The next morning John William Boland began his life at Oak Park School. I give him his full title for the last time, for after his immersion in Willow Lake he was never anything but Cal among his friends, and it behooves us to follow the fashion.

It was customary for West House to proceed across the park to school in a body. The bell in School Hall rang warningly at a quarter to nine, but its tones fell on deaf ears. At ten minutes to nine the boys gathered their books together and began their search for caps. At five minutes to nine they raced pell-mell out of the house and through the park, usually arriving in the corridor of School Hall just as the last strokes of the second bell died away. But this morning, being the first day of the term, the eight boys started promptly with the first bell and passed through the park quite leisurely. Willow Lake didn’t look at all like the pool in which they had disported themselves last night. In the moonlight it had seemed to Cal big and mysterious. Today, with the sunlight pouring down on it and a little breeze rippling the surface, it resolved itself into a small and quite commonplace pond, oval in shape, neatly margined with smooth turf and shaded with oaks and willows, the latter in places dipping their drooping branches into the water.

“I saw a whopping big trout in her last Spring,” said Spud, leaning over the bridge and gazing longingly into the channel below. “I’m going to try for him some day.”

“Better not let anyone catch you,” said Sandy.

“Aren’t you allowed to fish here?” Cal asked.

“No, nor in the Mill Pond back of the Hall. They’re full of fish, too. Some of the East House fellows fished in the Mill Pond one morning last Spring and got caught at it. They got fits from Horace. They got up at about half-past four and thought no one would see them, but Eliza piped them from her window.”

“Who is Eliza?” asked Cal.

“Mrs. Kendall; Grouch’s wife; she’s matron at the Hall. Grouch teaches math.”

They passed out through the little rustic gate, crossed the road and went in between the iron posts and under the iron grilling with its O. P. S. in monogram. The Green, as the space between the gymnasium, the Hall and the school was called, was dotted with boys, while the steps of the Hall held many others. As the company came into sight shouts of welcome reached them from all sides.

“O you West House!”

“O you Hall!” was the answer in unison. Right arms went up at an angle of forty-five degrees and right hands were fluttered with a peculiar motion from the elbow that constituted the Oak Park form of salutation. It wasn’t many days before Cal could do it as well as anyone, but just now he kept his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore the fact that dozens of pairs of eyes were studying him critically. As they followed the path that led around in front of the Hall greetings and banter fell thick.

“There’s Dutch Zoller! Dutch, you’re pretty near fat enough to kill!”

“What do they feed you on, Dutch?”

“O you Fungus! How’s it going, boy?”

“Hello, Sandy, you old chump! Glad to see you.”

“You’re looking mighty pale, Hoop! You ought to see a doctor.”

To Cal’s surprise West House kept on its way around the corner of the Hall, following a path that led slightly downward toward a smaller building set in a corner of the grounds. There was a brook which flowed for a little distance into what Cal surmised to be the Mill Pond of which Sandy had spoken, and the path passed over a tiny rustic bridge. At the bridge the company stopped.

“Now then,” said Sandy, and—

“O you East House!” they shouted.

Two boys tumbled out on to the porch and waved, and in a moment others appeared and the hail was answered.

“O you West House!”

Hands went up in friendly salutation and then West House turned and retraced its steps, turning to the right where the path divided, and fetching up at the School House steps. By this time the entrance was alive with boys, boys of all sizes and a variety of ages, but all, excepting a sprinkling of newcomers like Cal and Clara Parker, looking excited and merry. Cal had stuck pretty close to Ned Brent and now Ned introduced him to several fellows whose names he either didn’t catch or immediately forgot. Presently, finding that no one was paying any attention to him, a fact which helped to reduce his embarrassment, he wandered into the building.

There was nothing remarkable about School House. It was the oldest of all the buildings and the corridor was rather dark and stuffy. Rooms opened from it at left and right, and peeking into the nearer one, Cal saw a blackboard-lined apartment with a platform and teacher’s desk at one end and some forty pupils’ desks occupying the rest of the room. At one of the boards a middle-aged man with a scowling countenance was making cabalistic figures with a piece of yellow chalk. Evidently, thought Cal, that was the mathematics instructor who went by the unattractive name of Grouch. Suddenly overhead the bell began its last summons. A sprinkling of boys came in, but most of them continued their conversation on the steps. Cal found a new object of interest in a large pine board occupying a space near the door. Beside it hung a pad of paper and in one corner were dozens of thumb-tacks. On the board itself were many pieces of paper torn from the pad and impaled with the tacks. The messages they bore were interesting to the new boy:

“J. W.; meet me at noon at East House. Taffy.”

