FOR a day or two after the terrible collapse of the Indian theory Paul Grayson kept himself aloof from the other boys to such an extent that he made them feel very uncomfortable. Benny, in particular, was made most miserable by such treatment from Paul, for Benny was not happy unless he could talk a great deal; and as he could not even be near the other boys without being reproached for his untruthful Indian story, the coolness of Paul reduced him to the necessity of doing all his talking at home, where he really could not spend time enough to tell all that was on his mind.

Besides, there were several darling topics on which Benny’s mother and sister, although they loved the boy dearly, never would exhibit any interest. Benny had lately learned, after months of wearisome practice in Sam Wardwell’s barn, that peculiar gymnastic somersault known and highly esteemed among boys of a certain age as “skinning the cat,” and he was dying to have some one see him do it, and praise him for his skill. But when he proposed to do it in the house, from the top of one of the door frames, his mother called him inhuman, and his sister said he was disgusting, the instant they heard the name of the trick; and although Benny finally made them understand that cats had really nothing to do with the trick, and that if he should ever want the skin taken off a real cat he would not do the work himself, not even for the best fishing-rod in town, he was still as far from succeeding as ever; for when he afterward explained just what the trick consisted in, his mother told him that he was her only boy, and while she liked to see him amuse himself, she never would consent to stand still and look at him while he was attempting to break his blessed little neck.

And how unsatisfactory his sister was when consulted about fish bait! In marbles she had been known to exhibit some interest, but a boy could not always talk about marbles. When Benny explained how different kinds of live bait kicked while on the hook, and asked her to think of some new kind of bug or insect that he could try on the big trout that had learned to escape trouble by letting alone the insects already used to hide hooks with, she told him that she didn’t know anything about it, and, what was more, she didn’t care to, and she didn’t think her brother was a very nice boy to care for such dirty things himself.

The change in the relations of the boys with Paul did not escape Mr. Morton’s eyes; and when he questioned his newest pupil, and learned the cause, he made an excuse to send Paul home for something, and then told the boys that to pry into the affairs of other people was most unmannerly, and that he thought Paul had been too good a fellow to deserve such treatment at the hands of his companions. The boys admitted to themselves that they thought so too; and when next they were out-of-doors together most of them agreed with each other that there should be no more questioning of Paul Grayson about himself. Still, Sam Wardwell correctly expressed the sentiment of the entire school when he said he hoped that Paul would soon think to tell without being asked, because it was certain that there was something wonderful about him; boys were not usually as cool, strong, good-natured, fearless, and sensible as he.

Pleasant relations were soon restored between the boys, but there was not as much playing in the school-yard as before, for the weather had become very hot; so the usual diversion of the boys was to sit in a row on the lower rail of the shady side of the school-yard fence, and tell stories, or agree upon what to do when the evening became cooler. Paul Grayson occasionally begged for a game of ball; he could not bear to be so lazy, he said, even if the sun did shine hotly. But the boys could seldom agree with him to the extent of playing on the shadeless ball-ground; so after dismissal in the afternoon Paul used to go alone to the ball-ground behind the court-house, and practise running, hopping, jumping, and tossing a heavy stone, until some of the boys, not having promised to abstain from talking with each other about Paul, wondered if their mysterious friend might not be the son of some great clown, or circus rider, or trapeze performer, or something of the sort. Paul’s exercises seemed to give a great deal of entertainment to the prisoners in the jail, for some of them were always at the large barred window, and the counterfeiter was sure to be at the small one the moment he heard Paul come whistling by; and well he might, for that cell, lighted only by a single very small window, must have been a dismal place to spend whole days in.

From occasionally looking at the prisoners from the play-ground Paul finally came to stare at them for several minutes at a time. The other boys could not see what there could be about such a lot of bad men to interest a fine fellow like Paul; but Canning Forbes explained that perhaps the spectacle would be interesting to them too if they were strangers, and had not seen the prisoners in every-day life, and known what a common, stupid, uninteresting set they were. All of the boys, Canning reminded them, had been full of curiosity about the counterfeiter when he had first been put into the jail; that, he explained, was because the man was a stranger, and no one of them knew a thing about him. Paul was in exactly the same condition about the other prisoners, and the counterfeiter too.

The explanation was satisfactory, but Paul’s interest in the prisoners was not, for all the time he spent staring at the side of the jail might otherwise have been spent with them, all of whom, excepting perhaps Joe Appleby, felt that they never could see enough of Paul. Some of them were shrewd enough to reason that if Paul could be made to understand what a miserable set those jail-birds really were, he would soon cease to have any interest in them; so they made various excuses to talk about the prisoners by name, and tell what mean and dishonest and disgraceful things they did.

