Glengarry Schooldays

R >> Ralph Connor >> Glengarry Schooldays


"I'm not a bit tired," said Hughie, brightly, his face radiant with the
delight of his new experiences.

"You will need all your sleep, my boy," said the mother, kindly, "for
we rise early here. But," she added, "you will lie till the boys are
through with their work, and Thomas will waken you for your breakfast."

"Indeed, no! I'm going to get up," announced Hughie.

"But, Hughie," said Billy Jack, seriously, "if you and Thomas are going
to carry out that man to-morrow, you will need a mighty lot of sleep
to-night."

"Hush, William John," said the mother to her eldest son, "you mustn't
tease Hughie. And it's not good to be saying such things, even in fun,
to boys like Thomas and Hughie."

"That's true, mother, for they're rather fierce already."

"Indeed, they are not that. And I am sure they will do nothing that will
shame their parents."

To this Hughie made no reply. It was no easy matter to harmonize the
thought of his parents with the exploit of ejecting the master from the
school, so he only said good night, and went off with the silent Thomas
to bed. But in the visions of his head which haunted him the night long,
racing horses and little girls with tossing curls and twinkling feet
were strangely mingled with wild conflicts with the new master; and it
seemed to him that he had hardly dropped off to sleep, when he was
awake again to see Thomas standing beside him with a candle in his hand,
announcing that breakfast was ready.

"Have you been out to the stable?" he eagerly inquired, and Thomas
nodded. In great disappointment and a little shamefacedly he made his
appearance at the breakfast-table.

It seemed to Hughie as if it must be still the night before, for it was
quite dark outside. He had never had breakfast by candle-light before
in his life, and he felt as if it all were still a part of his dreams,
until he found himself sitting beside Billy Jack on a load of saw-logs,
waving good by to the group at the door, the old man, whose face in the
gray morning light had resumed its wonted severe look, the quiet, little
dark-faced woman, smiling kindly at him and bidding him come again, and
the little maid at her side with the dark ringlets, who glanced at him
from behind the shelter of her mother's skirts, with shy boldness.

As Hughie was saying his good bys, he was thinking most of the twinkling
feet and the tossing curls, and so he added to his farewells, "Good
by, Jessac. I'm going to learn that reel from you some day," and then,
turning about, he straight-way forgot all about her and her reel, for
Billy Jack's horses were pawing to be off, and rolling their solemn
bells, while their breath rose in white clouds above their heads,
wreathing their manes in hoary rime.

"Git-ep, lads," said Billy Jack, hauling his lines taut and flourishing
his whip. The bays straightened their backs, hung for a few moments
on their tugs, for the load had frozen fast during the night, and then
moved off at a smart trot, the bells solemnly booming out, and the
sleighs creaking over the frosty snow.

"Man!" said Hughie, enthusiastically, "I wish I could draw logs all
winter."

"It's not too bad a job on a day like this," assented Billy Jack. And
indeed, any one might envy him the work on such a morning. Over the
treetops the rays of the sun were beginning to shoot their rosy darts
up into the sky, and to flood the clearing with light that sparkled and
shimmered upon the frost particles, glittering upon and glorifying snow
and trees, and even the stumps and fences. Around the clearing stood the
forest, dark and still, except for the frost reports that now and then
rang out like pistol shots. To Hughie, the early morning invested the
forest with a new beauty and a new wonder. The dim light of the dawning
day deepened the silence, so that involuntarily he hushed his voice in
speaking, and the deep-toned roll of the sleigh-bells seemed to smite
upon that dim, solemn quiet with startling blows. On either side
the balsams and spruces, with their mantles of snow, stood like
white-swathed sentinels on guard--silent, motionless, alert. Hughie
looked to see them move as the team drove past.

As they left the more open butternut ridge and descended into the depths
of the big pine swamp, the dim light faded into deeper gloom, and Hughie
felt as if he were in church, and an awe gathered upon him.

"It's awful still," he said to Billy Jack in a low tone, and Billy Jack,
catching the look in the boy's face, checked the light word upon his
lips, and gazed around into the deep forest glooms with new eyes. The
mystery and wonder of the forest had never struck him before. It had
hitherto been to him a place for hunting or for getting big saw-logs.
But to-day he saw it with Hughie's eyes, and felt the majesty of its
beauty and silence. For a long time they drove without a word.

