Glengarry Schooldays

R >> Ralph Connor >> Glengarry Schooldays


Billy Jack made no reply, fearing to make matters worse, though he found
it hard not to resent this taunt, which he knew well was flung at his
mother.

"I wonder at you, Thomas, after such a sermon as yon. I wonder you are
able to sit there unconcerned at this table. I wonder you are not hiding
your head in shame and confusion." The old man was lashing himself into
a white rage, while Thomas sat looking stolidly before him, his slow
tongue finding no words of defense. And indeed, he had little thought of
defending himself. He was conscious of an acute self-condemnation, and
yet, struggling through his slow-moving mind there was a feeling that in
some sense he could not define, there was justification for what he had
done.

"It is not often that Thomas has grieved you," ventured the mother,
timidly, for, with all her courage, she feared her husband when he was
in this mood.

"Woman, be silent!" blazed forth the old man, as if he had been waiting
for her words. "It is not for you to excuse his wickedness. You are too
fond of that work, and your children are reaping the fruits of it."

Billy Jack looked up quickly as if to answer, but his mother turned her
face full upon him and commanded him with steady eyes, giving, herself,
no sign of emotion except for a slight tightening of the lips and a
touch of color in her face.

"Your children have well learned their lesson of rebellion and deceit,"
continued her husband, allowing his passion a free rein. "But I vow unto
the Lord I will put an end to it now, whatever. And I will give you
to remember, sir," turning to Thomas, "to the end of your days, this
occasion. And now, hence from this table. Let me not see your face till
the Sabbath is past, and then, if the Lord spares me, I shall deal with
you."

Thomas hesitated a moment as if he had not quite taken in his father's
words, then, leaving his supper untouched, he rose slowly, and without
a word climbed the ladder to the loft. The mother followed him a moment
with her eyes, and then once more turning to Billy Jack, held him with
calm, steady gaze. Her immediate fear was for her eldest son. Thomas,
she knew, would in the mean time simply suffer what might be his lot,
but for many a day she had lived in terror of an outbreak between
her eldest son and her husband. Again Billy Jack caught her look, and
commanded himself to silence.

"The fire is low, William John," she said, in a quiet voice. Billy Jack
rose, and from the wood-box behind the stove, replenished the fire,
reading perfectly his mother's mind, and resolving at all costs to do
her will.

At the taking of the books that night the prayer, which was spoken in a
tone of awful and almost inaudible solemnity, was for the most part an
exaltation of the majesty and righteousness of the government of God,
and a lamentation over the wickedness and rebellion of mankind. And
Billy Jack thought it was no good augury that it closed with a petition
for grace to maintain the honor of that government, and to uphold that
righteous majesty in all the relations of life. It was a woeful evening
to them all, and as soon as possible the household went miserably to
bed.

Before going to her room the mother slipped up quietly to the loft and
found Thomas lying in his bunk, dressed and awake. He was still puzzling
out his ethical problem. His conscience clearly condemned him for his
fight with the master, and yet, somehow he could not regret having stood
up for Jimmie and taken his punishment. He expected no mercy at his
father's hands next morning. The punishment he knew would be cruel
enough, but it was not the pain that Thomas was dreading; he was dimly
struggling with the sense of outrage, for ever since the moment he had
stood up and uttered his challenge to the master, he had felt himself to
be different. That moment now seemed to belong to the distant years
when he was a boy, and now he could not imagine himself submitting to
a flogging from any man, and it seemed to him strange and almost
impossible that even his father should lift his hand to him.

"You are not sleeping, Thomas," said his mother, going up to his bunk.

"No, mother."

"And you have had no supper at all."

"I don't want any, mother."

The mother sat silent beside him for a time, and then said, quietly,
"You did not tell me, Thomas."

"No, mother, I didn't like."

"It would have been better that your father should have heard this
from--I mean, should have heard it at home. And--you might have told me,
Thomas."

"Yes, mother, I wish now I had. But, indeed, I can't understand how it
happened. I don't feel as if it was me at all." And then Thomas told his
mother all the tale, finishing his story with the words, "And I couldn't
help it, mother, at all."

The mother remained silent for a little, and then, with a little tremor
in her voice, she replied: "No, Thomas, I know you couldn't help it, and
I--" here her voice quite broke--"I am not ashamed of you."