“Growler Gay; Where’s my French dictionary? Must have it today. E. M.”

“Spud H.; Meet me on steps after morning. Carl.”

“Lost! Tennis racket with initials J. E. L. Return to Lewis, Hall. No questions asked.”

“West House Baseball. Nine plays East House at 4. All out sharp. White, cap’t.”

“Class Day programmes in 12 Hall after two on Wednesday.”

“Bandy Jones wants to see Pills Green after morning. Important!”

The notices were evidently survivals of last term. Cal wondered whether he would ever find his name there with a message that someone wanted to see him. The bell stopped ringing with a final emphatic clang and there was a wild rush toward the class rooms. Cal flattened himself against the notice board to keep from being swept along with the throng and Ned spied him there.

“Come on, Cal! This way to the fireworks!”

Cal struggled across and followed Ned into a room at the end of the corridor. They were almost the last in.

“Morning, sir,” said Ned, and Cal turned to find Doctor Webster standing inside the green leather door.

“Good morning, Brent,” returned the Doctor. “Good morning, Boland. Find a seat at the back of the room, please.”

The doors were closed, the Doctor mounted the platform and struck a gong sharply and the room became quiet. Cal found himself in a seat on the last row, one of many new arrivals. As he looked about him he saw heads go down, and then heard voices join in the Invocation.

“O Lord, we are gathered again in Thy presence. Help us, we pray, to make this new day one of earnest endeavor and happy accomplishment. Aid us to subdue all evil desires and set our faces toward the light. For Christ’s sake. Amen.”

After a moment’s silence the Doctor seated himself at his big desk and in brisk and business-like tones set the lessons for the different classes in Latin and Greek. Afterwards the gong was struck again and many of the boys went out. Those that remained gave their attention more or less closely to their books. Then the Doctor called the new boys to him one by one and put each through an oral examination that soon settled the question of their disposal. Cal had no trouble in satisfying the Doctor as to his right to entrance into the First Junior Class.

“All right, Boland. Report to Mr. James in Room Three, please. Up the corridor to your right.”

Room 3 was as large a room as the Doctor’s, but contained only some twenty seats, of which rather more than half were occupied when Cal pushed the green door open and entered. In front of the first row of desks were settees used for recitations. At Cal’s appearance one of the boys in the room began tapping the floor with his foot, and instantly every other boy followed suit. Mr. James looked around and signalled Cal to approach the platform. The tapping died away. The instructor was a youngish man with the appearance of a college athlete rather than a teacher. To the school he was known as Jim. He taught Natural Sciences, had charge of physical training and was Athletic Instructor. He was mightily feared by the younger boys and loved by the older. His habitual expression was one of severity and he had a way of looking at a boy that seemed to bore right through. Cal’s embarrassment was so palpable, however, that Mr. James softened his severity of countenance with a smile.

“Well?” he asked.

“Doctor Horace sent me, sir.”

A titter of amusement swept over the room but was silenced at a glance from the instructor.

“Doctor Horace?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know the Doctor very well?”

“Huh? Sir?”

“Are you an old friend of the Doctor’s? Known him all your life?”

“No, sir, I never saw him until yesterday.”

“Then don’t you think you’d better call him by his last name instead of his first? Did anyone tell you to call him Doctor Horace?”

“No, sir—that is, Ned Brent said his name was Horace, sir. I thought it was Webster.”

“You thought right. Never mind; the mistake was natural.” Mr. James smiled. “What’s your name?”

“John Boland, sir.”

“Boland?” The instructor wrote on a card. “All right. Peters!”

A youth at the back of the room stood up instantly beside his seat.

“Boland, do you see that boy standing up? Well, that is George Peters. Peters is one of our stupidest boys, Boland. I think I might say our stupidest without risking exaggeration. That is so, Peters?”

“Y-yes, sir,” replied Peters cheerfully.

“Thank you. Now, Boland, you take the seat at the left of Peters’. You look like a smart fellow and I am hoping that perchance that propinquity may result in contagion for Peters.”

Cal walked down the aisle to the indicated seat.

“You may sit down, Peters,” continued Mr. James. “And, Peters, if you experience a queer sensation don’t be unduly alarmed. It will probably be only the germ of industry finding lodgment in you. Should you experience a strange impulse to glance now and then into your books don’t combat it; let it grow. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Peters with a grin.

