Chapter IV: The “last Day.”

When the Captain called, which he did the next forenoon, the tale of Bradley’s eventful first day at school was told him in all its harrowing completeness. Miss Prissy--by previous agreement--acted as story-teller, and Miss Tempy was a sort of chorus, breaking in every few moments to supply a neglected detail, or comment on a particular feature.

“And we didn’t know _what_ to do,” concluded Miss Prissy. “He wan’t goin’ to tell us whose dog it was, and----”

“I don’t b’lieve he _ever_ would have told,” broke in Miss Tempy, “if that ‘dog girl’ herself hadn’t come bouncin’ in, and----”

“And he won’t promise not to speak to her again, neither,” continued the older sister. “We sent him to bed without any supper----”

“That is, any _real_ supper,” interrupted the chorus. “Of course we took up some cookies and things when we found he wouldn’t come down, but----”

“And he won’t promise this mornin’, and he went to school without promisin’. What do _you_ think we ought to do, Cap’n Titcomb?”

“Yes, Cap’n,” Miss Tempy joined in the appeal. “What _do_ you think we ought to do?”

“Well,” replied the Captain--he had listened to the recital with a very solemn face, but there was a twinkle in his eye--“well, I don’t know. It makes me think of what the old man--dad, I mean--said to me once, when I was a little shaver ’bout Brad’s age. The old man was a great feller for horses and, when he give up goin’ to sea, he used to always have two or three horses ’round the place, and there was gin’rally a colt to be broke. You never had much dealin’s with colts, I s’pose?”

“No,” answered Miss Tempy, thoughtfully. “Long’s father lived we kept a horse--Dexter was his name--but I s’pose he wasn’t really what you’d call a colt.”

Captain Ezra--he remembered the ancient and wheezy Dexter--gravely agreed that the latter was not precisely a colt.

“Well,” he continued, “I always thought I was pretty nigh as smart as the next feller, and I was forever teasin’ the old man to let me break one of the colts. Finally he let me try it. After I’d had a lively ten minutes or so, and was roostin’ heels up in a snarl of rosb’ry bushes, with the colt grinnin’ at me, so’s to speak, over the stone wall, the old man come loafin’ up, and he says:

“‘Ez,’ he says, ‘what you doin’,--restin’? Better git up, hadn’t you, and take another try? The colt’s ready,’ he says.

“I stopped picking the rosb’ry briars out of my face, and tried to grin, and told him that I guessed I’d had enough.

“‘Oh!’ says he, ‘you mustn’t talk that way. It’s a mutual breakin’,’ he says, ‘and you and the colt are jest gittin’ used to one another’s little ways.’

“P’raps that’s the way ’tis here,” continued the Captain. “Brad and you two ladies are jest gittin’ used to each other’s little ways. Of course you must remember it is only a colt you’re handlin’. I think the boy’s all right, and I don’t object to his stickin’ by those that he thinks stuck by him. Far’s the girl’s concerned, she always struck me as a pretty trim little craft.”

“She’s noisy and a tomboy,” said Miss Prissy, decidedly.

“Yes,” said Miss Tempy; “and she likes those dreadful dogs.”

“Um--hum,” answered their visitor, with unimpeachable seriousness. “Of course that’s a terrible drag, but maybe she’ll cut ’em adrift when she gits older; she’s only a colt, too,” he added.

“Well, we don’t like her,” said Miss Prissy, with decision. “And we wish you’d speak to Bradley about it. You know,” she added, looking down, “I put a lot of dependence in your judgment, Cap’n Titcomb.”

“So do I,” said Miss Tempy, quickly; “jest as much as Prissy does. I b’lieve in you _absolutely_, Cap’n Ezra.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” hurriedly replied the Captain. “Well, I’ll speak to the boy, by and by, and see what I can do.”

