Mrs. Linn, the matron of West House, was a short, ample, motherly woman of some fifty years who had in some miraculous manner preserved both her complexion and her hair. Her cheeks bloomed like roses and her tresses, which she wore wound high at the back of her head in large braids, were hued like the raven’s wing. She had been born in England, had married an Englishman and had come to this country soon after her wedding. Under the stress of excitement she still lost an occasional H. What had become of Mr. Linn was a matter of conjecture amongst the boys, for while the matron in her infrequent allusions to him assumed the sorrowfully resigned air of a widow, yet his fate was never explained. Mrs. Linn had ruled over West House for nearly fifteen years. She was not a disciplinarian; in the face of revolt she was helpless and tearful; and yet she got along very well. You see, there wasn’t much fun in being bad when you knew all the time that Mrs. Linn was sitting in her room downstairs, rocking back and forth in her patent rocker, and shedding silent tears. Chivalry protested. At such times West House sighed for a house master of its own sex whom it could bait to its heart’s content.

The fellows liked Mrs. Linn and called her Marm—and poked good-natured fun at her amongst themselves. Conversation was her one weakness. She loved to talk. The boy who listened patiently to her discourse won her heart, a fact well known and taken frequent advantage of. When a special privilege was wanted West House to a man descended to the matron’s room and sat around in respectful and apparently interested attention while she ran on and on. Then, at departure, Sandy or Dutch, both prime favorites, proffered their request in quite the most casual manner in the world and it was almost invariably granted.

The arrival of a new boy presented an opportunity for discourse that Mrs. Linn always made the most of and it was a good ten minutes before Ned Brent closed the door behind her with a sigh of relief. John, who had accorded her polite attention every minute, thereby at once gaining a foothold in her affections, now turned to view his surroundings with frank interest.

West House accommodated eight boys, two in each of the four rooms of the second floor. Below were Mrs. Linn’s room and the kitchen on one side and the parlor and dining room on the other. Somewhere at the top of the house dwelt Hulda, the maid, who combined the duties of cook, waitress, chambermaid and second-girl. The room in which John found himself was officially known as Number 1, but in house parlance was called the Den. In the same way, Number 2, across the hall, was the Ice Chest, so called because it was at the northwest corner of the house and in winter attained a temperature that would have made an arctic explorer feel right at home. Back of the Ice Chest was the Smellery. The Smellery was over the kitchen and Dutch Zoller and Hoop Ross, who dwelt therein, pretended to be able to tell an hour beforehand what was to be served at the next meal. The Sun Parlor, habitation of The Fungus and his new roommate, was so named because it had the sun almost all day. On the lower floor, Mrs. Linn’s room was called the Throne Room, the kitchen was the Hashery, the dining-room the Gobblery and the parlor the Tomb. They were partial to nicknames at Oak Park.

The Den, because it was at once on the front of the house and had the benefit of the sun as well, was accorded the distinction of being the most desirable room. Like the others, it was good-sized, very nearly square and well furnished. On the side was a deep bay with a seat all the way around it under the three broad windows. On the front were two other windows overlooking the lawn and the road and the slope of the wooded hill beyond. There were two beds, two bureaus, two shallow closets, two easy chairs, a washstand and a study table with a straight-backed chair at each side of it. On Ned’s side of the room the walls were lavishly hung with pictures. Straw matting covered the floor and three small rugs were disposed in front of bureaus and washstand.

“This is my side of the room,” announced Ned, seating himself in his own particular easy chair, “and that’s yours.”

John’s gaze came back from a survey of the room and he nodded.

“Thanks. Why do they put all the pictures over there?”

“Those are mine,” explained Ned. “You can hang yours on your own side.”

“Oh,” said John. “But, you see, I haven’t got any.”

“Didn’t you bring anything to fix up with?” asked Ned in disgust. John shook his head.

“No, I—didn’t know I should.” Then he added: “Besides, I haven’t any, anyhow.”

“Well, you can buy some in the town. Are they bringing your trunk up?”

“It’s coming by express. I suppose it won’t get here before tomorrow. It was cheaper to send it that way.”

“Oh,” said Ned. He observed his new roommate curiously.

“You said your name was Boland, didn’t you? Well, mine’s Brent. Hope we’ll get on all right. Now you’d better fix up a bit and I’ll take you over to see Horace. You’re supposed to report to him as soon as you come.”

