Glengarry School Days-a story of early days in Glengarry

by Connor, Ralph

  "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.