In response to the pressing invitation of the sisters, he reluctantly agreed to stay to dinner. That dinner was a marvel. Bradley saw that his supper, the night of his arrival, was a mere beggar’s crust compared to the spread that noon. In fact, it did not take him very long to notice that not even the minister’s appetite was tempted with the array of special dishes, puddings, cakes and preserves, that were always in evidence when the Captain was a guest.

After dinner, when the boy started for school again, Captain Titcomb walked with him a part of the way. The Captain had a married sister living “down at the Neck,” but he did not make his headquarters at her home, preferring to keep bachelor’s hall at his room at the Traveler’s Rest, during his infrequent shore leaves. “I always feel more independent on my own deck,” was the way he expressed it. “Then I can cuss the steward, when it’s necessary, without startin’ a mutiny.”

“Brad,” he said, as they came out of the Allen gate, “what’s this I hear bout you gittin’ the rope’s-end yesterday? Never mind spinnin’ the whole yarn; I cal’late I’ve heard the most of it. You and the Hammond boy had a scrimmage, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bradley, doggedly.

“Hum! Think you’d have licked him if the skipper hadn’t took a hand?”

Bradley looked up at his questioner, saw the twinkle in his eye, and answered, with a sheepish grin: “Don’t know. Guess I’d have tried mighty hard.”

The Captain roared. “I presume likely you would,” he chuckled. “You look to me like one of the kind that sticks to a thing when you’ve started in. Well, you needn’t tell the folks at home that I said it, but I’ve had the advantage of bein’ a boy myself--which they haven’t--and I know there’s times when a feller has to fight. I’ve gin’rally found, though,” he added, “that it’s better to go a consid’rable ways in agreein’ ’fore you knock a man down. It pays better, for one thing, and don’t git into the papers, for another. I understand you’ve sort of took that little Baker craft, next door, in tow. She seems like a smart girl; do you like her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I jedge Prissy and Tempy wouldn’t enter her for the cup. Now, Brad, mind I ain’t coaxin’ you to go back on a friend, but the old mai--that is, your ladies at home, have set out to make a man of you. They’re your owners and you’re expected to sail ’cordin’ to their orders. If there’s one thing that I’ve always stuck to it’s ‘Obey orders or break owners.’ Sometimes owner’s orders don’t jibe exactly with your own ideas, but never mind--they pay the wages; see?”

“She’s a good girl,” said the boy, stoutly. “She came in and took my part when she didn’t have to, and I like her. And I won’t promise not to speak to her, neither.”

The Captain looked down at the lad’s square jaw and whistled.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t b’lieve you need to promise, but don’t whoop too loud about it. Run as close to the wind as you can, and don’t carry all sail in a two-reef breeze jest to show you ain’t afraid to. Because a man’s a good Republican, it don’t follow that it’s policy to go to a Democratic rally and tell the speaker he’s a liar. Catch my drift?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Bradley, rather doubtfully. “You mean be chums with the girl, but don’t tell Miss Prissy and Miss Tempy about it.”

“No--o.” Captain Ezra looked somewhat put out by the literal interpretation. “That ain’t jest it. Be--well, be easy, and---- Oh, thunder! Let it go at that. I guess you know what I mean. How do you think you’re goin’ to like your school?”

Bradley answered, “Pretty well, I guess, when I get more used to it;” but, although he did not say so, he was certain that it would take some time to get used to it. As a matter of fact, however, that very lively first day was the only serious trouble for him during that entire term. He was quick to learn, and so found little difficulty with his studies, and advanced as rapidly as other boys of his age. As for his behavior, it was no worse than that of any other healthy youngster. At the end of the year he was “promoted”--that is, he was no longer a member of the fourth class, but instead proudly left his seat when the third was called.

Gus was “promoted” also, much to the surprise of the “old maids,” who could not believe there was any good in the “dog girl.” They gradually ceased to urge the boy not to have anything to do with her, for the very good reason that, in this matter, their urging was of no avail. They grew to understand their colt better as the months passed, and they learned just how tight a rein it was advisable to draw.