“Horace?” repeated John wonderingly.

“Yes, the principal. His name’s Horace, you know.”

“I thought—” began John.

“He will ask you a lot of questions and tell you to be good, you know,” continued Ned with a grin. “Don’t be saucy to him, Boland.”

“I don’t cal’late to,” replied John, reflecting the grin. “I’ll wash up and brush my hair. It was pretty hot walking up here.”

“Why didn’t you take a chariot? Weren’t there any?”

“You mean a carriage? Thought I’d rather save my quarter.”

“You must be an economical duffer,” said Ned with a frown. “I wouldn’t do too much of that sort of thing or fellows will think you’re a tight-wad. And, say, got any other togs in that gripsack of yours?”

“Togs? You mean clothes?”

“What else?”

“Only some collars and cuffs and a handkerchief and some socks and—”

“Another suit?”

“No; why?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied Ned evasively. “Only Horace likes the fellows to dress up pretty well when they call. Thought you might have another suit with you.”

“Gosh, this is the best suit I have!” said John perplexedly. “Ain’t it good enough for him?”

“Sure,” answered Ned hurriedly. “But—er—suppose you put on another tie, old man. Horace hates bright colors. And I’d leave off the vest, I think. Much too hot for vests.”

“Yes, I don’t often wear a vest,” replied John as he took off his coat. “Nor a stiff shirt, either. But mother thought I’d better sort of spruce up, you see.” Off came the vest, exposing a pair of pink cotton suspenders. Ned shuddered.

“Got a belt with you?”

“Belt? No, I ain’t. Why?”

“I’ll lend you one. You can’t wear suspenders without a vest, of course.”

“I usually do,” objected John.

“Well, it isn’t done here, old man. You do as I tell you and you’ll be all right. Let’s see what kind of a tie you’ve got in there. Thunder! That won’t do! Haven’t you anything that doesn’t look like you—you’d pinched it from a rainbow? Here, I’ll find you one.”

“The principal must be plaguey particular,” growled John as he poured water into the bowl and began to splash.

“He is; something fierce,” said Ned gravely. “You want to look just right when you tackle Horace or he will get miffed right away. Here, put this on. And here’s a belt. It’s an old one, but I guess it’ll do for this time. Got a cap with you?”

“What sort of a cap?” asked John with signs of a vanishing temper.

“Cloth cap, of course.”

“Never wear them.”

“Well, you will here. You’ll have to get one. You can wear one of mine today. I’ve got two or three, if I can find them. If I were you I’d stick that straw in the furnace.”

“What for? What’s the matter with it?” demanded John, eyeing his new acquaintance aggressively over the edge of the towel.

“It looks like a last year’s bird nest,” replied Ned firmly. “Now don’t get huffy. I’m telling you things for your own good, old man. You don’t want to go around having fellows laugh at you, do you?”

“No, but—”

“Well, they will if you don’t tog up like the rest of us. Here’s the cap. Now stick this belt around— Gee, you haven’t any loops on your trousers, have you? Never mind. Pull it tight and it’ll be all hunky. Get a move on, Boland; it’s most five.” Ned went to the window and called. “Oh, you Fungus!” There was an answering hail from below. “Going to take him over to Horace now?” continued Ned. “’Cause if you are we’ll go together. What? All right. In about five minutes.” He turned and surveyed the rehabilitated John with critical and frowning regard. “That’s better,” he announced, the frowns clearing away. “You look more like now, old man. Can’t be too careful about your togs, you know. As old Shake said, ‘The attire doth oft proclaim the man,’ or something like that. Let those trousers come down another inch if you can. That’s the stuff. Now, then, grab that cap and come ahead.”

In the hall they came upon The Fungus and young Parker. The latter was a slim, pink-cheeked, diffident boy of thirteen who was evidently taking his advent at Oak Park very, very seriously and was rather overwhelmed by his sudden plunge into the boarding school world. The four left the house and struck off through the park in the direction of the principal’s residence, the chimney of which John had spied for an instant above the trees. Ned and The Fungus walked together, leaving the two new arrivals to get acquainted in their own fashion. Claire Parker was visibly embarrassed and John was so intent on his own thoughts that it was not until they had left West House well behind that he considered the conversational demands of the situation. Then he turned and found the younger boy observing him with shy and eager brown eyes which were instantly lowered.