But somehow the scheme did not work; Paul himself talked about the prisoners, and he reminded the boys that some of those men had wives who were being unhappy about them; and others, particularly the younger ones, were keeping loving mothers in misery; and perhaps some of them had children that were suffering, even starving, because their fathers were in jail. How could any fellow help being curious about men, asked Paul, whose condition put such stories into a man’s mind?

“Perhaps, too,” Paul argued, “some of those men are not as bad as they seem. Every man has a little good of some sort in him; and although he is to blame for not letting it, instead of his wrong thoughts, manage him, perhaps some day he may change. I can’t help wishing so about all of those fellows in the jail, and, what is more, I wouldn’t help it if I could—would you?”

No, they wouldn’t, the boys thought; still, they thought also, although no one felt exactly like saying it aloud, that boys at Mr. Morton’s school had some good in them, and were a great deal surer to appreciate the thoughtful tendencies of a good fellow than a lot of worthless town loafers were, to say nothing of a dreadful counterfeiter.

“If you feel that way,” said Joe Appleby, somewhat sneeringly, after the crowd had been silent for two or three moments, “why don’t you go with Mr. Morton when he visits the prisoners? I would do it if I felt as you do; I would think it very wrong to stay away.”

Joe’s tone, as he said this, was so absolutely taunting that most of the boys expected to see Paul spring at him and strike him; they certainly would do so themselves, if big enough, and talked to in that way. But Paul merely replied, “I don’t go, because he never asked me to.”

“Oh, don’t let that stand in your way,” said Joe, quickly; “you can easily do the asking yourself. I’ll ask for you, if you feel delicate about putting in your own word.”

At this the boys felt sure there would be a fight, but to their great surprise Paul sat quietly on the rail, and replied, “I should be much obliged if you would; that is, if you’re man enough to own that you first taunted me about it.”

Joe arose, and looked as proud as if he were about to lead a whole army to certain victory.

“I’ll do it,” said he, “and right away, too.”

“And I,” said Canning Forbes, “will go along to see that you tell the story correctly, and do full justice to Grayson.”

Joe scowled terribly at this, but Canning, although a very quiet fellow, had such a determined way in everything he undertook, that Joe knew it was useless to remonstrate, so he strode sullenly along, with Canning at his side. The other boys looked for a moment in utter astonishment; then, as with one accord, all but Paul sprung to their feet and followed.

Mr. Morton was astonished at the irruption, as his bell had not been sounded; but he listened to Joe’s request and to Canning’s statement, which was supported by fragments volunteered by other boys; then he replied, “I will gladly take Paul with me, but am sorry that the newest pupil in the school should be the first to express a kind thought about the unfortunates in the jail.”

Then Joe Appleby hung his head, and Canning Forbes did likewise, and most of the other boys followed their example; but Benny rushed to the side window, thrust his head out, and shouted, “It’s all right, Paul; he says you can go.”

Then all the boys laughed at Benny, at which Benny blushed, and the teacher rung his bell, which called in no one but Paul. Then the school came to order; but most of the boys blundered over their lessons that afternoon, for their minds were full of what they had to tell to boys that attended other schools, or did not go to school at all.

The visit of Paul to the prison was made that very afternoon, and before night nearly every family in the town had heard of how it had come to pass, and determined that Paul Grayson was a noble fellow, no matter how much mystery there might be about him. Benny Mallow, having learned in advance that the visit was contemplated—for Paul could not get rid of him after school except by telling him—Benny waited at a corner near the jail until Paul and the teacher came out. He hid himself for a moment or two, so that Paul would not think he had been watching him; then he hurried around a block, intercepted the couple, and made some excuse to stop Paul for a moment. As soon as Mr. Morton had gone ahead a little way, Benny, with his great blue eyes wider open than ever, asked, “How was it?”

“It was dreadful,” said Paul, whose eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

“Then you won’t ever go again, will you?” said Benny, giving his friend’s hand a sympathetic squeeze.

“Yes, I will,” exclaimed Paul, so sharply that Benny was frightened. He looked up inquiringly, and saw Paul’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll go again, and often, now that I’ve been teased into doing it; but, Benny Mallow, if you tell a single boy that I cried, I’ll never speak to you again in this world.”

“I won’t—oh, I won’t,” said Benny, and he kept his word—for weeks.