Bradley also grew to understand the sisters. He discovered that Miss Prissy was the business woman, and that she paid all the bills, bought all the household supplies, and did it without consulting Miss Tempy, whom she treated as a sort of doll with a mechanism that must not be jarred.

Miss Tempy was “delicate”--at least, she believed that she was. She always had a new patent medicine on hand, and was always sure that it was “doin’ a world” for her. She was the household art critic, passing judgment on the retrimming of bonnets, making over of dresses and the like. Under her direction the celebrated “plaid pants” of the lamented Captain Darius were made over for Bradley, and the boy “hooked Jack” for a whole day, because he wouldn’t wear the things to school. Gus came to his rescue by tipping a can of red paint over his legs as they were passing the wheelwright’s shop, and the plaid outrages were thus put out of business forever. Bradley appreciated the kindly spirit that decked him in the “pants,” but he was thankful for the paint.

Miss Tempy was romantic. She read a great deal, and her favorite stories were those appearing serially in _The Fireside Comforter_, a pile of which, together with the back numbers of _Godey’s Lady’s Book_, were kept on the shelf in the sitting-room closet. In these stories Lord Eric wooed, and inevitably won, Evelyn, the beautiful factory girl, but Miss Tempy--in spite of repeated experiences--was never sure that he would win her, and so was in a state of delightful apprehension and hope during the intervals between installments. She loved to read these installments aloud, and, when they were finished, turned to Tupper and Wordsworth’s poems. She read poetry with what she called “expression,” and wind was always “wynd” with her.

Captain Titcomb was the one point in which Miss Prissy would not efface herself in favor of her younger sister. Secretly, each lady had hopes that the Captain’s calls were more than mere friendly visits; but, because the object of these hopes never allowed himself to show the slightest preference, the race was heartbreakingly even. But when Miss Tempy read of Lord Eric she always imagined that nobleman as looking and acting like the Captain.

Bradley made friends among the village boys, and did not make any virulent enemies. He had his interrupted fight “out” with Sam Hammond, and emerged a conqueror with a black eye and a swollen nose, which were the cause of his being in disgrace at home for a week. Also he joined the “Jolly Club,” a secret society that met on Saturday afternoons in “Snuppy” Black’s barn.

Just why this gruesome society was christened the “Jolly Club” is rather hard to understand. The initiation ceremony was anything but jolly to the trembling youth who, having sworn a most blood-curdling oath of secrecy, was conducted blindfold to the place of assembly. In Bradley’s case it was “Snuppy” himself who officiated as guide. After tying a handkerchief--not too clean and smelling of sweet-fern cigars--over his friend’s eyes, “Snuppy” led him over fences and through back yards for a distance that seemed miles. Then, at last, they stopped and the guide rapped “three times fast and twice slow” on something that sounded like a door.

The knocks were answered in kind by one within. Then a hollow voice asked, apparently through a speaking trumpet, “Who goes there?”

“One of the mystic brothers,” replied “Snuppy.”

“Have you the grip and countersign?”

“I have.”

“Then give ’em.” A hand was thrust out through the hole cut in the door for the convenience of the cat. “Snuppy” grasped the hand and fingered it according to formula. Then he stooped to the “cat hole” and hoarsely whispered the countersign, “Death.”

“’Tis well, brother,” proclaimed the unseen. “But who is with you?”

“One who would--would----”

“Would fain----” prompted the voice.

“Would fain join our chosen band.”

“Is he prepared to face an awful doom?” This would have been more alarming if the voice had not added, in an indignant whisper, “Shut up laffin’, you fellers! D’you want to spoil everything?”

Bradley, having announced his readiness to face the “doom,” the door was opened and he was led, stumbling, into what “Snuppy” informed him solemnly was the “Hall of Torture,” but which smelt like a barn. Then the “mystic brothers”--led by the owner of the voice, who announced himself as “Grand Chief”--proceeded to put the neophyte through a course of sprouts that would have turned a grown man’s hair gray. They came to a sudden end, when the “Grand Chief” proclaimed:

“Boy, you are now standin’ on the brink of a frightful precipice. Behind you is unknown depths.”

