THE afternoon session of Mr. Morton’s Select School was but little more promising of revelations about the new boy than the morning had been. Most of the boys returned earlier than usual from their respective dinners, and either hung about the school-room, staring at their new companion, or waited at the foot of the stairs for him to come down. The attentions of the first-named division soon became so distasteful to the new-comer that he left the room abruptly, and went down the stairway two steps at a time. At the door he found little Benny Mallow looking up admiringly, and determining to practice that particular method of coming down-stairs the first Saturday that he could creep unnoticed through a school-room window. But Benny was not one of those foolish boys who forget the present while planning about the future. Paul Grayson had barely reached the bottom step when little Benny looked innocently up into his face, and remarked, “Say!”

“Well?” Paul answered.

“You’re the biggest boy in school,” continued Benny. “I noticed it when you stood beside Appleby.”

Grayson looked as if he did not exactly see that the matter was worthy of special remark.

“I,” said Benny, “am the smallest boy—I am, really. If you don’t believe it, look at the other boys. I’ll just run down the steps, and stand beside some of them.”

“Don’t take that trouble,” said Grayson, pleasantly. “But what is there remarkable about my height and your shortness?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Benny, looking down with some embarrassment, and then looking up again—“only I thought maybe ’twas a good reason why we should be friends.”

“Why, so it is, little fellow,” said Grayson. “I was very stupid not to understand that without being told.”

“All right, then,” said Benny, evidently much relieved in mind. “Anything you want to know I’ll tell you—anything that I know myself, that is. Because I’m little, you mustn’t think I don’t know everything about this town, because I do. I know where you can fish for bass in a place that no other boy knows anything about: what do you think of that? I know a big black-walnut tree that no other boy ever saw; of course there’s no nuts on it now, but you can see last year’s husks if you like. Have you got a sister?”

Grayson suddenly looked quite sober, and answered, “No.”

“I have,” said Benny, “and she is the nicest girl in town. If you want to know some of the bigger girls, I suppose you’ll have to ask Appleby. What’s the use of big girls, though? They never play marbles with a fellow, or have anything to trade. Say—I hope you’re not too big to play marbles?”

“Oh no,” said Grayson; “I’ll buy some, and we’ll have a royal game.”

“Don’t do it,” said Benny; “I’ve got a pocketful. Come on.” And to the great disgust of all the larger boys Benny led his new friend into the school-yard, scratched a ring on the dirt, divided his stock of marbles into two equal portions, and gave one to Grayson; then both boys settled themselves at a most exciting game, while all the others looked on in wonder, with which considerable envy and jealousy were mixed up.

“That Benny Mallow is putting on more airs than so little a fellow can carry; don’t you think so?” said Sam Wardwell to Ned Johnston.

“I should say so,” was the reply; “and that isn’t all. The new fellow isn’t going to be thought much of in this school if he’s going to allow himself to belong to any youngster that chooses to take hold of him. I’ll tell you one thing: Joe Appleby’s birthday party is to come off in a few days, and I’ll bet you a fish-line to a button that Master Benny won’t get near enough to it to smell the ice-cream. How will that make the little upstart feel?”

“Awful—perfectly awful,” said Sam, who, being very fond of ice-cream himself, could not imagine a more terrible revenge than Ned had suggested. Just then Bert Sharp sauntered up with his hands in his pockets, his head craned forward as usual, and his eyes trying to get along faster than his head.

“See here,” said he, “if that new boy boards with the teacher, he’s going to tell everything he knows. I think somebody ought to let him know what he’ll get if he tries that little game. I’m not going to be told on: I have a rough enough time of it now.” Bert spoke feelingly, for he was that afternoon to remain at school until he had recited from memory four pages of history, as a punishment for his long truancy.

“Who’s going to tell him, though?” asked Sam. “It should be some fellow big enough to take care of himself, for Grayson looks as if he could be lively.”

“I’ll do it myself,” declared Bert, savagely; saying which he lounged over toward the ring at which Benny and Grayson were playing. The boys had seen Bert in such a mood before, so at once there was some whispered cautions to look out for a fight. Before Bert had been a minute beside the ring, Grayson accidentally brushed against him as, half stooping, he followed his alley across the ring. Bert immediately got his hands out of his pockets, and struck Grayson a blow on the back of the neck that felled him to the ground. All the boys immediately rushed to the spot, but before they had reached it the new pupil was on his feet; and the teacher reached the window, bell in hand, just in time to see Grayson give Bert a blow on the chest that caused the young man to go reeling backward, and yell “Oh!” at the top of his voice. Then the bell rang violently, and all of the boys but Bert Sharp hurried up-stairs, Grayson not even taking the trouble to look behind him. In the scramble toward the seats Will Palmer found a chance to whisper to Ned Johnston, “There’s no nonsense about him, eh?”

And Ned replied, “He’s splendid!”

All of the boys seemed of Ned’s opinion, for when Mr. Morton, just as Bert Sharp entered, rang the school to order, and asked, “Who began that fight?” there was a general reply of, “Bert Sharp.”

“Sharp, Grayson, step to the front,” commanded the teacher.

Bert shuffled forward with a very sullen face, while Grayson stalked up so bravely that Benny Mallow risked getting a mark by kicking Sam Wardwell’s feet under the desk to attract his attention, and then whispering, “Just look at that!”

Before the teacher could speak to either of the two boys in front of him, Grayson said, “I’m very sorry, sir, but I was knocked down for nothing, unless it was brushing against him by mistake.”

“Was that the cause, Sharp?” asked Mr. Morton.

Bert hung his head a little lower, which is a way that all boys have when they are in the wrong; so the teacher did not question him any farther, but said:

“Boys, Grayson is a stranger here. I know him to be a boy of good habits and manners, and I give you my word that if you have any trouble with him, you will have to begin it yourselves. And if you expect to be gentlemen when you grow up, you must learn now to treat strangers as you would like to be treated if away from your own homes. Grayson, Sharp, go to your seats.”

“May I speak to Sharp, sir?” asked Grayson.

“Yes,” said Mr. Morton.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” said the new boy. “Will you shake hands and be friends?”

Bert looked up suspiciously without raising his head, but Grayson’s hand was outstretched, and as Bert did not know what else to do, he put out his own hand; and then the two late enemies returned to their seats, Bert looking less bad-tempered than usual, and Grayson looking quite sober.

Somehow at the afternoon recess every boy treated Grayson as if he had known him for years, and no one seemed to be jealous when Grayson invited Bert to play marbles with him, and insisted on his late adversary taking the first shot. But the teacher’s remarks about Grayson had only increased the curiosity of the boys about their new comrade, and when Sam Wardwell remarked that old Mrs. Bartle, with whom the teacher and his pupil boarded, bought groceries nearly every evening at his father’s store, and he would just lounge about during the rest of the afternoon and ask her about Grayson when she came in, at least six other boys offered to sit on a board-pile near the store and wait for information.

As for Grayson, he sat in the school-room writing while the teacher waited, for more than an hour after the general dismissal, to hear Bert Sharp recite those detestable four pages of history, and Bert was a great deal slower at his task than he would have been if he had not had to wonder why Grayson had to do so much writing.