"Say, it's mighty fine, isn't it?" he said, adopting Hughie's low tone.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Hughie. "My! I could just hug those big trees.
They look at me like--like your mother, don't they, or mine?" But this
was beyond Billy Jack.

"Like my mother?"

"Yes, you know, quiet and--and--kind, and nice."

"Yes," said Thomas, breaking in for the first time, "that's just it.
They do look, sure enough, like my mother and yours. They have both got
that look."

"Git-ep!" said Billy Jack to his team. "These fellows'll be ketchin'
something bad if we don't get into the open soon. Shouldn't wonder if
they've got 'em already, making out their mothers like an old white
pine. Git-ep, I say!"

"Oh, pshaw!" said Hughie, "you know what I mean."

"Not much I don't. But it don't matter so long as you're feelin' all
right. This swamp's rather bad for the groojums."

"What?" Hughie's eyes began to open wide as he glanced into the forest.

"The groojums. Never heard of them things? They ketch a fellow in places
like this when it's gettin' on towards midnight, and about daylight it's
almost as bad."

"What are they like?" asked Hughie, upon whom the spell of the forest
lay.

"Oh, mighty queer. Always crawl up on your back, and ye can't help
twistin' round."

Hughie glanced at Thomas and was at once relieved.

"Oh, pshaw! Billy Jack, you can't fool me. I know you."

"I guess you're safe enough now. They don't bother you much in the
clearing," said Billy Jack, encouragingly.

"Oh, fiddle! I'm not afraid."

"Nobody is in the open, and especially in the daytime."

"Oh, I don't care for your old groojums."

"Guess you care more for your new boss yonder, eh?" said Billy Jack,
nodding toward the school-house, which now came into view.

"Oh," said Hughie, with a groan, "I just hate going to-day."

"You'll be all right when you get there," said Billy Jack, cheerfully.
"It's like goin' in swimmin'."

Soon they were at the cross-roads.

"Good by, Billy Jack," said Hughie, feeling as if he had been on a long,
long visit. "I've had an awfully good time, and I'd like to go back with
you."

"Wish you would," said Billy Jack, heartily. "Come again soon. And don't
carry out the master to-day. It looks like a storm; he might get cold."

"He had better mind out, then," cried Hughie after Billy Jack, and set
off with Thomas for the school. But neither Hughie nor Thomas had any
idea of the thrilling experiences awaiting them in the Twentieth School
before the week was done.



CHAPTER V

THE CRISIS


The first days of that week were days of strife. Murdie Cameron and
Bob Fraser and the other big boys succeeded in keeping in line with the
master's rules and regulations. They were careful never to be late,
and so saved themselves the degradation of bringing an excuse. But the
smaller boys set themselves to make the master's life a burden, and
succeeded beyond their highest expectations, for the master was quick
of temper, and was determined at all costs to exact full and prompt
obedience. There was more flogging done those first six days than during
any six months of Archie Munro's rule. Sometimes the floggings amounted
to little, but sometimes they were serious, and when those fell upon the
smaller boys, the girls would weep and the bigger boys would grind their
teeth and swear.

The situation became so acute that Murdie Cameron and the big boys
decided that they would quit the school. They were afraid the temptation
to throw the master out would some day be more than they could bear,
and for men who had played their part, not without credit, in the Scotch
River fights, to carry out the master would have been an exploit hardly
worthy of them. So, in dignified contempt of the master and his rules,
they left the school after the third day.

Their absence did not help matters much; indeed, the master appeared to
be relieved, and proceeded to tame the school into submission. It was
little Jimmie Cameron who precipitated the crisis. Jimmie's nose, upon
which he relied when struggling with his snickers, had an unpleasant
trick of failing him at critical moments, and of letting out explosive
snorts of the most disturbing kind. He had finally been warned that upon
his next outburst punishment would fall.

It was Friday afternoon, the drowsy hour just before recess, while the
master was explaining to the listless Euclid class the mysteries of the
forty-seventh proposition, that suddenly a snort of unusual violence
burst upon the school. Immediately every eye was upon the master, for
all had heard and had noted his threat to Jimmie.

"James, was that you, sir?"

There was no answer, except such as could be gathered from Jimmie's very
red and very shamed face.

"James, stand up!"

Jimmie wriggled to his feet, and stood a heap of various angles.

"Now, James, you remember what I promised you? Come here, sir!"

Jimmie came slowly to the front, growing paler at each step, and stood
with a dazed look on his face, before the master. He had never been
thrashed in all his life. At home the big brothers might cuff him
good-naturedly, or his mother thump him on the head with her thimble,
but a serious whipping was to him an unknown horror.