“Ain’t neither, Hart Sears,” was the unexpected reply of the victim. “I’m standin’ on the beam over the mow. I can see down underneath this handkerchief and there’s the hay.”

“Aw, gee!” shouted the disgusted “Grand Chief.” “That’s you all over, Snuppy! Don’t know enough to tie a handkerchief tight!”

Having undergone this harrowing ordeal, Bradley was entitled to wear a shining badge--made by the tinsmith’s son--that bore upon it, hammered out with a nail, the mystic capitals, “J. C.” His worst quarrel with Gus and her friend, Clara Hopkins--the quarrel that lasted two weeks without a making up--came about because the new member refused to tell what the initials “stood for.”

During the long summer vacation there were chores to do, but there was also all sorts of fun alongshore, digging clams on the flats, spearing flat-fish along the edge of the channels, or rare and much-prized trips to the fish-weirs where the nets were hauled. Captain Titcomb came home in August for an intended stay of two weeks, and he made the boy happy by taking him for an all-day sail and blue-fishing excursion off Setuckit Point.

That fishing trip had unexpected and fateful results. The Captain had called on Miss Prissy and her sister the morning of his arrival in Orham and, as was his custom, had brought each of them a present--exactly alike, of course. He had promised to dine at the Allen house the following Sunday. But it happened that Peleg Myrick wanted to make one of his infrequent visits to the mainland that week, and he seized the opportunity to hail the catboat containing Bradley and Captain Ezra, as it passed his quahaug dory, and beg for a passage up.

Mr. Peleg Myrick was a hermit. He lived alone in a little two-room shanty on the beach about half a mile from Setuckit Point. He owned a concertina that squeaked and wailed, and a Mexican dog--gift of a wrecked skipper--that shivered all the time, and howled when the concertina was played. Peleg was certain that the howling was an attempt at singing, and boasted that “Skeezicks”--that was the dog’s name--had an “ear for music jest like a human.”

Among his other accomplishments Mr. Myrick numbered that of weather prophet. He boasted that he could “smell a storm further’n a cat can smell fish.” It was odd, but he really did seem able to foretell, or guess, what the weather would be along the Orham coast, and the ’longshoremen swore by his prophecies.

He was a great talker, when he had any one to talk to, and was a gossip whose news items were usually about three months old. Captain Ezra appreciated odd characters and he welcomed the chance to get a little fun out of Peleg.

“Well, Peleg,” said the Captain, as the catboat stood about on the first leg of the homeward stretch, “what’s the news down the beach? Any of the sand fleas got married lately?”

“Don’t ask _me_ for no news, Cap’n Ez!” replied Mr. Myrick. “You’re the feller to have news. You ain’t married yit, be you?”

“No, not yet. I’m waitin’ to see which girl _you_ pick out; then I’ll see what’s left.”

“Well, I ain’t foolin’. I thought you might be married by now. Last time I was up to the village--’long in June, ’twas--I see M’lissy Busteed, and she said ’twas common talk that you was courtin’ one of the old maids.”

Captain Titcomb scowled, and looked uneasily at his passenger.

“She did, hey?” he grunted.

“Yes. I told her I didn’t take no stock in that. ‘Cap’n Ez,’ I says, ‘has been courtin’ too many times sence I can remember,’ I says. ‘One time ’twas Mary Emma Cahoon; ’nother time ’twas Seth Wingate’s sister’s gal; then agin ’twas----’”

“All right! All right!” broke in the Captain, glancing hurriedly at Bradley. “Never mind that. How’s the quahaugin’ nowadays? Gittin’ a fair price?”

