The Second Chance

by Nellie L. McClung

  CHAPTER V

  AT THE CHICKEN HILL SCHOOL

  Ho! I'm going back to where We were youngsters! Meet me there, Dear old barefoot chums, and we Will be as we used to be, Lawless rangers up and down The old creek behind the town.

  _----James Whitcomb Riley._

  IF a river is measured by the volume of water in its current, theSouris River, on whose southern bank the little town of Millford isbuilt, is but an insignificant stream; but if bold and precipitousbanks, sheer cliffs, and a broad valley are to be considered, thenthe Souris may lay claim to some distinction. For a few weeks in thespring of the year, too, it is a swift and mighty flood that goessweeping through the valley, carrying on its turbulent waterswhirling ice-jams, branches of trees, and even broken bridge-timbersfrom the far country known as the "Antlers of the Souris." When thesummer is very dry, the river shrinks to a gentle, trickling threadof water, joining shallow pools, overhung with gray-green willowsthat whiten in the breeze.

  At Millford, the Souris flows almost straight east and keeps thisdirection for about three miles, and then turns sharply north towardthe Sand Hill country, where six miles farther on it joins theAssiniboine.

  On one of its banks, just before it takes the northern turn, standsthe farmhouse of Thomas Perkins, a big white frame house, set in agrove of maples; a mile south is the big stone house of SamuelMotherwell, where Pearlie Watson wiped out the stain on her family'shonour by working off the old ten-dollar debt of her father's.

  Two miles farther east, on the old Turtle Mountain trail, stands theweather-beaten schoolhouse where Martha Perkins got her meagreeducation, and where Bud, her brother, was now attending. Theschoolhouse is bare and unlovely, without tree or flower. The rainand the sun, the scorching winds of spring and winter's piercingblizzards have had their way with it for many years, and now itdefies them all, for its paint is all gone, and it has no beauty forthem to fade.

  A straggling woodpile and a long straw covered shed stand near it.Three windows, curtainless and staring, are in each side, and a smallporch with two steps leading up to it is at the south end. Here thegophers frolic in the quiet summer afternoons, and steal what is leftof the children's dinners from the tin pails behind the door. Theporch smells of crumbs.

  Away to the east, Oak Creek runs through a wooded belt of fertilelands, its tall elms and spruce giving a grateful shade to thefarmers' cattle. To the north are the sand-hills of the Aissinboine,where stiff spruce trees stand like sentinels on the red sand; but notiny seedling had ever been brought to the school-yard, no kind handhad ever sought to relieve that desolate grayness, bleak and lonelyas a rainy midnight in a deserted house.

  Inside, the walls are dull with age, so dark and smoked you wouldthink they could become no darker shade, but on the ceiling above thelong stovepipe that runs from the stove at the door to the chimney atthe other end, there runs a darker streak still. The stove is a big,square box, set on four stubby feet, and bears the name "Sultana."

  Some small effort has been made to brighten the walls. One of LouisWain's cat pictures, cut from a London Graphic, is stuck on the wallwith molasses. There is a picture of the late King Edward when he wasthe Prince of Wales, and one of the late Queen Victoria framed withvarnished wheat. There is a calendar of '93 showing red-coatedfoxhunters in full chase. Here the decorations end abruptly.

  The teacher's desk is of unpainted wood, and on its lid, which liftsup, revealing the mysteries of mysteries below, there run ancientrivers of ink, pointing back to a terrible day when Bud Perkinsleaned against the teacher's desk in class. A black spot on the floorunder the teacher's chair shows just how far-reaching was Bud'soffence.

  The desks are all ink-stained and cut and inscribed with letters andnames. Names are there on the old desks that can be read now onbusiness and professional signs in Western cities, and some, too,that are written in more abiding type still, on the marble slabs thatdot the quiet field on the river-bank.

