From School to Battle-field: A Story of the War Days

by Charles King

  CHAPTER IV.

  That famous charge of the First Latin is something that must beexplained before this school story can go much further. To begin with,one has to understand the "lay of the land," or rather the plan of theschool-room. Almost every boy knows how these buildings facing on abroad business thoroughfare are arranged:--four or five stories high,thirty or forty or fifty feet front, according to the size of the lot,perhaps one hundred to two hundred deep, with the rooms from basement toattic all about of a size unless partitioned off on different lines. Inthe days whereof we write Pop had his famous school in the second andthird floors of one of these stereotyped blocks. Two-thirds of thesecond floor front was given up to one big room. A high woodenpartition, glazed at the top and pierced with two doors, divided this,the main school-room, from two smaller ones where the Third and FourthLatin wrestled with their verbs and declensions and gazed out throughthe long rear windows over a block of back-yards and fences. Aloft onthe third floor were the rooms of the masters of the junior forms inEnglish, mathematics, writing, etc. But it is with the second, the mainfloor and the main room on that floor, that we have to do. This was thehome of the First Latin. It was bare as any school-room seen abroad,very nearly. Its furniture was inexpensive, but sufficient. A big stovestood in the centre of the long apartment, and some glazed bookcasesbetween the west windows and against the south wall at the west end. Acloset, sacred to Pop, was built against the north wall west of thestairway, which was shut off by a high wooden partition, reaching to theceiling. A huge coat-rack stood in the southeast corner. A big openbookcase, divided off into foot square boxes for each boy's books,occupied the northeast corner, with its back against the northward wall.Six or seven benches abutting nearly end to end were strung along thesouth side, extending from the west windows almost to the coat-rack, thefarthermost bench being at an obtuse angle. The bookbox, doors, andpartitions were painted a cheerful lead color, the benches a deep darkgreen. So much for the accommodation of the lads. Now for their masters.On a square wooden dais, back to the light, was perched the stained pinedesk at which from one-thirty to three each afternoon sat glorified Pop.Boy nor man ventured to assume that seat at other time, save when thatfront, like Jove, gleamed above the desk to threaten and command, andthe massive proportions, clad in glossy broadcloth of scholarly black,settled into the capacious depths of that wicker-bottomed chair. Infront of the desk, six feet away, the low stove, so often seasoned withCayenne pepper, warmed the apartment, but obstructed not his view. At anequal distance beyond the stove was the table at which from nine A.M. tothree P.M. sat the master in charge of the room, and thereby hung manyand many a tale. It was a great big, flat-topped table, covered withshiny black oilcloth, slightly padded, and was so hollowed out on themaster's side that it encompassed him round about like some modern boomdefence against torpedo attack, and many a time that defence was needed.From the instant of the Doctor's ponderous appearance at the door lawand disciplined order prevailed within this scholastic sanctuary, but ofall the bear-gardens ever celebrated in profane history it was the worstduring the one hour in which, each day from eleven to twelve, Mr. Meekerimparted to the First Latin his knowledge of the higher mathematics andendeavored to ascertain what, if any, portion thereof lodged long enoughto make even a passing impression on the minds of that gracelessassembly. There were other hours during which the spirit of mischief hadits sway. There were other masters who found that First Latin anassemblage of youths who made them wonder why the Doctor had, afterlong, long years of observance, finally banished forever the system ofpunishment which was of the breech--the _vis a tergo_ order, that wasthe mainstay of grammar-school discipline in Columbia's proud past; butit was left to Mr. Meeker to enjoy as did no other man the fulldevelopment of a capacity for devilment, a rapacity for mischief neverequalled in the annals of the school.

