The real work of the term began in earnest, the next morning, and Leon found himself in a class of fifteen or twenty boys, nearly all of them older than himself, and among whom he looked in vain for one of the lads that he had seen in Harry’s room. George Winslow’s scowling face was the only familiar one that met his eye, and Leon gladly turned away from him, to make a closer study of his new companions. At his right hand sat a boy of eleven, with an abnormally large head and a dry, weazened, lead-colored face, who appeared to feel it his duty to maintain the credit of the class by answering all the questions addressed to any of its members. At Leon’s other side was a boy of about his own age, whose mocking brown eyes were dancing with fun, as he watched Leon’s other neighbor; and he looked so bright and companionable that Leon ventured to whisper, under cover of suppressing a yawn,—

“Who’s the fellow next me?”

“I don’t know,” answered the other; “I’m new here. Don’t you know him?”

“No; I’m new, too. Isn’t he a terror?” responded Leon.

Both boys kept their eyes intently fixed on their books, for a few moments. Then Leon attempted another question.

“What’s your name?” he asked cautiously, with his gaze still on the page before him.

“Harold King,” replied his neighbor. “What’s yours?”

“Leon Arnold; I’m Hal Arnold’s brother. Aren’t you Jack Howard’s cousin? He said something or other about you.”

“Yes. Hush! Do hear that fellow go on. He must be one of the fiends.”

“Fiends!” echoed Leon in wonder; for his sole association with the word was the idea of a black hobgoblin, and his neighbor only resembled his mental picture of that race, in the size of his head.

“That’s what Jack called them,” answered Harold, as the class rose to go back to the main school-room. “He says they call those little bits of pert fellows that think they know it all, fiends. Not a bad name, either,” he added, with a wink.

Leon’s reply was prevented by a sudden push from behind, and the next instant George Winslow passed him, jostling him roughly as he went. The rudeness of the motion was so uncalled for and so evidently intentional that Leon, as he stood his ground and gazed proudly into the lowering face before him, felt that sooner or later it would be war to the knife between them.

He felt so still more during his first drill, that afternoon. The armory was given up to the new cadets, together with the half-dozen non-commissioned officers who were detailed for their instruction, under the general supervision of Lieutenant Wilde. There were a few words of explanation of the duties of the soldier, the object and aim of the drill, and then the novices were divided into squads of four and assigned to the care of their different instructors. As he took his place, Leon glanced up to find himself confronted by George Winslow. However, the weeks of faithful training that he had received from Harry, made him feel no hesitation in obeying the orders which were issued, and he promptly set to work to take the required positions for setting up and saluting, confident that he could hold his own with the raw recruits by his side. But for some reason or other, his best endeavors proved quite unavailing, and he found himself constantly called to account, now for having his shoulders uneven, now for inattention, and again for delayed obedience. At first he was annoyed by these continual reprimands; then he grew indignant, for he fancied he caught a little smile of satisfaction on Winslow’s face, as he ordered,—

“Right hand—salute!” Then suddenly struck down Leon’s raised hand, saying sharply, “Get in position before I command, and hurry up about it.”

“Arnold’s position was correct,” said Lieutenant Wilde’s voice over his shoulder; then he added quietly, “that will do, Winslow. I will take charge of this squad myself, for the rest of the afternoon.”

The dismissal was final, and Winslow dared not disobey; so, with one furious glance at Leon, he went away, and Lieutenant Wilde took his place. Drilling under him was an entirely different matter; and Leon left the armory, half an hour later, happy in the promise of being promoted to drill with the battalion, so soon as he should have had a little practice in the manual of arms. But, as he left the dining-room that night, he was stopped by Winslow, who planted himself directly in his pathway.

“I owe you one for this, Arnold,” he said, in a low, distinct voice; “and if it means reporting me to the doctor, you’ll be sorry for it.”

“You’ll have trouble with Winslow yet, Leon,” said Harry, at bed-time when Leon told him of the day’s events. “I don’t see what started him after you, but he’s always taking just such spites. He’s an awful bully and, if it only wasn’t against the rules of the school, the best thing you could do would be to give him a good sound thrashing.”

In the meantime, matters had not gone well for Mr. Boniface, that morning. The general school-room had been left in his charge, for the doctor was busy with the new cadets, and Lieutenant Wilde’s classes met in the little laboratory up-stairs. The ten or twelve seniors were grouped at the front of the room for their Latin recitation, and Mr. Boniface was trying to give them his undivided attention and, at the same time, to keep a watchful eye on Max and Frank Osborn and half a dozen kindred spirits who occupied the far corner of the room. The poor teacher was nervous, that morning. In spite of the careful preparation which he had given his lesson, he felt sure that he was not holding the interest of his pupils who presented every appearance of languid inattention. As he glanced from Jack Howard who was lounging in his seat, with his eyes fixed on the tree just outside the window, to Harry Arnold who was making an elaborate pattern of dots and dashes on the margin of his Cicero, he raised his eyebrows and gave a deep, though half-unconscious sigh. The sound was promptly echoed from the distant corner; and when Luke Boniface looked over in that direction, he found the boys all laughing except Max who, perfectly serious, was deep in his lesson, swaying to and fro with his eyes fixed on his book and his lips moving silently. Though in his own mind there was no doubt as to the culprit, it was too slight an offence to be taken up, and Mr. Boniface could only resolve to watch himself more closely in the future, that he might present no such opportunities to the fun-loving Max.