“Pretty fair,” replied Peleg. Then, with the persistency of the born gossip, not to be so easily diverted from his subject, he went on: “I told M’lissy that, but she said there wan’t scarcely a doubt that you meant bus’ness this time. Said you fetched presents every time you come home. Said the only doubt in folks’ minds was whether ’twas Prissy or Tempy you was after. Said she was sure you was after one of ’em, ’cause she as much as asked ’em one time when she was at their house, and they didn’t deny it.”

Mr. Myrick talked steadily on this and other subjects all the way to the wharf, but Captain Ezra was silent and thoughtful. He shook hands with Bradley at the gate of the Traveler’s Rest, and said good-bye in an absent-minded way.

“I s’pose you’ll be ’round to dinner, Sunday, Cap’n Ez?” said the boy.

“Hey? Sunday? Well, I don’t know. It might be that I shall be called back to the schooner sooner than I expect. Can’t tell.”

Sure enough, the next day the sisters received a note from their expected guest, saying that he was obliged to leave at once for Portland, and could not, therefore, be with them on Sunday. The ladies were disappointed, but thought nothing more of the matter at the time. It was nearly six months before the Captain visited Orham again, and during this visit he did not come near the big house. He waylaid Bradley, however, asked him all about himself, how he was getting on at school, and the like, but when the boy asked if he, the Captain, wasn’t “comin’ ’round to see the folks pretty soon,” the answer was vague and unsatisfactory.

“Why, I--I don’t know’s I’ll have time,” was the reply. “I’m pretty busy, and---- Give ’em my regards, will you, Brad? I’ve got to be runnin’ on now. So long.”

It was the same during the next “shore leave,” the following November. Captain Titcomb saw Bradley several times, gave him a six-bladed jack-knife, and took him for a drive over to the big cranberry swamp owned by the Ostable Company, but he did not call on the “old maids.” So when the news came--via Miss Busteed--that Captain Titcomb had returned to his vessel, Miss Prissy sighed and put the fan and the other presents in a locked bureau drawer, and Miss Tempy began a new serial in the _Comforter_ without once suggesting that its hero behaved “jest like Cap’n Ezra.” In fact, the Captain’s name was never mentioned by the sisters, and Bradley himself learned not to speak of him while at home.

Three more years of school and vacations, with “chores” and sailing and cranberry picking, followed. Bradley was sixteen. His voice, having passed through the squeaky “changing” period, now gave evidence of becoming what Miss Tempy called a “beautiful double bass, jest like father’s.” He was large for his age and his shoulders were square. He was more particular about his clothes now, and his neckties were no longer selected by Miss Tempy. To be seen with girls was not so “sissified” in his mind as it used to be, but he still stuck to Gus and she was his “first choice” at parties, and he saw her home from prayer meeting occasionally.

As for the “dog-girl” herself, she, too, paid more attention to clothes, and her pets--though still numerous and just as disreputable in appearance--were made to behave with more decorum. Her hair was carefully braided now, her dresses came down to her boot tops, and Miss Tempy grudgingly admitted that “if ’twas anybody else, I should say she was likely to be good lookin’ when she grows up.”

The “Last Day” came, and Bradley and Gus were to graduate. In Orham there is no Graduation Day. The eventful ending of the winter term is the “Last Day,” and all the parents and relatives, together with the school committee and the clergymen, visit the school to sit stiffly on the settees and witness the ceremonies.

The “old maids” were agitated on the morning of the great day. There was no forenoon session, and when Bradley--who had been at the schoolhouse to help Gus, Clara, Sam Hammond and the other older scholars festoon the room with ropes and wreaths of evergreen--came home for luncheon, he found the ladies gowned and bonneted, although there were two hours to spare before the time to start. Miss Tempy wore her silk mitts during the meal, and was so nervous that she could only drink her “pepper tea” and eat one small slice of bread and butter. Miss Prissy was nervous also, but she was much more serious than her sister.

“Oh, dear!” sputtered Miss Tempy. “What does make you so solemn, Prissy? I declare you give me the fidgets. Anybody’d think ’twas a funeral you was goin’ to.”

