was the source of inspiration.

And now his last examination day had come, and the whole Section
was stirred with enthusiasm for their master, and with grief at his
departure.

The day before examination was spent in "cleaning the school." This
semi-annual event, which always preceded the examination, was almost as
enjoyable as the examination day itself, if indeed it was not more
so. The school met in the morning for a final polish for the morrow's
recitations. Then after a speech by the master the little ones were
dismissed and allowed to go home though they never by any chance took
advantage of this permission. Then the master and the bigger boys and
girls set to work to prepare the school for the great day. The boys were
told off in sections, some to get dry cedar boughs from the swamp for
the big fire outside, over which the iron sugar-kettle was swung to heat
the scrubbing water; others off into the woods for balsam-trees for the
evergreen decorations; others to draw water and wait upon the scrubbers.

It was a day of delightful excitement, but this year there was below the
excitement a deep, warm feeling of love and sadness, as both teacher
and pupils thought of to-morrow. There was an additional thrill to the
excitement, that the master was to be presented with a gold watch and
chain, and that this had been kept a dead secret from him.

What a day it was! With wild whoops the boys went off for the dry cedar
and the evergreens, while the girls, looking very housewifely with
skirts tucked back and sleeves rolled up, began to sweep and otherwise
prepare the room for scrubbing.

The gathering of the evergreens was a delightful labor. High up in the
balsam-trees the more daring boys would climb, and then, holding by
the swaying top, would swing themselves far out from the trunk and come
crashing through the limbs into the deep, soft snow, bringing half the
tree with them. What larks they had! What chasing of rabbits along their
beaten runways! What fierce and happy snow fights! And then, the triumph
of their return, laden with their evergreen trophies, to find the big
fire blazing under the great iron kettle and the water boiling, and the
girls well on with the scrubbing.

Then, while the girls scrubbed first the benches and desks, and last of
all, the floors, the boys washed the windows and put up the evergreen
decorations. Every corner had its pillar of green, every window had its
frame of green, the old blackboard, the occasion of many a heartache to
the unmathematical, was wreathed into loveliness; the maps, with their
bewildering boundaries, rivers and mountains, capes, bays and islands,
became for once worlds of beauty under the magic touch of the greenery.
On the wall just over his desk, the master wrought out in evergreen an
arching "WELCOME," but later on, the big girls, with some shy blushing,
boldly tacked up underneath an answering "FAREWELL." By the time the
short afternoon had faded into the early evening, the school stood,
to the eyes of all familiar with the common sordidness of its everyday
dress, a picture of artistic loveliness. And after the master's little
speech of thanks for their good work that afternoon, and for all their
goodness to him, the boys and girls went their ways with that strangely
unnameable heart-emptiness that brings an ache to the throat, but
somehow makes happier for the ache.

The examination day was the great school event of the year. It was the
social function of the Section as well. Toward this event all the school
life moved, and its approach was attended by a deepening excitement,
shared by children and parents alike, which made a kind of holiday
feeling in the air.

The school opened an hour later than ordinarily, and the children came
all in their Sunday clothes, the boys feeling stiff and uncomfortable,
and regarding each other with looks half shy and half contemptuous,
realizing that they were unnatural in each other's sight; the girls
with hair in marvelous frizzes and shiny ringlets, with new ribbons, and
white aprons over their home-made winsey dresses, carried their unwonted
grandeur with an ease and delight that made the boys secretly envy but
apparently despise them. The one unpardonable crime with all the boys
in that country was that of being "proud." The boy convicted of "shoween
off," was utterly contemned by his fellows. Hence, any delight in new
clothes or in a finer appearance than usual was carefully avoided.

Ranald always hated new clothes. He felt them an intolerable burden. He
did not mind his new homespun, home-made flannel check shirt of mixed
red and white, but the heavy fulled-cloth suit made by his Aunt Kirsty
felt like a suit of mail. He moved heavily in it and felt queer, and
knew that he looked as he felt. The result was that he was in no genial
mood, and was on the alert for any indication of levity at his expense.

