“We’ve got the same lessons, Hazard,” said Jeffrey, after the others had taken their departure, “so why don’t you bring your books into my room and study?”

“I’d like to,” answered Jim, “and I will as soon as I finish my chores.”

Half an hour later the two were seated on opposite sides of the table in Jeff’s room, their books spread out before them in a very businesslike way. But there wasn’t much studying done that evening, although each acknowledged the necessity of it. There were too many things to talk about. Naturally the foremost topic was the school. Jeffrey had to tell Jim what he thought about it, and Jim had to give his opinion of the fellows they had met; and after that they discussed the instructors and the course of study and many associated subjects. And before the evening was over it was no longer Hazard and Latham, but Jim and Jeff.

And in another day or two proper names had quite disappeared from Sunnywood. Every one called every one else by his first name; except that Poke had dubbed Jeff “The Senator” and called him that about half the time. For awhile Jim’s mother was “Mrs. Hazard,” but eventually she became “Lady” to every one except Mr. Hanks. Mr. Hanks—or “Nancy,” as the boys dubbed him—called Mrs. Hazard pretty nearly everything except Mrs. Hazard. Sometimes it was Hazel, sometimes Hastings, sometimes Hathaway; and once, to the amusement and bewilderment of the entire table, he called her “Mrs. Venture.” Hope was “Miss Hope” to the boys for awhile, but as friendship ripened the Miss was dropped. The boys all liked Hope. They couldn’t have done anything else, I fancy, for Hope was always happy and merry, eager for fun and firmly convinced that Sunnywood Cottage held the four finest boys in Crofton Academy.

But I am getting ahead of my story.

Gil and Poke had in due time received the required parental sanction to their change of quarters and had settled down very comfortably in what Poke called the Royal Suite. With three of their rooms rented for the school year Jim and his mother were much encouraged, for even if the fourth room didn’t rent they could, they were certain, more than pay expenses. Mr. Hanks, in spite of Poke’s forebodings, troubled no one. If he found the house rather noisy at times, he made no complaint. Except at meal times they saw very little of him. He was usually very silent at the table, accepting what was placed before him or handed to him and eating it in his funny absentminded way. At school, however, Mr. Hanks was having his troubles. In the first place, he was a new man, and there is an unwritten law at Crofton to the effect that new instructors must be decently hazed. Hazing in Mr. Hanks’ case consisted of taking advantage of his inexperience and diffidence until at the end of his first week at school his Latin and history classes had lost all semblance of order and discipline. The instructor’s worst trial was Latin 2. In this class was Brandon Gary, and Gary knew more ways to make the teacher’s life a burden to him than there were pages in the Æneid.

“Bull makes me very tired,” said Gil one day. “It’s all right to have a little fun; and every faculty ought to stand a little joshing; but Bull is keeping it up too long. First thing we know Nancy will get discouraged and quit. If he only knew enough to sit on a few of those Smart Alecks he wouldn’t have any more trouble.”

“I think it’s just as mean as can be,” declared Hope. “Mr. Hanks is a perfect dear.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” agreed Poke. “Nancy isn’t a half bad sort. Only thing is he hasn’t enough grit.”

“And,” continued Hope, puzzledly, “I don’t see why you want to call him Nancy. He doesn’t look a bit like a horse.”

“A what?” demanded Jeff in surprise.

“A horse. I asked Lady the other day who Nancy Hanks was and she said he—I mean she—was a famous racehorse. And I don’t see—”

But the boys were laughing so loudly that the rest of Hope’s remark was drowned. She viewed them bewilderedly.

“Wasn’t she a horse?” she asked doubtfully.

“Well,” answered Jeff, who had recovered first, “I believe there used to be a horse named that. But the original Nancy Hanks was Abraham Lincoln’s mother. Have you never heard of her?”

Hope shook her head. “I don’t believe so. What—what did she do?”

Jeff looked at Gil and Gil looked at Jim and Jim shook his head. It was Poke who came to the rescue.

“Mrs. Hanks,” he observed thoughtfully, “was a very estimable lady. Besides being the mother of the Martyr President she—er—she invented the idea of winding yarn in hanks. Hence the name.”

The others viewed him suspiciously, but were afraid to question his statement for fear of confessing their ignorance. Jeff said “Hm” noncommittingly and Jim became very busy over the lock he was trying to repair. Hope accepted the information at face value and thanked Poke very nicely. Poke, I think, was on the verge of a confession when Mr. Hanks himself came into sight beyond the fence. He had an armful of books as usual and his head seemed to have acquired to-day an added droop. As he turned in through the gate his face looked pretty tired and discouraged. Jim and Poke arose from their places on the steps to let him by and it was only then that he saw the group. He lifted his funny old straw hat rather sketchily and murmured, “Good evening.” The others responded politely, but Hope, with a sudden rush of sympathy for the instructor, said: “Won’t you sit down here and rest, Mr. Hanks? You look very tired, and supper won’t be ready for a long time.”

Mr. Hanks looked surprised and embarrassed, hesitated, dropped a book—which Gil rescued—and finally stammered: “Er—thanks, but I have much work to do. It—it has been a very nice day, hasn’t it?”