“Thank you again, Peters. You are very amiable. Am I right in thinking that you have your book upside-down? I can’t be certain at this distance.”

Peters glanced at the book and switched it quickly around.

“I was right? I thought so. Try it that way for awhile, Peters; reading upside-down must be difficult to even a normal intellect, and I don’t think you ought to attempt it with yours.”

Mr. James allowed his gaze to wander around the class room with the result that some fourteen smiles vanished abruptly from as many faces and an equal number of heads bent over books. Cal looked about him. Most of the boys appeared to be of his own age, although the unfortunate Peters was plainly a year older. Presently he descried Ned over in a corner, and, yes, that was Spud Halladay in the next seat but one. He didn’t feel so lonesome after that. Presently Mr. James came down with an armful of books.

“Write your name in these, Boland, and be careful of them. We don’t allow the misuse of text-books here. Peters, do you think that you can tell Boland what the lessons for today are without unduly taxing your massive intellect?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Peters.

“Try it, then. Have you pencils and pens, Boland?”

“No, sir.”

“Come to the desk, then, and get what you need.”

Cal followed the instructor up to the platform, received an assortment of writing implements and returned to where Peters awaited him.

“Ain’t he great?” whispered Peters joyfully as he opened one of the new books and indicated the day’s lesson. “He’s more fun than a circus sometimes.”

“Don’t you—don’t you mind his talking like that?” whispered Cal incredulously.

“Mind it! Gee, no! He don’t mean anything. Jim’s a corker!”

A few minutes later a gong sounded and Cal followed the others to Room 1, where Mr. Spander, known as Charlie, taught French and German. There was no real work that morning and at twelve o’clock the noon gong released them. Cal returned to West House with Ned and Spud and found that his trunk had arrived.

“Get your things out,” counselled Ned. “Dinner isn’t until half-past.”

So Cal unpacked and Ned sat and looked on, his countenance running the gamut of expressions from surprised distaste to hopeless despair. As a matter of fact Cal’s wardrobe wasn’t one to elicit admiration. When the last thing was out Ned sat huddled in speechless disgust. Finally:—

“That’s your closet, Cal,” he said hopelessly. “Put ’em away before anyone comes in, please.”

Cal viewed him puzzledly.

“Why?”

“Oh, I like the room to look neat.” He got up and went to the window and stood for a moment frowning out at the green hill beyond the dusty road. At last, having made up his mind, he turned resolutely.

“Say, Cal, I’m a friend of yours; you know that, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, I cal’late I do,” answered Cal bewilderedly.

“Sure thing, old man. Well, what I’m going to say is for your own good. I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but—but, honest, Cal, they won’t do!”

“What won’t do?” asked Cal, pausing on his way to the closet with his winter overcoat in his hand.

Ned nodded toward the things on the floor.

“Those; the—the togs, you know.”

“Why, what’s the matter with them? Ain’t they—ain’t they good enough?”

“To be quite frank, old man, they are not,” said Ned decisively. Cal studied a moment, his glance wandering from his roommate to the apparel.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, “but they’re all I’ve got, Ned.”

“Well, I suppose you could blow yourself to another suit, Cal, couldn’t you? And a sweater and cap and a few ties that don’t look as though they were made for a circus clown, and—”

But Cal shook his head decidedly.

“I couldn’t, honest, Ned. You see, I—I ain’t got much money.”

“That straight? Folks hit by the panic, were they?”

“I don’t know anything about the panic,” replied Cal seriously. “We ain’t had much money since father was drowned.” Then Cal explained about the legacy and what miracles were to be performed with it; and how in summer he was going to find work and make a whole lot of money toward his college expenses. And Ned listened sympathetically, a little surprised withal, and was silent when Cal had finished.

“That’s different,” he said at last gravely. “I didn’t know it was like that with you, old man. Gee, you’re downright plucky, that’s what you are, Cal! But— Well, there’s the dinner bell. We’ll have to think this over. Course you can’t spend a lot of money on clothes; I see that, all right; but there’s some things you certainly do need, old man, and we’ll have to find a way of getting them. Come on. How’s your appetite? Mine’s fine and dandy. Take hold of the rail like this and see if you can make it in four jumps. That’s Spud’s record. I almost did it once, but I fell at the bottom and bust the umbrella-stand to smithereens! Come on! One—two—”