  The dreariness of the school does not show so much in thewinter-time, when the whole landscape is locked in snow, and thewindows are curtained by frost-ferns. The big boys attend school inthe winter-time, too, for when there is nothing for them to do athome the country fathers believe that it is quite proper to pay someattention to education.

  It was a biting cold day in January. The Christmas and New Year'sfestivities were over, and the Manitoba winter was settling down toshow just what a Manitoba winter can do in the way of weather. Thesky was sapphire blue, with fleecy little strings of white clouds,an innocent-looking sky, that had not noticed how cold it was below.The ground was white and sparkling, as if with silver tinsel, aglimmer of diamonds. Frost-wreaths would have crusted the trees andturned them into a fairy forest if there had been trees; but therewas not a tree at the Chicken Hill School, so the frost-wreaths laylike fairy lace on the edges of the straw-covered shed and madefairy frills around the straggling woodpile. Everything wasbeautiful, blue and silver, sparkle and dance, glitter and glimmer.

  Out on the well-tramped school-yard the boys and girls were playing"shinny," which is an old and honourable game, father or uncle ofhockey.

  Big Tom Steadman was captain of one side, and his fog-horn voice, ashe shouted directions and objurgations to his men and his opponents,was the only discordant note in all that busy, boisterous, roaringscene.

  Libby Anne Cavers was on the other side, and Libby Anne was a forceto be reckoned with, for she was little and lithe, and determined andquick, with the agility of a small, thin cat. She was ten years old,but looked about seven.

  Big Tom had the ball, and was preparing to shoot on the opposinggoal. He flourished his stick in the air with a yell of triumph, andin his mind the game was already won. But he had forgotten LibbyAnne, who, before his stick reached the ground, had slipped in herown little crook, and his stick struck the empty snow, for Libby Annewas fast flying up the field with the ball, while the playerscheered. It was neatly done.

  Tom Steadman ran after her in mad pursuit, and overtook her just asshe passed the ball to Bud Perkins, who was the captain of her side.Then Tom Steadman, coward that he was, struck her with his heavystick, struck fair and straight at her poor little thin shins, acoward's blow. Libby Anne doubled up into a poor little whimpering,writhing ball.

  A sudden horror fell on the field, and the game stopped. Bud Perkinslooked at her poor quivering little face, white as ashes now, his ownface almost as pale, and then, pulling of his coat, ran over to'where Tom Steadman stood.

  "Drop yer stick, you coward, and stand up to me," he said in a voicethat rang with the blood-lust.

  Tom Steadman was older and bigger, and he felt very sure that hecould handle Bud, so his manner was full of assurance.

  The school closed in around them and watched the fight with thestolid indifference of savages or children, which is much the samething. Big Tom Steadman dealt his cruel sledge-hammer blows on Bud,on his face, head, neck, while Bud, bleeding, but far from beaten,fought like a cornered badger. The boys did not cheer; it was tooserious a business for noisy shouting, and besides, the teacher mightbe aroused any minute, and stop the fight, which would be a greatdisappointment, for every boy and girl, big and little, wanted to seeTom Steadman get what was coming to him.

  Bud was slighter but quicker, and fought with more skill. Big Tomcould hit a knockout blow, but there his tactics ended. He knew onlythe one way of dealing with an antagonist, and so, when one of hiseyes suddenly closed up and his nose began to bleed, he began torealize that he had made a big mistake in hitting Libby Anne when BudPerkins was there. With a clever underarm hold, Bud clinched withhim, and he fell heavily.

  Libby Anne, limping painfully, put her "shinny" stick into Bud'shand.

  "Sock it to him now, Bud," she said, "now you've got him."

  Bud dropped the stick and tried to laugh, but his mouth would notwork right.

  "Get up, Tom," Bud said. "I won't hit you when you're down. Stand upand let me at you again."

  Tom swore threat
eningly, but showed no disposition to get up.

  "I guess he's had enough," Bud said. "He's sorry he hit you now,Libby Anne. He sees now that it's a dirty shame to hit a little girl.He never thought much about it before. Come away, kids, and let himthink."