"Are you not, mother?" said Thomas, sitting up suddenly in great
surprise. "Then I don't care. I couldn't make it out well."

"Never you mind, Thomas, it will be well," and she leaned over him and
kissed him. Thomas felt her face wet with tears, and his stolid reserve
broke down.

"Oh, mother, mother, I don't care now," he cried, his breath coming in
great sobs. "I don't care at all." And he put his arms round his mother,
clinging to her as if he had been a child.

"I know, laddie, I know," whispered his mother. "Never you fear, never
fear." And then, as if to herself, she added, "Thank the Lord you are
not a coward, whatever."

Thomas found himself again without words, but he held his mother fast,
his big body shaking with his sobs.

"And, Thomas," she continued, after a pause, "your father--we must just
be patient." All her life long this had been her struggle. "And--and--he
is a good man." Her tears were now flowing fast, and her voice had quite
lost its calm.

Thomas was alarmed and distressed. He had never in all his life seen his
mother weep, and rarely had heard her voice break.

"Don't, mother," he said, growing suddenly quiet himself. "Don't you
mind, mother. It'll be all right, and I'm not afraid."

"Yes," she said, rising and regaining her self-control, "it will be all
right, Thomas. You go to sleep." And there were such evident reserves of
strength behind her voice that Thomas lay down, certain that all would
be well. His mother had never failed him.

The mother went downstairs with the purpose in her heart of having a
talk with her husband, but Donald Finch knew her ways well, and had
resolved that he would have no speech with her upon the matter, for he
knew that it would be impossible for him to persevere in his intention
to "deal with" Thomas, if he allowed his wife to have any talk with him.

The morning brought the mother no opportunity of speech with her
husband. He, contrary to his custom, remained until breakfast in his
room. Outside in the kitchen, he could hear Billy Jack's cheerful tones
and hearty laugh, and it angered him to think that his displeasure
should have so little effect upon his household. If the house had
remained shrouded in gloom, and the family had gone about on tiptoes
and with bated breath, it would have shown no more than a proper
appreciation of the father's displeasure; but as Billy Jack's cheerful
words and laughter fell upon his ear, he renewed his vows to do his duty
that day in upholding his authority, and bringing to his son a due sense
of his sin.

In grim silence he ate his breakfast, except for a sharp rebuke to
Billy Jack, who had been laboring throughout the meal to make cheerful
conversation with Jessac and his mother. At his father's rebuke Billy
Jack dropped his cheerful tone, and avoiding his mother's eyes, he
assumed at once an attitude of open defiance, his tones and words
plainly offering to his father war, if war he would have.

"You will come to me in the room after breakfast," said his father, as
Thomas rose to go to the stable.

"There's a meeting of the trustees at nine o'clock at the school-house
at which Thomas must be present," interposed Billy Jack, in firm, steady
tones.

"He may go when I have done with him," said his father, angrily, "and
meantime you will attend to your own business."

"Yes, sir, I will that!" Billy Jack's response came back with fierce
promptness.

The old man glanced at him, caught the light in his eyes, hesitated a
moment, and then, throwing all restraint to the winds, thundered out,
"What do you mean, sir?"

"What I say. I am going to attend to my own business, and that soon."
Billy Jack's tone was quick, eager, defiant.

Again the old man hesitated, and then replied, "Go to it, then."

"I am going, and I am going to take Thomas to that meeting at nine
o'clock."

"I did not know that you had business there," said the old man,
sarcastically.

"Then you may know it now," blazed forth Billy Jack, "for I am going.
And as sure as I stand here, I will see that Thomas gets fair play there
if he doesn't at home, if I have to lick every trustee in the section."

"Hold your peace, sir!" said his father, coming nearer him. "Do not give
me any impertinence, and do not accuse me of unfairness."

"Have you heard Thomas's side of the story?" returned Billy Jack.

"I have heard enough, and more than enough."

"You haven't heard both sides."

"I know the truth of it, whatever, the shameful and disgraceful truth of
it. I know that the country-side is ringing with it. I know that in the
house of God the minister held up my family to the scorn of the people.
And I vowed to do my duty to my house."

The old man's passion had risen to such a height that for a moment
Billy Jack quailed before it. In the pause that followed the old man's
outburst the mother came to her son.

"Hush, William John! You are not to forget yourself, nor your duty to
your father and to me. Thomas will receive full justice in this matter."
There was a quiet strength and dignity in her manner that commanded
immediate attention from both men.