The master drew forth his heavy black strap with impressive deliberation
and ominous silence. The preparations for punishment were so elaborate
and imposing that the big boys guessed that the punishment itself would
not amount to much. Not so Jimmie. He stood numb with fear and horrible
expectation. The master lifted up the strap.

"James, hold out your hand!"

Jimmie promptly clutched his hand behind his back.

"Hold out your hand, sir, at once!" No answer.

"James, you must do as you are told. Your punishment for disobedience
will be much severer than for laughing." But Jimmie stood pale, silent,
with his hands tight clasped behind his back.

The master stepped forward, and grasping the little boy's arm, tried to
pull his hand to the front; but Jimmie, with a roar like that of a young
bull, threw himself flat on his face on the floor and put his hands
under him. The school burst into a laugh of triumph, which increased the
master's embarrassment and rage.

"Silence!" he said, "or it will be a worse matter for some of you than
for James."

Then turning his attention to Jimmie, be lifted him from the floor and
tried to pull out his hand. But Jimmie kept his arms folded tight across
his breast, roaring vigorously the while, and saying over and over, "Go
away from me! Go away from me, I tell you! I'm not taking anything to do
with you."

The big boys were enjoying the thing immensely. The master's rage was
deepening in proportion. He felt it would never do to be beaten. His
whole authority was at stake.

"Now, James," he reasoned, "you see you are only making it worse for
yourself. I cannot allow any disobedience in the school. You must hold
out your hand."

But Jimmie, realizing that he had come off best in the first round,
stood doggedly sniffing, his arms still folded tight.

"Now, James, I shall give you one more chance. Hold out your hand."

Jimmie remained like a statue.

Whack! came the heavy strap over his shoulders. At once Jimmie set up
his refrain, "Go away from me, I tell you! I'm not taking anything to do
with you!"

Whack! whack! whack! fell the strap with successive blows, each heavier
than the last. There was no longer any laughing in the school. The
affair was growing serious. The girls were beginning to sob, and the
bigger boys to grow pale.

"Now, James, will you hold out your hand? You see how much worse you are
making it for yourself," said the master, who was heartily sick of the
struggle, which he felt to be undignified, and the result of which he
feared was dubious.

But Jimmie only kept up his cry, now punctuated with sobs,
"I'm--not--taking--anything--to do--with--you."

"Jimmie, listen to me," said the master. "You must hold out your hand. I
cannot have boys refusing to obey me in this school." But Jimmie caught
the entreaty in the tone, and knowing that the battle was nearly over,
kept obstinately silent.

"Well, then," said the master, suddenly, "you must take it," and lifting
the strap, he laid it with such sharp emphasis over Jimmie's shoulders
that Jimmie's voice rose in a wilder roar than usual, and the girls
burst into audible weeping.

Suddenly, above all the hubbub, rose a voice, clear and sharp.

"Stop!" It was Thomas Finch, of all people, standing with face white and
tense, and regarding the master with steady eyes.

The school gazed thunderstruck at the usually slow and stolid Thomas.

"What do you mean, sir?" said the master, gladly turning from Jimmie.
But Thomas stood silent, as much surprised as the master at his sudden
exclamation.

He stood hesitating for a moment, and then said, "You can thrash me in
his place. He's a little chap, and has never been thrashed."

The master misunderstood his hesitation for fear, pushed Jimmie aside,
threw down his strap, and seized a birch rod.

"Come forward, sir! I'll put an end to your insubordination, at any
rate. Hold out your hand!"

Thomas held out his hand till the master finished one birch rod.

"The other hand, sir!"

Another birch rod was used up, but Thomas neither uttered a sound nor
made a move till the master had done, then he asked, in a strained
voice, "Were you going to give Jimmie all that, sir?"

The master caught the biting sneer in the tone, and lost himself
completely.

"Do you dare to answer me back?" he cried. He opened his desk, took out
a rawhide, and without waiting to ask for his hand, began to lay the
rawhide about Thomas's shoulders and legs, till he was out of breath.

"Now, perhaps you will learn your place, sir," he said.

"Thank you," said Thomas, looking him steadily in the eye.

"You are welcome. And I'll give you as much more whenever you show that
you need it." The slight laugh with which he closed this brutal speech
made Thomas wince as he had not during his whole terrible thrashing, but
still he had not a word to say.