  Whenever the class was formed for recitation it took seats on thosenorthward-facing benches, the head of the class in a chair, with hisback to the avenue window, close by the westernmost bench. The others ofthe "Sacred Band," as that guileful First Latin had once been derisivelynamed, strung out in the order of their class rank along the benches,with Hoover, nine times out of ten, alone at the bottom. The system ofrecitation was peculiar to the school, and proved that the "copiousnotes," so often scornfully, yet enviously, referred to by outsiders,were only blessings in disguise. It might be that Virgil was the subjectof the hour, the lesson say some fifty lines in the third book, and inthis event Beach, not Meeker, was in the chair, a man of firmer mould,yet not invulnerable. One after another, haphazard, the youngsters werecalled upon to read, scan, translate, and at the very first slip inquantity, error in scanning, mistake of a word in translation, themaster would cry "Next," and the first boy below who could point out theerror and indicate the correction stepped up and took his place abovethe fellow at fault. A perfect recitation was a rarity except among thekeen leaders at the head, for no error, big or little, was ever letpass. It was no easy thing for the average boy to read three lines ofthe resounding dactylic hexameters of "P. Virgilius Maro" according tothe Columbia system of the day without a slip in quantity. Scanning,too, was an art full of traps for the unwary, but hardest of all for oneof Pop's boys was it to translate. No matter how easy it might be by theaid of the oft-consulted "pony" to turn the Latin into English, it wasthe rule of the school that the Doctor's own beautiful rendition shouldbe memorized word for word wherever it occurred, and the instances, likethe notes, were all too copious. At the word "Enough" that checked hisscanning the boy began to translate, and having given the poetic andflowery version of the great translator, then turned to and, word byword, followed with the literal meaning. Then came the proddingquestions as to root, verb, subject, etc., and lucky was the youngsterwho, when he took his seat, found himself no more than half a dozenplaces below where he started. At the end of the hour the marks weretotted up, and he who had the highest number marched to the head of theclass, the others being assigned according to their score. It was allplain sailing when the Doctor himself was in the chair. Few boysventured on fun with him. On the other hand, few other masters couldmaintain order on a system that gave such illimitable possibilities fordevilment. To illustrate: It is a brisk October morning. School has"been in" an hour. The First Latin is arrayed for recitation in theAEneid, and the boys have easily induced an Italian organ-grinder tocome, monkey and all, to serenade them, and to the lively notes of"Patrick's Day in the Morning" one of the confirmed scamps of the classis called upon to begin. He himself was the heaviest subscriber to thefund which secured the services of the dark-eyed exile and his agilemonkey. Bliss knows nothing whatever of the lesson and is praying forthe appearance of the red-capped simian at the window. The janitor hasbeen sent down to bid the organ-grinder go away, but the boys haveblocked that game by bidding higher, and the Italian is warned to pay noattention to such orders, but to hold his ground,--the neighborhoodapproves of him and he'll be short a quarter if he goes. John comespanting up-stairs to report his ill success, and meantime the recitationcannot go on. Bliss is finally told to pay no attention to "Patrick'sDay" and to push ahead on the most beautiful lines in the book,

  "_Non ignara mali, miseris succerere disco_,"

  and Bliss slips on the quantity of the first syllable of the third word,is promptly snapped up by Doremus, next below, who tallies one on hisscore and jumps above him. Bliss shuts his book despairingly. "Mr.Beach," he begins, in tones of deepest injury, "I know that just as wellas anybody else; but I protest, sir, I'm so distracted by that grindingI can't do myself justice--or the subject either." And if the astuteBeach had any lingering doubt as to whether the boys worked that gamethemselves or not the doubt is banished now. Bertram, Doremus, Snipe,Shorty, all are on their feet and pleading with the master to have thatimpudent music stopped. Mr. Beach vainly warns them to their seats andcommands silence.

  "Mr. Beach, let me go down and drive him away,--I can do it," imploresBeekman, the pigmy Gothamite. It is three min
utes before the master cancompel silence in the class, so great is its sense of the outrage uponits peace and dignity.

  "Mr. Beach, let me fetch a policeman," cries Shorty, who knows thereisn't a blue-coat nearer than the Harlem depot at Twenty-sixth Street,and is spoiling for a chance to get out-of-doors.