“I cal’late you and me’d might as well get acquainted,” said John kindly. “My name’s John Boland. What’s yours?”

“Claire Parker,” was the reply. “You just came, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes. What do you think of the place, Parker?”

“Oh, I like it immensely,” was the eager response. “Don’t you?”

“I guess so. I’ve never been to this sort of a school before, you see. Have you?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve never been to any school. I’ve been taught at home. I’m awfully afraid that it’s going to be hard. I suppose you’ve been to school for a long time?”

“Four years in grammar school. Where do you live?”

“New York.”

“New York! Gee, that’s a long way off, ain’t it? Weren’t there any schools there you could go to?”

“Why, yes, lots of them, but my mother didn’t want me to go to school near home, you see.”

“Didn’t she? Why not?”

“Well, she said I needed to learn how to look after myself, and she said the best way to do that was to go a good way off where I couldn’t come home all the time and where I’d have to—to get along by myself.”

“Oh. Well, I cal’late that’s a good idea, maybe. I live at West Bayport. Ever been there?” Claire shook his head.

“N-no, where is it?”

“About sixty miles from here, on the coast. It’s a dandy place. Lots of city folks come there in summer. There’s some fine big houses on the Neck. We live in the town. I can look right down on the decks of the schooners from my window.”

“That must be fine! I’m crazy about boats and the ocean. I can see some of the North River from our house and I love to watch the boats go up and down. I suppose you’ve been to New York?”

“No.” John shook his head. “No, I ain’t ever been there—yet. I’m going some day, though. It must be pretty big, ain’t it?”

“Awfully! It—it’s almost too big. You see, there are so many people there that you never get to know many of them.”

“That’s funny,” said John.

“Maybe it sounds funny, but it isn’t. One summer mother and I went to a little place in Connecticut, just a village it was, and after we’d been there two or three days I knew lots of boys, about three or four times as many as I knew at home. I suppose if I went to school I’d know more fellows.”

“I cal’late I know about every fellow in West Bayport,” said John, “and lots of fellows on the Neck, too; fellows that just come there summers.”

“Then I guess you’re never—lonely,” said Claire wistfully.

“Lonely! Gee, no! I wouldn’t be, anyhow; there’s too much to do and see. There’s always boats coming in and going out and tugs skipping around. And then there’s the big salt ships from Spain and Italy and a revenue cutter now and then; and the lighthouse tender, too. And in summer there’s most always some of the battleships in the harbor.”

“I’d like that place,” said Claire decisively. “What did you say the name of it was?”

“West Bayport,” answered John proudly. “I cal’late it’s about as nice a little town as there is. And pretty, too.”

“It must be very—very interesting,” said Claire. “Perhaps I can get mother to go there this summer, if we don’t go abroad.”

“Abroad?” echoed the other. “Ever been abroad?”

“Oh, yes, several times. I’ve been all around over there. But I like this country better, don’t you?”

“I ain’t ever been in any other—yet,” laughed John. “But I’m going some day. I’m going to England and Turkey and the Holy Land. And maybe Holland. Ever been in Holland?”

“Not to stay very long. I liked the South of France best of all. We stayed there all one winter when I was about ten.”

“Ever been to Turkey or Palestine?”

“No, I never have. I suppose you’re a good deal older than I am, aren’t you?”

“Fourteen last March,” answered John. “I cal’late you’re about twelve, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m thirteen. You seem—older than fourteen. I guess that’s Doctor Webster’s house.”

They had come to a rustic gate beyond which stood a small brick house with a red slate, many-gabled roof. Virginia creeper almost hid the lower story and shrubs were massed thickly under the windows. There was a lawn in front and a great bed of scarlet sage followed the upper curve of the drive.

“Here we are,” said The Fungus as he held the gate open and they passed through under a canopy of lilac branches. “Pull down your vests and wipe off your chins, kids, and look respectful.”

They crossed the garden and ascended the short flight of stone steps. Under the gabled porch Ned pressed the button and waited. Presently a maid admitted them and they filed into the Inquisitory, as the Doctor’s library was termed. They found four boys ahead of them. When they had been there a few minutes a door into a rear room was opened and a short, elderly man with kindly face and near-sighted eyes that twinkled humorously behind spectacles appeared.