"Now, James, come here!" said the master, turning to Jimmie. "You see
what happens when a boy is insubordinate." Jimmie came trembling. "Hold
out your hand!" Out came Jimmie's hand at once. Whack! fell the strap.

"The other!"

"Stop it!" roared Thomas. "I took his thrashing."

"The other!" said the master, ignoring Thomas.

With a curious savage snarl Thomas sprung at him. The master, however,
was on the alert, and swinging round, met him with a straight facer
between the eyes, and Thomas went to the floor.

"Aha! my boy! I'll teach you something you have yet to learn."

For answer came another cry, "Come on, boys!" It was Ranald Macdonald,
coming over the seats, followed by Don Cameron, Billy Ross, and some
smaller boys. The master turned to meet them.

"Come along!" he said, backing up to his desk. "But I warn you it's not
a strap or a rawhide I shall use."

Ranald paid no attention to his words, but came straight toward him, and
when at arm's length, sprung at him with the cry, "Horo, boys!"

But before he could lay his hands upon the master, he received a blow
straight on the bridge of the nose that staggered him back, stunned and
bleeding. By this time Thomas was up again, and rushing in was received
in like manner, and fell back over a bench.

"How do you like it, boys?" smiled the master. "Come right along."

The boys obeyed his invitation, approaching him, but more warily, and
awaiting their chance to rush. Suddenly Thomas, with a savage snarl,
put his head down and rushed in beneath the master's guard, paid no
attention to the heavy blow he received on the head, and locking his
arms round the master's middle, buried his head close into his chest.

At once Ranald and Billy Ross threw themselves upon the struggling pair
and carried them to the floor, the master underneath. There was a few
moments of fierce struggling, and then the master lay still, with the
four boys holding him down for dear life.

It was Thomas who assumed command.

"Don't choke him so, Ranald," he said. "And clear out of the way, all
you girls and little chaps."

"What are you going to do, Thomas?" asked Don, acknowledging Thomas's
new-born leadership.

"Tie him up," said Thomas. "Get me a sash."

At once two or three little boys rushed to the hooks and brought one or
two of the knitted sashes that hung there, and Thomas proceeded to tie
the master's legs.

While he was thus busily engaged, a shadow darkened the door, and a
voice exclaimed, "What is all this about?" It was the minister, who
had been driving past and had come upon the terrified, weeping children
rushing home.

"Is that you, Thomas? And you, Don?"

The boys let go their hold and stood up, shamed but defiant.

Immediately the master was on his feet, and with a swift, fierce blow,
caught Thomas on the chin. Thomas, taken off his guard, fell with a thud
on the floor.

"Stop that, young man!" said the minister, catching his arm. "That's a
coward's blow."

"Hands off!" said the master, shaking himself free and squaring up to
him.

"Ye would, would ye?" said the minister, gripping him by the neck and
shaking him as he might a child. "Lift ye're hand to me, would ye?
I'll break you're back to ye, and that I will." So saying, the minister
seized him by the arms and held him absolutely helpless. The master
ceased to struggle, and put down his hands.

"Ay, ye'd better, my man," said the minister, giving him a fling
backward.

Meantime Don had been holding snow to Thomas's head, and had brought him
round.

"Now, then," said the minister to the boys, "what does all this mean?"

The boys were all silent, but the master spoke.

"It is a case of rank and impudent insubordination, sir, and I demand
the expulsion of those impudent rascals."

"Well, sir," said the minister, "be sure there will be a thorough
investigation, and I greatly misjudge the case if there are not faults
on both sides. And for one thing, the man who can strike such a cowardly
blow as you did a moment ago would not be unlikely to be guilty of
injustice and cruelty."

"It is none of your business," said the master, insolently.

"You will find that I shall make it my business," said the minister.
"And now, boys, be off to your homes, and be here Monday morning at nine
o'clock, when this matter shall be gone into."



CHAPTER VI

"ONE THAT RULETH WELL HIS OWN HOUSE"


The news of the school trouble ran through the section like fire through
a brule. The younger generations when they heard how Thomas Finch had
dared the master, raised him at once to the rank of hero, but the heads
of families received the news doubtfully, and wondered what the rising
generation was coming to.

The next day Billy Jack heard the story in the Twentieth store, and with
some anxiety waited for the news to reach his father's ears, for to tell
the truth, Billy Jack, man though he was, held his father in dread.

"How did you come to do it?" he asked Thomas. "Why didn't you let Don
begin? It was surely Don's business."