They all agreed enthusiastically that it had, after which Mr. Hanks hemmed and coughed once or twice, bowed jerkily and went on in. They could hear him walking weariedly up the stairs to his room.

“He looks perfectly floppy!” exclaimed Hope, indignantly. “It is too mean for anything to treat him so!”

“What’s floppy?” asked Gil, a little ashamed of his own small share in the instructor’s unhappiness and willing to switch the conversation.

“Why—why, floppy, of course; tired and—and miserable and unhappy!”

“Ready to flop,” added Poke knowingly. “It is an excellent word, even if Mr. Webster doesn’t countenance it. What’s the matter, Jim?”

“I lost a screw somewhere. I guess it went down a crack when I got up.”

“That lock will be a wonder when you get through with it,” laughed Poke. “You’ve used up three screw-drivers and a perfectly good penknife on it so far.”

“The trouble,” responded Jim gravely, holding the offending article under his nose and squinting knowingly into its intricacies, “is with the tumblers.”

“Nonsense!” said Poke. “The trouble’s in the carburetor. It needs adjusting. How’s school going, Hope?”

“Fine!—I just love the teacher in our room.”

“Hm; wait until you’ve been there another week. Teachers all look good at first. They’re very—very deceptive.” Poke shook his head sadly. “I’ve had a great deal of experience with teachers.”

“I guess they’ve had a good deal of experience with you,” laughed Hope. Poke grinned.

“Well, I don’t deny that I have aided in the education of a few. Including our estimable Nancy,” he added rashly.

Hope sobered. “I shan’t like you, Poke,” she said gravely, “if you’re mean to Mr. Hanks.”

“Who? Me? Honest, now, I haven’t done a thing, have I, Gil?”

“Not much,” answered Gil. “No more than I have. We’ve all had a go at him. I think, though, it’s about time we let up. I guess we’ll have to squelch Bull Gary, Poke.”

Poke nodded. “I guess so. Bull lacks a—a sense of sufficiency.”

“What’s that?” inquired Jeff.

“That is a polite way of saying that he doesn’t know when he’s had enough. By the way, Jim, did we tell you that Gary has taken a room at Jones’s? He says it’s fine, but that’s poppycock. Jones’s is the worst hole in the village. I guess he’s still peeved with you for not renting a room to him.”

“I don’t see how I could,” said Jim, laying aside the lock with a sigh of relief. “I wasn’t going to put Jeff out; or you fellows either. Besides, I don’t like him.”

“Well, Bull isn’t terribly popular,” said Gil, “but he’s really not so awfully bad. All he needs is some one to beat a little sense into him. He’s a lot better than when he first came. I dare say that some day Gary will be a useful member of society.”

“In the sweet by and by,” said Poke skeptically. “And, say, Gil, what’s the matter with Bull’s playing this year? He’s way off his game. Johnny gave him a fierce ragging this afternoon. Did you hear him? Told Bull that if he didn’t do better than he’d been doing he’d be wearing a nice warm blanket on the side-line. I guess Bull has a swelled head after last year.”

“Does he play well?” asked Jim.

“He can play well. He’s one of the best guards we’ve had for years. And in the Hawthorne game last fall—which, as you probably know, Mr. Locksmith, is our big game—he put up a grand old exhibition. Didn’t he, Gil?”

“You bet! And that’s what I say. You can’t altogether dislike a chap who can play football the way he can—when he wants to.”

“Well, he will have to want to pretty soon, I guess,” said Poke. “Johnny’s getting out of patience. When are you coming down to the field with me, Jim, to have a try?”

“About Christmas time, I think.”

“You don’t say? Well, let me tell you something, son. I’m going to get Dun Sargent after you. I’m not going to see a good football player wasted in a locksmith.”

“Good football player!” scoffed Jim. “I never played enough to be good—or even real bad, for that matter. I don’t know enough about the rules to—to—”

“That’s all right,” said Gil. “They’ll teach the rules to you. Just you come and have a try. You’re missing a lot of fun.”

“And a lot of hard work, too,” sighed Poke.

“I wish you would play,” said Hope. “Won’t you, Jim?”

“How can I?” asked Jim a trifle irritably. “I’d like to—in a way—I guess, but who’d do the work here?”

“Listen,” said Poke impressively, “if you’ll try for the squad and if you make it we’ll all help with your silly chores. Won’t we, fellows?”

“Right-O!” agreed Gil.

“Surely,” said Jeff.

“Besides,” Poke continued, “what do you have to do, anyway? Lug up a little coal, split some kindling, sift some ashes—”

“Beat some carpets, run some errands, fix some locks, study some lessons,” added Jim with a laugh.

“Oh, well, that’s nothing,” said Poke airily. “I’m a wonderful carpet beater; better than one of those vacuum things, Jim. Now that’s a fair offer. What do you say?”

Jim laughed.

“Will you report to-morrow?” Poke persisted.

“No, but maybe I’ll go down and look on for awhile.”

“All right! That’s a promise. You go down with Gil and me after school to-morrow. Don’t forget. Jeff, you’re a witness; you too, Hope. After he’s looked on awhile he will want to play. Jim, you’re a gone coon!”