Hughie, on the contrary, like the girls, delighted in new clothes.
His new black suit, made down from one of his father's, with infinite
planning and pains by his mother, and finished only at twelve o'clock
the night before, gave him unmixed pleasure. And handsome he looked in
it. All the little girls proclaimed that in their shy, admiring glances,
while the big girls teased and petted and threatened to kiss him. Of
course the boys all scorned him and his finery, and tried to "take him
down," but Hughie was so unfeignedly pleased with himself, and moved so
easily and naturally in his grand attire, and was so cheery and frank
and happy, that no one thought of calling him "proud."

Soon after ten the sleighloads began to arrive. It was a mild winter
day, when the snow packed well, and there fluttered down through the
still air a few lazy flakes, large, soft, and feathery, like bits of the
clouds floating white against the blue sky. The sleighs were driven up
to the door with a great flourish and jingle of bells, and while the
master welcomed the ladies, the fathers and big brothers drove the
horses to the shelter of the thick-standing pines, and unhitching them,
tied them to the sleigh-boxes, where, blanketed and fed, they remained
for the day.

Within an hour the little school-house was packed, the children crowded
tight into the long desks, and the visitors on the benches along the
walls and in the seats of the big boys and girls. On the platform were
such of the trustees as could muster up the necessary courage--old Peter
MacRae, who had been a dominie in the Old Country, the young minister
and his wife, and the schoolteacher from the "Sixteenth."

First came the wee tots, who, in wide-eyed, serious innocence, went
through their letters and their "ox" and "cat" combinations and
permutations with great gusto and distinction. Then they were dismissed
to their seats by a series of mental arithmetic questions, sums
of varying difficulty being propounded, until little white-haired,
blue-eyed Johnnie Aird, with the single big curl on the top of his head,
was left alone.

"One and one, Johnnie?" said the master, smiling down at the rosy face.

"Three," promptly replied Johnnie, and retired to his seat amid the
delighted applause of visitors and pupils, and followed by the proud,
fond, albeit almost tearful, gaze of his mother. He was her baby, born
long after her other babies had grown up into sturdy youth, and all the
dearer for that.

Then up through the Readers, till the Fifth was reached, the examination
progressed, each class being handed over to the charge of a visitor, who
forthwith went upon examination as truly as did the class.

"Fifth class!" In due order the class marched up to the chalk line on
the floor in front of the master's desk, and stood waiting.

The reading lesson was Fitz-Greene Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris," a
selection of considerable dramatic power, and calling for a somewhat
spirited rendering. The master would not have chosen this lesson, but he
had laid down the rule that there was to be no special drilling of the
pupils for an exhibition, but that the school should be seen doing its
every-day work; and in the reading, the lessons for the previous day
were to be those of the examination day. By an evil fortune, the reading
for the day was the dramatic "Marco Bozzaris." The master shivered
inwardly as he thought of the possibility of Thomas Finch, with his
stolidly monotonous voice, being called upon to read the thrilling lines
recording the panic-stricken death-cry of the Turk: "To arms! They come!
The Greek! The Greek!" But Thomas, by careful plodding, had climbed to
fourth place, and the danger lay in the third verse.

"Will you take this class, Mr. MacRae?" said the master, handing him the
book. He knew that the dominie was not interested in the art of reading
beyond the point of correct pronunciation, and hence he hoped the class
might get off easily. The dominie took the book reluctantly. What he
desired was the "arith-MET-ic" class, and did not care to be "put off"
with mere reading.

"Well, Ranald, let us hear you," he rather growled. Ranald went at his
work with quiet confidence; he knew all the words.

"Page 187, Marco Bozzaris.

"At midnight in his guarded tent, The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power."

And so on steadily to the end of his verse.

"Next!"

The next was "Betsy Dan," the daughter of Dan Campbell, of "The Island."
Now, Betsy Dan was very red in hair and face, very shy and very nervous,
and always on the point of giggles. It was a trial to her to read on
ordinary days, but to-day it was almost more than she could bear. To
make matters worse, sitting immediately behind her, and sheltered from
the eye of the master, sat Jimmie Cameron, Don's youngest brother.
Jimmie was always on the alert for mischief, and ever ready to go off
into fits of laughter, which he managed to check only by grabbing tight
hold of his nose. Just now he was busy pulling at the strings of Betsy
Dan's apron with one hand, while with the other he was hanging onto his
nose, and swaying in paroxysms of laughter.