“Now, then, who’s next, please?” he asked.

A stout boy and a thin boy arose and stood viewing each other doubtfully.

“Well, which is it?” asked the principal.

“We both came in together, sir,” answered the stout youth.

“So? Well, there’s more of you, my boy, and so I’ll see you first. This way, please.”

John’s turn came presently and he found himself shaking hands with Doctor Webster and being conducted across the threshold of a little sun-filled room that was dazzlingly bright after the darkened library. The door was closed and the Doctor pointed to a chair at the side of his desk.

“Sit down, please. Now then, what’s your name, sir?”

“John Boland, sir.”

“Boland?” The Doctor seated himself in his revolving chair and referred to a book that lay open before him. “Ah, yes, from West Bayport; where they make the codfish for our Sunday morning breakfasts. Well, John, I’m glad to see you. I hope you left your—” another glance at the book—“your mother well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She tells me in her letter that you want to go to college.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that’s a commendable desire,” said the Doctor heartily. “I suppose you know all about sailing a boat, John?”

“I can sail a sloop, sir.”

“Then you have that advantage over me. Now I dare say that if you knew little or nothing about sailing and you were put in a sloop at, say, Boston Light and had to make your way to West Bayport you might be able to do it, but it would be difficult work, wouldn’t it?”

“I cal’late it would, sir.”

“You calculate it would,” said the Doctor with a twinkle behind his glasses. “Yes. Well, on the other hand, if you knew how to sail that boat you’d get home safely, easily and quickly. That’s what education does, my boy. It teaches you how to set your sail, how to point your craft, how to take advantage of all the varying winds, how to meet squalls and weather storms. Without education you may be able to travel Life’s sea, but it’s going to be hard and you’re going to be tossed about more than necessary. But with knowledge it’s a good deal easier. Knowledge is power, whether you’re sailing a sloop over Massachusetts Bay or breasting the waves of Life. See what I mean?”

“Yes, sir. You mean I ought to study hard and get an education.”

“Exactly. I observe that you have a practical mind, John. Study hard; that’s the idea. But don’t let study be hard if you can help it. Try and like study, my boy. If you were master of a seining schooner and set out on a trip to The Georges you’d be doing something that would be at once pleasure and duty, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Surely. Well, see if you can’t combine pleasure and duty here, John. It’s quite possible. Study needn’t be drudgery. Keep in mind that learning is like rolling a snowball down hill. It may be slow work at first, but it gets easier every minute, and the bigger the snowball gets the more snow it takes up, until when you’ve reached the bottom of the hill maybe it’ll be all you can do to look over the top of it. And then, if you’ve put your mind on it, perhaps your snowball will be bigger than anybody else’s snowball. Now, let me see. You want to enter the First Junior Class, I think? And your age is what? Fourteen? Hm. Well, I think you ought to find your place there without much trouble. But we’ll attend to that later. You’re at West House?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s excellent. Mrs. Linn is a very capable woman and you will like her. Who are you to room with?”

“Ned Brent, sir.”

“Brent?” The Doctor’s brows went up and he was silent a moment. Once he frowned and once his hand went forth toward the telephone on the corner of the desk. Finally, however, he nodded his head slowly. “Well, maybe he’s just the boy for you,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ll see later. Ned is rather a favorite of mine, but I’m not blind to his little weaknesses. However— Well, that’s all this time, I think, John. I hope you’ll get along nicely with us and will enjoy being here. It isn’t all study here, you know; we play football and baseball and all the other games that boys like; and we try to be out of doors all we can. Healthful bodies make healthful minds, you know. The rules aren’t hard; we try not to have very many. The principal one is this, John: Be manly, straightforward and diligent. When you find that you’ve just got to break one of the regulations, go ahead and break it. Then come over here and tell me about it honestly and we’ll try to make the punishment no harder than necessary. We don’t expect every boy to behave like a sober old man all the time; boys must rare and tear a bit; all we ask is that they shall be straightforward and honest. I’ll see you at school tomorrow morning, John, and we’ll see how much you’ve already learned. Good afternoon.”

The Doctor shook hands again, the door opened and John was once more in the darkened library.

“Who is next, please?” asked the Doctor.