The mother went on in a low, even voice, "Your father has his duty to
perform, and you must not take upon yourself to interfere."

Billy Jack could hardly believe his ears. That his mother should desert
him, and should support what he knew she felt to be injustice and
tyranny, was more than he could understand. No less perplexed was her
husband.

As they stood there looking at each other, uncertain as to the next
step, there came a knock at the back door. The mother went to open it,
pausing on her way to push back some chairs and put the room to rights,
thus allowing the family to regain its composure.

"Good morning, Mrs. Finch. You will be thinking I have slept in your
barn all night." It was Long John Cameron.

"Come away in, Mr. Cameron. It is never too early for friends to come to
this house," said Mrs. Finch, her voice showing her great relief.

Long John came in, glanced shrewdly about, and greeted Mr. Finch with
great heartiness.

"It's a fine winter day, Mr. Finch, but it looks as if we might have a
storm. You are busy with the logs, I hear."

Old Donald was slowly recovering himself.

"And a fine lot you are having," continued Long John. "I was just saying
the other day that it was wonderful the work you could get through."

"Indeed, it is hard enough to do anything here," said Donald Finch, with
some bitterness.

"You may say so," responded Long John, cheerfully. "The snow is that
deep in the bush, and--"

"You were wanting to see me, Mr. Cameron," interrupted Donald. "I have a
business on hand which requires attention."

"Indeed, and so have I. For it is--"

"And indeed, it is just as well you and all should know it, for my
disgrace is well known."

"Disgrace!" exclaimed Long John.

"Ay, disgrace. For is it not a disgrace to have the conduct of your
family become the occasion of a sermon on the Lord's Day?"

"Indeed, I did not think much of yon sermon, whatever," replied Long
John.

"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Cameron. It was a powerful sermon, and it
was only too sorely needed. But I hope it will not be without profit to
myself."

"Indeed, it is not the sermon you have much need of," said Long John,
"for every one knows what a--"

"Ay, it is myself that needs it, but with the help of the Lord I will be
doing my duty this morning."

"And I am very glad to hear that," replied Long John, "for that is why I
am come."

"And what may you have to do with it?" asked the old man.

"As to that, indeed," replied Long John, coolly, "I am not yet quite
sure. But if I might ask without being too bold, what is the particular
duty to which you are referring?"

"You may ask, and you and all have a right to know, for I am about to
visit upon my son his sins and shame."

"And is it meaning to wheep him you are?"

"Ay," said the old man, and his lips came fiercely together.

"Indeed, then, you will just do no such thing this morning."

"And by what right do you interfere in my domestic affairs?" demanded
old Donald, with dignity. "Answer me that, Mr. Cameron."

"Right or no right," replied Long John, "before any man lays a finger on
Thomas there, he will need to begin with myself. And," he added, grimly,
"there are not many in the county who would care for that job."

Old Donald Finch looked at his visitor in speechless amazement. At
length Long John grew excited.

"Man alive!" he exclaimed, "it's a quare father you are. You may be
thinking it disgrace, but the section will be proud that there is a boy
in it brave enough to stand up for the weak against a brute bully." And
then he proceeded to tell the tale as he had heard it from Don, with
such strong passion and such rude vigor, that in spite of himself old
Donald found his rage vanish, and his heart began to move within him
toward his son.

"And it is for that," cried Long John, dashing his fist into his open
palm, "it is for that that you would punish your son. May God forgive
me! but the man that lays a finger on Thomas yonder, will come into sore
grief this day. Ay, lad," continued Long John, striding toward Thomas
and gripping him by the shoulders with both hands, "you are a man, and
you stood up for the weak yon day, and if you efer will be wanting a
friend, remember John Cameron."

"Well, well, Mr. Cameron," said old Donald, who was more deeply moved
than he cared to show, "it maybe as you say. It maybe the lad was not so
much in the wrong."

"In the wrong?" roared Long John, blowing his nose hard. "In the wrong?
May my boys ever be in the wrong in such a way!"

"Well," said old Donald, "we shall see about this. And if Thomas has
suffered injustice it is not his father will refuse to see him righted."
And soon they were all off to the meeting at the school-house.

Thomas was the last to leave the room. As usual, he had not been able
to find a word, but stood white and trembling, but as he found himself
alone with his mother, once more his stolid reserve broke down, and he
burst into a strange and broken cry, "Oh, mother, mother," but he could
get no further.