  "The next boy who speaks until bidden will have five marks struck off,"says Beach, and with one accord the First Latin opens its twenty-sevenmouths, even Hoover swelling the chorus, and, as though so manyrepresentatives in Congress assembled were hailing the chair, thetwenty-seven ejaculate, "Mr. Beach, nobody's got five yet." Then littlePost jumps up, in affected horror, and runs from his seat half-way tothe master's table. "Mr. Beach!" he cries, "the monkey!"

  "Aw, sit down, Post," protests Joy, in the interest of school disciplineand harmony. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself making such a fussabout a monkey." Snipe and Carey seize the first weaponsobtainable--the sacred ruler and the Japan tray on the Doctor'sdesk--and make a lunge for the windows.

  "Lawton--Carey! Back to your seats!" orders Beach.

  "We only want to drive the monkey away, sir," protests Snipe, withimploring eyes. "Post'll have a fit, sir, if you let the monkey stay.He's subject to 'em. Ain't you, Post?"

  "_Yes_, sir," eagerly protests Post, on the swear-to-anything principlewhen it's a case of school devilment, and two minutes more are consumedin getting those scamps back to their places and recording their fines,"Ten marks apiece," which means that when the day's reckoning is madeten units will be deducted from their total score. The settlement, too,is prolonged and complicated through the ingenuity of Snipe and theconnivance of Bagshot and Bertram, who have promptly moved up andoccupied the place vacated by their long-legged, curly-pated, brown-eyedcomrade, and who now sturdily maintain that Snipe doesn't know where hebelongs. As a matter of fact, Snipe doesn't; neither does he greatlycare. He's merely insisting on the customary frolic before the classsettles down to business, but to see the fine indignation in hishandsome face and listen to the volume of protest on his tongue youwould fancy his whole nature was enlisted in the vehement assertion ofhis rights.

  Mr. Beach fines Snipe another five for losing his place, and thenstultifies himself by ordering Bertram and Bagshot back to theiroriginal station, thus permitting Snipe to resume his seat, whereupon hepromptly claims the remission of the fine on the ground that he himselfhad found it, and Bertram, a youth of much dignity of demeanor, gravelyaddresses Mr. Beach, and protests that in the interests of decency anddiscipline Lawton should forfeit his place, and to prove his entireinnocence of selfish motive offers to leave it to the class, and go tothe foot himself if they decide against him, and the class shoutsapproval and urges the distracted Beach to put Snipe out forthwith. Thensomebody signals "Hush!" for Halsey, the head-master, the dark Othello,has scented mischief from afar, and is heard coming swiftly down fromthe floor above, and Halsey is a man who has his own joke but allows noothers. Bliss is the only boy on his feet as the stern first officerenters and glances quickly and suspiciously about him.

  "Go on with the recitation, Mr. Beach," he says. "That Italian wasdoubtless hired by these young gentlemen. Let them dance to their ownmusic now, the eloquent Bliss in the lead. Go on with your lines,Bliss."

  And as this is just what Bliss can't do, Bliss is promptly "flunked" andsent to the foot, where Hoover grins sardonically. He's ahead of onefellow anyhow. Just so long now as that organ-grinder does must Halseystay--and supervise, and scorch even the best scholars in the class, forwell he knows the First Latin and they him, and their respect for him isdeeper than his for them, despite the known fact that Pop himself looksupon them with more than partial eyes. The class is getting the worst ofit when in comes an opportune small boy. "Mr. Meeker says will Mr.Halsey please step into the Fourth Latin room a minute," and Halsey hasto go.