"I don't know. It slipped out," replied Thomas. "I couldn't stand
Jimmie's yelling any longer. I didn't know I said anything till I found
myself standing up, and after that I didn't seem to care for anything."

"Man! it was fine, though," said Billy Jack. "I didn't think it was in
you." And Thomas felt more than repaid for all his cruel beating. It was
something to win the approval of Billy Jack in an affair of this kind.

It was at church on the Sabbath day that Donald Finch heard about his
son's doings in the school the week before. The minister, in his sermon,
thought fit to dwell upon the tendency of the rising generation to
revolt against authority in all things, and solemnly laid upon parents
the duty and responsibility of seeing to it that they ruled their
households well.

It was not just the advice that Donald Finch stood specially in need of,
but he was highly pleased with the sermon, and was enlarging upon it
in the churchyard where the people gathered between the services, when
Peter McRae, thinking that old Donald was hardly taking the minister's
advice to himself as he ought, and not knowing that the old man was
ignorant of all that had happened in the school, answered him somewhat
severely.

"It is good to be approving the sermon, but I would rather be seeing you
make a practical application of it."

"Indeed, that is true," replied Donald, "and it would not be amiss for
more than me to make application of it."

"Indeed, then, if all reports be true," replied Peter, "it would be well
for you to begin at home."

"Mr. McRae," said Donald, earnestly, "it is myself that knows well
enough my shortcomings, but if there is any special reason for your
remark, I am not aware of it."

This light treatment of what to Peter had seemed a grievous offense
against all authority incensed the old dominie beyond all endurance.

"And do you not think that the conduct of your son last week calls for
any reproof? And is it you that will stand up and defend it in the face
of the minister and his sermon upon it this day?"

Donald gazed at him a few moments as if he had gone mad. At length he
replied, slowly, "I do not wish to forget that you are an elder of the
church, Mr. McRae, and I will not be charging you with telling lies on
me and my family--"

"Tut, tut, man," broke in Long John Cameron, seeing how the matter
stood; "he's just referring to yon little difference Thomas had with the
master last week. But it's just nothing. Come away in."

"Thomas?" gasped Donald. "My Thomas?"

"You have not heard, then," said Peter, in surprise, and old Donald only
shook his head.

"Then it's time you did," replied Peter, severely, "for such things are
a disgrace to the community."

"Nonsense!" said Long John. "Not a bit of it! I think none the less of
Thomas for it." But in matters of this kind Long John could hardly be
counted an authority, for it was not so very long ago since he had been
beguiled into an affair at the Scotch River which, while it brought
him laurels at the hands of the younger generation, did not add to his
reputation with the elders of the church.

It did not help matters much that Murdie Cameron and others of his set
proceeded to congratulate old Donald, in their own way, upon his son's
achievement, and with all the more fervor that they perceived that it
moved the solemn Peter to righteous wrath. From one and another the tale
came forth with embellishments, till Donald Finch was reduced to such a
state of voiceless rage and humiliation that when, at the sound of the
opening psalm the congregation moved into the church for the Gaelic
service, the old man departed for his home, trembling, silent, amazed.

How Thomas could have brought this disgrace upon him, he could not
imagine. If it had been William John, who, with all his good nature, had
a temper brittle enough, he would not have been surprised. And then the
minister's sermon, of which he had spoken in such open and enthusiastic
approval, how it condemned him for his neglect of duty toward his
family, and held up his authority over his household to scorn. It was a
terrible blow to his pride.

"It is the Lord's judgment upon me," he said to himself, as he tramped
his way through the woods. "It is the curse of Eli that is hanging over
me and mine." And with many vows he resolved that, at all costs, he
would do his duty in this crisis and bring Thomas to a sense of his
sins.

It was in this spirit that he met his family at the supper-table, after
their return from the Gaelic service.

"What is this I hear about you, Thomas?" he began, as Thomas came in and
took his place at the table. "What is this I hear about you, sir?" he
repeated, making a great effort to maintain a calm and judicial tone.

Thomas remained silent, partly because he usually found speech
difficult, but chiefly because he dreaded his father's wrath.

"What is this that has become the talk of the countryside and the
disgrace of my name?" continued the father, in deepening tones.

"No very great disgrace, surely," said Billy Jack, lightly, hoping to
turn his father's anger.

"Be you silent, sir!" commanded the old man, sternly. "I will ask for
your opinion when I require it. You and others beside you in this house
need to learn your places."