Very red in the face, Betsy Dan began her verse.

"At midnight in the forest shades, Bozzaris--"

Pause, while Betsy Dan clutched behind her.

"--Bozzaris ranged--"

("Tchik! tchik!") a snicker from Jimmie in the rear.

"--his Suliote band, True as the steel of--"

("im-im,") Betsy Dan struggles with her giggles.

"Elizabeth!" The master's voice is stern and sharp.

Betsy Dan bridles up, while Jimmie is momentarily sobered by the
master's tone.

"True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persians thousands stood--"

("Tchik! tchik! tchik,") a long snicker from Jimmie, whose nose cannot
be kept quite in control. It is becoming too much for poor Betsy Dan,
whose lips begin to twitch.

"There--"

("im-im, thit-tit-tit,") Betsy Dan is making mighty efforts to hold in
her giggles.

"--had the glad earth (tchik!) drunk their blood, On old Pl-a-a-t-t-e-a-'s day."

Whack! whack!

"Elizabeth Campbell!" The master's tone was quite terrible.

"I don't care! He won't leave me alone. He's just--just (sob)
pu--pulling at me (sob) all the time."

By this time Betsy's apron was up to her eyes, and her sobs were quite
tempestuous.

"James, stand up!" Jimmie slowly rose, red with laughter, and covered
with confusion.

"I-I-I di-dn't touch her!" he protested.

"O--h!" said little Aleck Sinclair, who had been enjoying Jimmie's prank
hugely; "he was--"

"That'll do, Aleck, I didn't ask you. James is quite able to tell me
himself. Now, James!"

"I-I-I was only just doing that," said Jimmie, sober enough now, and
terrified at the results of his mischief.

"Doing what?" said the master, repressing a smile at Jimmie's woebegone
face.

"Just-just that!" and Jimmie touched gingerly with the point of his
finger the bows of Betsy Dan's apron-strings.

"Oh, I see. You were annoying Elizabeth while she was reading. No wonder
she found it difficult. Now, do you think that was very nice?"

Jimmie twisted himself into a semicircle.

"N-o-o."

"Come here, James!" Jimmie looked frightened, came round the class, and
up to the master.

"Now, then," continued the master, facing Jimmie round in front of Betsy
Dan, who was still using her apron upon her eyes, "tell Elizabeth you
are sorry."

Jimmie stood in an agony of silent awkwardness, curving himself in
varying directions.

"Are you sorry?"

"Y-e-e-s."

"Well, tell her so."

Jimmie drew a long breath and braced himself for the ordeal. He stood a
moment or two, working his eyes up shyly from Betsy Dan's shoes to
her face, caught her glancing at him from behind her apron, and began,
"I-I-I'm (tchik! tchik) sor-ry," (tchik). Betsy Dan's look was too much
for the little chap's gravity.

A roar swept over the school-house. Even the grim dominie's face
relaxed.

"Go to your seat and behave yourself," said the master, giving Jimmie a
slight cuff. "Now, Margaret, let us go on."

Margaret's was the difficult verse. But to Margaret's quiet voice and
gentle heart, anything like shriek or battle-cry was foreign enough, so
with even tone, and unmodulated by any shade of passion, she read the
cry, "To arms! They come! The Greek! The Greek!" Nor was her voice to
be moved from its gentle, monotonous flow even by the battle-cry of
Bozzaris, "Strike! till the last armed foe expires!"

"Next," said the dominie, glad to get on with his task.

The master breathed freely, when, alas for his hopes, the minister spoke
up.

"But, Margaret, do you think Bozzaris cheered his men in so gentle a
voice as that?"

Margaret smiled sweetly, but remained silent, glad to get over the
verse.

"Wouldn't you like to try it again?" suggested the minister.

Margaret flushed up at once.

"Oh, no," said his wife, who had noticed Margaret's flushing face.
"Girls are not supposed to be soldiers, are they, Margaret?"

Margaret flashed a grateful look at her.

"That's a boy's verse."