  "If those young gentlemen give you any trouble, Mr. Beach, keep thewhole class in at recess," he says, and thereupon, with eyes of saddestreproach, the class follows him to the door, as though to say, How cansuch injustice live in mind so noble? But the moment Halsey vanishes thegloom goes with him. Beach's eyes are on the boys at the foot of theclass, and with a batter and bang the Japan tray on the Doctor's deskcomes settling to the floor, while Joy, who dislodged it, looks straightinto the master's startled eyes with a gaze in which consciousinnocence, earnest appeal, utter disapprobation of such silly pranks,all are pictured. Joy can whip the bell out from under the master's noseand over the master's table and all the time look imploringly into themaster's eyes, as though to say, "Just heaven! do you believe me capableof such disrespect as that?" Three boys precipitate themselves upon theprecious waiter, eager to restore it to its place, and bang their headstogether in the effort. Five marks off for Shorty, Snipe, and Post.Bagshot is on the floor, and announces as the sense of the First Latinthat a boy who would do such a thing should be expelled. Mr. Beach saysthe First Latin hasn't any sense to speak of, and tells Bagshot to beginwhere he left off. Bagshot thereupon declares he can't remember. It'sgetting near the "business end" of the hour, and the whole class has tolook to its marks, so it can't all be fun. Thereupon Beach, who isnothing if not classical, refers to Bagshot's lack of acquaintance withthe Goddess of Memory. "Who was she, Bagshot?" "Mnemosyne." "Very good;yes, sir." ("Thought it was Bacchante!" shouts little Beekman. "No, sir.Five marks off, Beekman. No more from you, sir.") "Now, Bagshot, youshould be higher than ten in your class to-day, and would be but formisbehavior. What was the color of Mnemosyne's hair?" Bagshot glaresabout him irresolute, and tries the doctrine of probability.

  "Red!"

  Beach compresses his lips. "M--n--no. That hardly describes it. Next."

  "Carnation," hazards Van Kleeck.

  "Next! Next! Next!" says Beach, indicating with his pencil one afteranother of the eager rank of boys, and, first one at a time anddistinctly, then in confused tumbling over each other's syllables, thewiseacres of the class shout their various guesses.

  "Vermilion!"

  "Scarlet!"

  "Carrot color!"

  "Solferino!"

  "Magenta!"

  "Pea-green!"

  "Sky-blue!"

  "Brick-red!" (This last from Turner, who makes a bolt for a place aboveBagshot, and can only be driven back and convinced of the inadequacy ofhis answer by liberal cuttings of ten to twenty marks.) Then, at last,Beach turns to Carey, at the far head of the class, and that giftedyoung gentleman drawls,--

  "Fl-a-a-me color."

  "Right!" says the master, whereupon half a dozen contestants from belowspring to their feet, with indignation in their eyes:

  "Well, what did I say, sir?"

  "That's exactly what I meant, sir."

  "I'll leave it to Bliss if that wasn't my answer, sir."

  And nothing but the reappearance of Othello puts an end to the clamorand settles the claimants. Shorty submits that his answer covered thecase, that Mnemosyne herself couldn't tell carrot color from flame, andis sure the Doctor would declare his answer right, but is summarilysquelched by Mr. Halsey, and he has the "_nous_" to make no reference tothe matter when the Doctor comes. The hour is nearly over. Only threeminutes are allowed them in which to stow their Virgils in the big openbookcase and extract their algebras. Halsey vanishes to see to it thatthe Third Latin goes to the writing-room without mobbing the Fourth. Themarks of the First are recorded, not without a volume of comment andchaff and protest. Then silence settles down as the master begins givingout the next day's lesson, for the word has been passed along the lineof benches, "Get ready for a charge!" A moment later the janitor soundsthe bell on the landing without, and twenty-six young fellows springinto air and rush for the bookcase. Not a word is spoken,--Hoover,alone, holds aloof,--but in less time than it takes to tell it, withsolemnity on every face except one or two that will bubble over inexcess of joy, the First Latin is jammed in a scrimmage such as one seesnowadays only on the football field. The whole living mass heavesagainst those stout partitions till they ben
d and crack. From thestraining, struggling crew there rises the same moaning sound, swellinginto roar and dying away into murmur, and at last the lustier fighttheir way out, algebras in hand, and within another five minutes orderis apparently evolved from chaos.

  In such a turmoil and in such a charge Joy's watch disappeared thatOctober day, and the school had not stopped talking of it yet.