"Never mind, laddie," said his mother, "you have borne yourself well,
and your mother is proud of you."

At the investigation held in the school-house, it became clear that,
though the insubordination of both Jimmie and Thomas was undeniable, the
provocation by the master had been very great. And though the minister,
who was superintendent of instruction for the district, insisted that
the master's authority must, at all costs, be upheld, such was the rage
of old Donald Finch and Long John Cameron that the upshot was that the
master took his departure from the section, glad enough to escape with
bones unbroken.



CHAPTER VII

FOXY


After the expulsion of the master, the Twentieth School fell upon evil
days, for the trustees decided that it would be better to try "gurl"
teachers, as Hughie contemptuously called them; and this policy
prevailed for two or three years, with the result that the big boys left
the school, and with their departure the old heroic age passed away, to
be succeeded by an age soft, law-abiding, and distinctly commercial.

The spirit of this unheroic age was incarnate in the person of "Foxy"
Ross. Foxy got his name, in the first instance, from the peculiar pinky
red shade of hair that crowned his white, fat face, but the name stuck
to him as appropriately descriptive of his tricks and his manners. His
face was large, and smooth, and fat, with wide mouth, and teeth that
glistened when he smiled. His smile was like his face, large, and
smooth, and fat. His eyes, which were light gray--white, Hughie called
them--were shifty, avoiding the gaze that sought to read them, or
piercingly keen, according as he might choose.

After the departure of the big boys, Foxy gradually grew in influence
until his only rival in the school was Hughie. Foxy's father was the
storekeeper in the Twentieth, and this brought within Foxy's reach
possibilities of influence that gave him an immense advantage over
Hughie. By means of bull's-eyes and "lickerish" sticks, Foxy could win
the allegiance of all the smaller boys and many of the bigger ones,
while with the girls, both big and small, his willingness to please
and his smooth manners won from many affection, and from the rest
toleration, although Betsy Dan Campbell asserted that whenever Foxy Ross
came near her she felt something creeping up her backbone.

With the teacher, too, Foxy was a great favorite. He gave her worshipful
reverence and many gifts from his father's store, eloquent of his
devotion. He was never detected in mischief, and was always ready to
expose the misdemeanors of the other boys. Thus it came that Foxy was
the paramount influence within the school.

Outside, his only rival was Hughie, and at times Hughie's rivalry became
dangerous. In all games that called for skill, activity, and reckless
daring, Hughie was easily leader. In "Old Sow," "Prisoner's Base,"
but especially in the ancient and noble game of "Shinny," Hughie shone
peerless and supreme. Foxy hated games, and shinny, the joy of those
giants of old, who had torn victory from the Sixteenth, and even from
the Front one glorious year, was at once Foxy's disgust and terror. As
a little boy, he could not for the life of him avoid turning his back to
wait shuddering, with humping shoulders, for the enemy's charge, and in
anything like a melee, he could not help jumping into the air at every
dangerous stroke.

And thus he brought upon himself the contempt even of boys much smaller
than himself, who, under the splendid and heroic example of those who
led them, had only one ambition, to get a whack at the ball, and
this ambition they gratified on every possible occasion reckless of
consequences. Hence, when the last of the big boys, Thomas Finch,
against whose solid mass hosts had flung themselves to destruction,
finally left the school, Foxy, with great skill, managed to divert the
energies of the boys to games less violent and dangerous, and by means
of his bull's-eyes and his liquorice, and his large, fat smile, he drew
after him a very considerable following of both girls and boys.

The most interesting and most successful of Foxy's schemes was the game
of "store," which he introduced, Foxy himself being the storekeeper. He
had the trader's genius for discovering and catering to the weaknesses
of people, and hence his store became, for certain days of the week,
the center of life during the recreation hours. The store itself was a
somewhat pretentious successor to the little brush cabin with wide open
front, where in the old days the boys used to gather, and lying upon
piles of fragrant balsam boughs before the big blazing fire placed in
front, used to listen to the master talk, and occasionally read.

Foxy's store was built of slabs covered with thick brush, and set off
with a plank counter and shelves, whereon were displayed his wares.
His stock was never too large for his personal transportation, but its
variety was almost infinite, bull's-eyes and liquorice, maple sugar
and other "sweeties," were staples. Then, too, there were balls of gum,
beautifully clear, which in its raw state Foxy gathered from the ends
of the pine logs at the sawmill, and which, by a process of boiling and
clarifying known only to himself, he brought to a marvelous perfection.