  When school was called, the whole story of the fight came out.

  Tom Steadman was the only son of one of the trustees--_the_ trustee,indeed, the one who lived in the biggest house, was councillor of themunicipality, owned a threshing-machine, boarded the teacher, andmade political speeches--and so Bud's offence was not a slight one.

  A school meeting was called, to see what was to be done. Young Tomwas there, swollen of lip and nose, and with sunset shades aroundboth eyes. Libby Anne was there, too, but she had been warned by herfather, a poor, shiftless fellow, living on a rented farm, that shemust not say anything to offend the Steadmans, for Mr. Steadman ownedthe farm that they were living on.

  The trial was decided before it began. The teacher, Mr. Donald, wasaway attending the Normal, and his place was being filled by a youngfellow who had not enough courage to stand for the right.

  The question to be decided was this: Did Tom Steadman strike LibbyAnne with intent to hurt; or did he merely reprimand her gently to"shinny on her own side"; or did she run under his stick when hestruck at the ball? Tom Steadman said she ran under his stick, and hedidn't see her, whereupon some of the children who were not living onrented farms groaned. Several of the children gave their testimonythat Tom had without doubt struck her "a-purpose!" Then Mr. Steadman,Tom's father, a big, well-fed man, who owned nineteen hundred acresof land and felt that some liberty should be allowed the only son ofa man who paid such a heavy school-tax, took charge and said, fixinghis eyes on Bill Cavers, his poverty-stricken tenant: "Let us seewhat Libby Anne has to say. I should say that Libby Anne's testimonyshould have more weight than all these others, for these young onesseem to have a spite at our Tom. Libby Anne, did Tom strike youa-purpose?"

  "Be careful what you say, Libby Anne," her father said miserably, hiseyes on the ground. He owed Steadman for his seed-wheat.

  Libby Anne looked appealingly at Bud. Her eyes begged him to forgiveher.

  Mr. Steadman repeated the question.

  "Speak, Libby Anne," her father said, never raising his eyes.

  "Did Tom hit you a-purpose?"

  Libby Anne drew a deep breath, and then in a strange voice sheanswered: "No."

  She flung out the word as if it burned her.

  Libby Anne was a pathetic figure in her much-washed derry dress,faded now to the colour of dead grass, and although she was clean andwell-kept, her pleading eyes and pale face told of a childhood thathad been full of troubles and tears.

  Bud stared at her in amazement, and then, as the truth flashed onhim, he packed up his books, hot with rage, and left the schoolhouse.

  Bill Cavers hung his head in shame, for though he was a shiftlessfellow, he loved his little girl in his better moments, and the twocruel marks on her thin little shins called loudly for vengeance; butmust live, he told himself miserably.

  When Bud left the school Libby Anne was in her seat, sobbingbitterly, but he did not give her a glance as he angrily slammed thedoor behind him.

  Two days after this, Bud was drawing wood from the big bush north ofthe Assiniboine, and as he passed the Cavers home Libby Anne, with athin black shawl around her, came running out to speak to him.

  "Bud," she called breathlessly, "I had to say it. Dad made me do it,'cos he's scairt of old man Steadman."

  Bud stopped his horses and jumped down. They stood together on theshady side of the load of poles.

  "That's all right, kid," Bud said. "Don't you worry. I liked lickin'him."

  "But Bud," Libby Anne said wistfully, "you can't ever forget that Ilied, can you? You can't ever like me again?"

  Bud looked at the little wind-blown figure, such a little troubled,pathetic face, and something tender and manly stirred in his heart.

  "Run away home now, Libby Anne," he said kindly. "Sure I like you,and I'll wallop the daylight out of anybody that ever hurts you.You're all right, Libby Anne, you bet; and I'll never go back onyou."

  The bitter wind of January came down the Souris valley, cold andpiercing, and cut cruelly through Libby Anne's thin shawl as she ranhome, but her heart was warmed with a sweet content that no winterwind could chill.