“’Tain’t the school business that’s worryin’ me,” was the reply. “I only wish ’twas.”

“Well, then, what is it. Now I come to think of it, you’ve been glum as an owl for two or three months. What’s troublin’ you? I do wish you’d speak out. You’re jest like father used to be; keep all your troubles to yourself and never tell me anything.”

But Miss Prissy only sighed, and her sister, too excited to think of other things just at present, turned to Bradley to ask him if he was sure he “knew his piece” and if the schoolroom “looked pretty.”

“Only think,” she said, contentedly, “how much more fortunate you are than some of the other scholars, Bradley. This is only the beginnin’ of your education, as you might say. Next year you’ll be goin’ to high school, over to Harniss, and when you get through there, you’ll commence college. It’s goin’ to be Wesleyan, too. I’ve set my heart on Wesleyan, Prissy.”

Miss Prissy didn’t answer, and Bradley, too, was silent. Gus was going to high school, but Clara Hopkins--whose father had died recently--was not. Sam Hammond loudly boasted that he was going to New York to enter the office of a large wrecking company, where, as he said, he was going to learn to be a diver and have all sorts of adventures. “My cousin Ed’s a diver,” he proudly proclaimed, “and he makes lots of money and has a great time. He says there ain’t no sense in high school; you might as well begin to learn your trade now.”

Bradley, although he would not have hurt the sisters’ feelings by saying so, secretly envied Sam. A Cape Cod boy, with the seagoing blood in his veins, the big water called him with the call of a master. He loved the ocean and the ships and the salt wind. The Wesleyan idea did not appeal to him in the least. A minister, in his boyish mind, was a poor figure beside a commander of a life-saving station, like Captain Luther Davis, or, better still, a real sea captain like Captain Titcomb.

After lunch Miss Prissy unlocked the chest of drawers and took out a worn velvet case.

“Bradley,” she said, “you’ve been a good boy since you’ve lived with us, and me and Tempy have come to think as much of you as if you was our own son. Here’s somethin’ that we set a great deal of store by and meant to keep always, but we’ve talked it over and we think you ought to have it and wear it.”

She opened the velvet case and showed a big, old-fashioned silver watch, the chasing on its case worn almost smooth.

“It was father’s watch,” said Miss Tempy, “and he always carried it. It looks so much like him. We want you to wear it, and when you’re at high school or college and look to see what time it is, you’ll think of us way off here at Orham, won’t you?”

Bradley was a proud boy, and the “old maids” were proud of him when, with the big watch in his pocket and the heavy chain rattling against his vest, the three started for the schoolhouse. On the way they caught up with Gus and her grandmother. It was amusing to note the condescension with which the sisters treated the old lady. As Miss Tempy often said, “The Bakers are real good meanin’ people, but the men folks have never been anythin’ but fishermen.”

It was agreed that the decorations were “lovely.” The blackboards had been ornamented by Mr. Daniels with mottoes, such as “Knowledge is Power,” done in different colored chalks and surrounded by marvelous flourishes and flying ribbons, and impossible birds with tails that poured from their backs like feathered Niagaras.

Mr. Daniels, himself, arrayed in his best, opened the exercises and called upon the Reverend Langworthy to offer prayer. As the concluding “Amen” was uttered, Miss Tempy, sitting on the settee by the wall, nudged her sister and whispered, “Look, Prissy! I do declare if there ain’t Cap’n Ezra!”

Sure enough, there was the Captain on the opposite settee, neatly dressed as usual, and politely nodding to them.

“When did he come home?” whispered the nervous younger sister. “I didn’t know he was comin’. But then,” she sorrowfully added, “we don’t know anything about the Cap’n nowadays.”

Miss Prissy sedately returned the bow. “Don’t look at him so, Tempy,” she muttered. “If Cap’n Titcomb sees fit to stay away from our house, I should hope we could show him we didn’t care.”