But Foxy's genius did not confine itself to sweets. He would buy and
sell and "swap" anything, but in swapping no bargain was ever completed
unless there was money for Foxy in the deal. He had goods second-hand
and new, fish-hooks and marbles, pot-metal knives with brass handles,
slate-pencils that would "break square," which were greatly desired by
all, skate-straps, and buckskin whangs.

But Foxy's financial ability never displayed itself with more brilliancy
than when he organized the various games of the school so as to have
them begin and end with the store. When the river and pond were covered
with clear, black ice, skating would be the rage, and then Foxy's store
would be hung with skate-straps, and with cedar-bark torches, which
were greatly in demand for the skating parties that thronged the pond
at night. There were no torches like Foxy's. The dry cedar bark any one
could get from the fences, but Foxy's torches were always well soaked
in oil and bound with wire, and were prepared with such excellent skill
that they always burned brighter and held together longer than any
others. These cedar-bark torches Foxy disposed of to the larger boys
who came down to the pond at night. Foxy's methods of finance were
undoubtedly marked by ability, and inasmuch as his accounts were never
audited, the profits were large and sure. He made it a point to purchase
a certain proportion of his supplies from his father, who was proud of
his son's financial ability, but whether his purchases always equaled
his sales no one ever knew.

If the pond and river were covered with snow, then Foxy would organize
a deer-hunt, when all the old pistols in the section would be brought
forth, and the store would display a supply of gun caps, by the
explosion of which deadly ammunition the deer would be dropped in their
tracks, and drawn to the store by prancing steeds whose trappings had
been purchased from Foxy.

When the interest in the deer-hunt began to show signs of waning, Foxy
would bring forth a supply of gunpowder, for the purchase of which
any boy who owned a pistol would be ready to bankrupt himself. In
this Hughie took a leading part, although he had to depend upon the
generosity of others for the thrilling excitement of bringing down his
deer with a pistol-shot, for Hughie had never been able to save coppers
enough to purchase a pistol of his own.

But deer-hunting with pistols was forbidden by the teacher from the day
when Hughie, in his eagerness to bring his quarry down, left his ramrod
in his pistol, and firing at Aleck Dan Campbell at point-blank range,
laid him low with a lump on the side of his head as big as a marble. The
only thing that saved Aleck's life, the teacher declared, was his
thick crop of black hair. Foxy was in great wrath at Hughie for his
recklessness, which laid the deer-hunting under the teacher's ban, and
which interfered seriously with the profits of the store.

But Foxy was far too great a man to allow himself to be checked by any
such misfortune as this. He was far too astute to attempt to defy the
teacher and carry on the forbidden game, but with great ability he
adapted the principles of deer-hunting to a game even more exciting and
profitable. He organized the game of "Injuns," some of the boys being
set apart as settlers who were to defend the fort, of which the store
was the center, the rest to constitute the invading force of savages.

The result was, that the trade in caps and gunpowder was brisker than
ever, for not only was the powder needed for the pistols, but even
larger quantities were necessary for the slow-matches which hissed their
wrath at the approaching enemy, and the mounted guns, for which earthen
ink-bottles did excellently, set out on a big stump to explode, to the
destruction of scores of creeping redskins advancing through the bush,
who, after being mutilated and mangled by these terrible explosions,
were dragged into the camp and scalped. Foxy's success was phenomenal.
The few pennies and fewer half-dimes and dimes that the boys had hoarded
for many long weeks would soon have been exhausted had Hughie not
wrecked the game.

Hughie alone had no fear of Foxy, but despised him utterly. He had stood
and yelled when those heroes of old, Murdie and Don Cameron, Curly Ross,
and Ranald Macdonald, and last but not to be despised Thomas Finch, had
done battle with the enemy from the Sixteenth or the Front, and he could
not bring himself to acknowledge the leadership of Foxy Ross, for
all his bull's-eyes and liquorice. Not but what Hughie yearned for
bull's-eyes and liquorice with great yearning, but these could not atone
to him for the loss out of his life of the stir and rush and daring of
the old fighting days. And it galled him that the boys of the Sixteenth
could flout the boys of the Twentieth in all places and on all occasions
with impunity.