  It has been said that two boys were the observed of gloomy eyes theMonday following Snipe's misfortune. One, Hoover, of course. The other afellow who in turn had sought to be everybody's chum and had ended bybeing nobody's. His name was Briggs. He was a big, powerful fellow,freckle-faced, sandy-haired, and gifted with illimitable effrontery. Hewas a boy no one liked and no one could snub, for Briggs had a skin asthick as the sole of a school-boy's boot, and needed it. Onecircumstance after another during the previous year had turned one boyafter another from him, but Briggs kept up every appearance of cordialrelations, even with those who cold-shouldered him and would have naughtto do with him. During the previous school-year he had several timesfollowed Snipe, Shorty, and their particular set, only to find that theywould scatter sooner than have him one of the party. He had been deniedadmission to the houses of most of the class. He had been twiceblackballed by the Uncas, and it was said by many of the school whenBriggs began to consort with Hoover that he had at last found his properlevel. One allegation at his expense the previous year had been that hewas frequently seen at billiard-rooms or on the streets with those twoHulkers, and even Hoover had hitherto eschewed that association. Perhapsat first the Hulkers would not have Hoover. The class couldn't tell andreally didn't care to know. One thing was certain: within the fortnightpreceding the opening of this story Briggs and Hoover had been togethermore than a little and with the Hulkers more than enough.

  "Are you sure of what you say?" both Carey and Joy had asked Shorty thatexciting Monday morning, as the eager youngster detailed for the tenthtime the incidents of the assault on Snipe.

  "I'm as sure of it as I am of the fire," said Shorty, positively. "JimBriggs was with the Metamora crowd, running in the street. He lookedback and laughed after he saw Snipe down."

  But when confronted with this statement by the elders of the "SacredBand" Briggs promptly and indignantly denied it.

  "I never heard of it till to-day!" said he. "'Spose I'd stand by and seeone of my class knocked endwise by a lot of roughs? _No_, sir!"

  It was a question of veracity, then, between Briggs and Shorty, theclass believing the latter, but being unable to prove the case. Snipehimself could say nothing. Being in the lead, he had seen none of therunners of the Metamora except the heels of a few as they bounded overhim when he rolled into the street. There was an intense feelingsmouldering in the class. They were indeed "laying" for Hoover as theyhad been for Briggs when they tumbled out for recess. The latter, withhis characteristic vim and effrontery, denied all knowledge of theaffair, as has been said, and challenged the class to prove a thingagainst him. The former, as has been told, lurked within-doors. What hadhe to fear? He was not at the scene of the fire and the assault. Henever had energy enough to run. There was some reason why he shrank frommeeting or being questioned by the boys. There was some reason why SnipeLawton should have left them and returned to the school, and wasdiscovered standing there at the doorway, looking fixedly at thehead-master's angered face as it glowered on Hoover and the tearfulJohn. Whatever the reason, it could not well be divulged in the presenceof Mr. Halsey. Hoover stood off another proposed demonstration in hishonor after school at three o'clock by remaining behind, and only comingforth when he could do so under the majestic wing of the Doctor himself.Pop looked curiously at the knots of lingering First Latins, and raisedhis high-top hat in response to their salutations. Hoover huddled closeto his side until several blocks were traversed and pursuit wasabandoned. Then he shot into a street-car, leaving the Doctor to ponderon the unusual attention. And so it happened that while the class wasbalked for the time of its purpose, and the victim of Saturday's assaultwas debarred from making the queries he had planned, Mr. Halsey wasenabled to pursue his bent. Just as the little group of five, gazing indisappointment up the avenue after the vanishing forms of the Doctor andHoover, was breaking up with the consolatory promise that they'dconfront Hoover with their charges first thing in the morning, theopen-mouthed janitor came running.

  "Oh, Lawton!" he panted, "Mr. Halsey says he wishes to speak with you,and to please come right back."

  "I'll wait for you, Snipe," said Shorty. "Day-day, you other fellows."And wait he did, ten, twenty minutes, and no Snipe came, and, wonderingmuch, the smaller lad went whistling down the avenue, forgetful, in thefact that he still wore the jacket, of the dignity demanded of a lad ofthe First Latin and full sixteen. He wondered more when eight o'clockcame that evening and without Snipe's ring at the door-bell. He wonderedmost when he saw Snipe's pallid, sad-eyed face on the morrow.