Mr. Solomon Bangs, chairman of the school committee, addressed the school. He began with a loud “Ahem,” and proceeded somewhat after this fashion:

“Scholars, I am--er--glad to be present on this--er--auspicious occasion. It is, of course, a--ahem--pleasure to see you all in your seats in this school-room, studyin’ your lessons and learnin’ to be great and good men and women. I am sure that every boy and girl here to-day realizes the--the--worth of education and learnin’. Your parents and the committee are here because they realize it, and know what learnin’ has been to them. Your teacher tells me that you have been a credit to him. I am glad to hear it. As chairman of the committee havin’ this school under my charge, I esteem--that is to say--I feel sensible of my responsibilities. The voyage of life upon which you are about to step forth--er--embark, I should have said----” and so on, for ten minutes. Mr. Daniels looked becomingly solemn, and the visitors whispered to one another that it was a “splendid speech.”

Then six boys from the youngest class gave a recitation, each setting forth in sing-song verse what he would do “When I’m a man--a man.” This was voted “too cute for anything.”

There were more “pieces” and a dialogue. Then the graduating class, the boys in their “Sunday suits,” and the girls in white muslin with blue ribbons, had its turn. Sam Hammond thundered through “Spartacus to the Gladiators.” Clara Hopkins recited an original composition on “Our Duty in Life.” It was a very serious “duty,” and was embellished with various flowers of rhetoric labeled “the sunrise of youth,” “the dawn of womanhood,” and the like. Bradley bravely tackled “The Advantages of a Republican Form of Government,” and when he finished every monarch on the globe was cowering beneath his throne, like a cat under a sofa; at least, if he was not actually cowering there, it was the opinion of the “old maids” that he would have been if he had heard that composition. Bradley’s effort was enthusiastically applauded, especially by Mr. Seth Wingate, who, being a life-long Democrat, was relieved to find that the boy had not, as he feared, constructed an argument in favor of the “Grand Old Party.”

Gus had been entrusted with the “Class Chronicles.” These were an innovation for Orham “Last Days,” the idea having been imported from Middleboro by a young lady who had formerly attended school there, and who said that they always had “Class Chronicles” at schools that were “any account.” Gus’s Chronicles were witty and bright, and, if some of the jokes were old, they had been made over until, like the “old maids’” dolmans, they were almost new again. It must be understood, of course, that Chronicles and compositions and “pieces” were delivered with the accompaniment of pump-handle gestures, conscientiously copied from “Fig. 1,” “Fig. 2,” and the rest, in the front of the Sixth Reader.

After the school had done its part, another committee man spoke. Mr. Langworthy said a few words; Mr. Daniels repeated the statement that he made every year, namely, that this particular graduating class was the best and most brilliant he had ever taught, and then--the “Last Day” was over.

That evening Bradley sat reading in the dining-room. Miss Tempy, in the sitting-room, was going over, for the fortieth time since it was written, the wonderful argument in favor of a “Republican Form of Government.” As her sister entered the room, she dropped the roll of paper in her lap and said, solemnly:

“Prissy Allen, it’s my belief that when that boy first came here and I said that I wanted him to go to college and be a minister, I was inspired. I declare I do! I’ve jest been readin’ that piece of his again, and it beats any sermon I ever heard.”

Miss Prissy seated herself in a rocker and looked solemnly at her sister. For a minute she gazed without speaking. Then, suddenly, as if she had made up her mind, she rose, gave the dining-room door a swing that would have shut it completely had not the corner of a mat interfered, and, coming back to her chair, said, slowly: “Tempy, I’m afraid we’ll never be able to send Bradley to college.”

The precious manuscript fell from Miss Tempy’s lap to the floor.

“Why--why, Prissy Allen!” she exclaimed. “What _do_ you mean?”

“I mean we can’t do what we’ve hoped to do. Oh, dear! I--I don’t know _what_ we’ll do. Tempy, we’ve hardly got any money left!”