"Ay! that it is," said the old dominie; "and I would wish very much that
Mrs. Murray would conduct this class."

But the minister's wife would not hear of it, protesting that the
dominie could do it much better. The old man, however, insisted, saying
that he had no great liking for this part of the examination, and
would wish to reserve himself, with the master's permission, for the
"arith-MET-ic" class.

Mrs. Murray, seeing that it would please the dominie, took the book,
with a spot of color coming in her delicate, high-bred face.

"You must all do your best now, to help me," she said, with a smile that
brought an answering smile flashing along the line. Even Thomas Finch
allowed his stolid face a gleam of intelligent sympathy, which, however,
he immediately suppressed, for he remembered that the next turn was
his, and that he must be getting himself into the appearance of dogged
desperation which he considered suitable to a reading exercise.

"Now, Thomas," said the minister's wife, sweetly, and Thomas plunged
heavily.

"They fought like brave men, long--"

"Oh, Thomas, I think we will try that man's verse again, with the cries
of battle in it, you know. I am sure you can do that well."

It was all the same to Thomas. There were no words he could not spell,
and he saw no reason why he should not do that verse as well as
any other. So, with an extra knitting of his eyebrows, he set forth
doggedly.

"An-hour-passed-on-the-Turk-awoke-that-bright-dream-was-his-last."

Thomas's voice fell with the unvarying regularity of the beat of a
trip-hammer.

"He-woke-to-hear-his-sentries-shriek-to-arms-they-come-the-Greek
the-Greek-he-woke--"

"But, Thomas, wait a minute. You see you must speak these words, 'To
arms! They come!' differently from the others. These words were shrieked
by the sentries, and you must show that in your reading."

"Speak them out, man," said the minister, sharply, and a little
nervously, fearing that his wife had undertaken too great a task, and
hating to see her defeated.

"Now, Thomas," said Mrs. Murray, "try again. And remember the sentries
shrieked these words, 'To arms!' and so on."

Thomas squared his shoulders, spread his feet apart, added a wrinkle
to his frown, and a deeper note of desperation to his tone, and began
again.

"An-hour-passed-on-the-Turk-awoke-that-bright-dream-was--"

The master shuddered.

"Now, Thomas, excuse me. That's better, but we can improve that yet."
Mrs. Murray was not to be beaten. The attention of the whole school,
even to Jimmie Cameron, as well as that of the visitors, was now
concentrated upon the event.

"See," she went on, "each phrase by itself. 'An hour passed on: the Turk
awoke.' Now, try that far."

Again Thomas tried, this time with complete success. The visitors
applauded.

"Ah, that's it, Thomas. I was sure you could do it."

Thomas relaxed a little, but not unduly. He was not sure what was yet
before him.

"Now we will get that 'sentries shriek.' See, Thomas, like this a
little," and she read the words with fine expression.

"You must put more pith, more force, into those words, Thomas. Speak
out, man!" interjected the minister, who was wishing it was all over.

"Now, Thomas, I think this will be the last time. You have done very
well, but I feel sure you can do better."

The minister's wife looked at Thomas as she said this, with so
fascinating a smile that the frown on Thomas' face deepened into a
hideous scowl, and he planted himself with a do-or-die expression in
every angle of his solid frame. Realizing the extreme necessity of the
moment, he pitched his voice several tones higher than ever before in
his life inside a house and before people, and made his final attempt.

"An-hour-passed-on: the-Turk-awoke: That-bright-dream-WAS-his-last."

And now, feeling that the crisis was upon him, and confusing speed
with intensity, and sound with passion, he rushed his words, with
ever-increasing speed, into a wild yell.

"He-woke-to-hear-his-sentries-shriek-to-arms-they
come-the-Greek-THE-GREEK!"

There was a moment of startled stillness, then, "tchik! tchik!" It was
Jimmie again, holding his nose and swaying in a vain effort to control a
paroxysm of snickers at Thomas' unusual outburst.

It was like a match to powder. Again the whole school burst into a
roar of uncontrollable laughter. Even the minister, the master, and the
dominie, could not resist. The only faces unmoved were those of Thomas
Finch and the minister's wife. He had tried his best, and it was to
please her, and she knew it.