The lessons went heavily on, marked by an entire absence of sympathy between teacher and pupil. If Mr. Boniface tried to give some bit of interesting information, it was received with perfect unconcern; if he attempted any pleasantry, it was heard with stolid silence; when he was stern and severe, it produced no more effect. When Irving Wilde came in, at the end of the third hour, to take charge of the room, he found the other teacher looking almost distracted, while the boys were all in a high state of glee over the pranks of Max and Frank Osborn. As Lieutenant Wilde took his place at the desk, with a reproachful glance at the uproarious boys, the older man noted with envy how the faces before him grew bright and interested, and how suddenly the room was stilled. For a moment he stood looking about the room and rubbing his hand up and down over his hair, as was his habit, when annoyed or perplexed. Then he hastily gathered up his books and left the room, with a miserable certainty that his morning had been wasted.

And so it went on, day after day. While there was no open outbreak or breach of discipline, yet the new teacher was subjected to all sorts of petty annoyances by the lads, who had taken a dislike to his gloomy, serious manner. Order was out of the question, and any attempts, on the master’s part, to establish it were worse than useless, for the boys promptly turned the tables and came off victors, again and again. However, it had taken but a short time for Mr. Boniface to single out Max as the leader in much of the iniquity, and after watching him closely for a week, he surprised him, one morning, by an invitation to occupy the seat directly in front of the master’s desk which was extended to serve for both master and boy. With a good-natured smile, Max picked up his books and marched down the aisle to the appointed place, where he seated himself, with a triumphant backward glance at his mates, triumphant, for this was a fresh vantage point for an attack.

It was the habit of the awkward young teacher to sit with his feet stretched far out in front of him, quite regardless of the fact that, in this way, his coarse shoes were exposed to the gaze of the whole school. Max had studied these shoes well, and was never tired of drawing them from every possible point of view, exaggerating their defects with the skill peculiar to boyish caricature.

As soon as the master’s mind was again on his class, Max displayed a bit of paper on which his friends made out the terse inscription: “Got ’em.” It was but two words, it is true; but it was enough to rouse their curiosity, to see what the fertile brain of Max could mean by this novel declaration of war. They watched and waited; but they only saw Max put his elbows on his desk, clutch his yellow top-knot with both hands and fall to studying with a will, as if heartily ashamed of his fault and resolved to make amends. But if their teacher was deceived, the boys, who knew their friend better, were not. His sudden devotion to his book, at such a time and in such a place, could only mean fresh mischief. Suddenly Leon, who was looking on, saw the teacher give a violent start, while Max quite as suddenly raised his head, with an affectation of perfect surprise, and meekly begged his pardon. The face of Luke Boniface flushed, and he looked suspiciously at Max. He could read nothing, however, in the boy’s unconscious expression, so he merely bowed, in recognition of the apology, and went on with his lesson. Half an hour later, the mystified boys saw the same performance repeated. At the close of the morning session, Max was told that he could return to his seat.

Late that afternoon, several of the boys were sitting on the piazza rail, resting after a lively hour of football practice, when Jack Howard suddenly inquired,—

“I say, Max, what was it you did to Bony this morning, to make him jump so?”

Max chuckled at the recollection, but vouchsafed no other reply.

“Go on and tell us, Max,” urged Louis, hooking his toes into the railing to balance himself, as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“What’s the use?” responded Max. “I may want to do it again some day, and I don’t want you all to get on to it; it’s my own invention.”

“Nonsense, Max; we won’t steal it, and we couldn’t do it, if we would; we’re all too good for that sort of thing,” put in Harry Arnold, from the step near by, where he sat leaning against the end of the rail.

“Much you are!” returned Max ironically. “Well, I’ll tell you; I just happened to step on his toe, that’s all.”

“Happened?” inquired Paul Lincoln, taking careful aim at a belated mosquito, as he spoke.

“Yes, happened,” repeated Max solemnly. “You see, when I study, I get so interested that I can’t keep on the lookout to see what my feet are doing. To-day they wouldn’t stay on the floor, but, first thing I knew, they were way up in the air. Of course I put them down again, as quick as I found it out, and Bony’s feet were right in the way. See? I begged his pardon, though. But the queerest thing about it all was that pretty soon I did that very same thing again. Strange how interested a fellow can get in his lessons, isn’t it?” And Max paused to look innocently around at the group.

“It was an untoward event, anyway,” remarked Paul.

The boys groaned at the pun.

“Oh, come, you fellows,” observed Harry; “I feel sort of sorry for Bony, once in a while. I hate him as badly as any of you; but we are leading him a dog’s life between us.”

The boys turned and looked at him in surprise. Harry Arnold was a lad whose opinion carried weight in the school, and a hush followed his clear voice. It was Jack who broke the momentary silence.

“That’s true enough, Hal; but he isn’t obliged to stay here. The sooner he clears out, the better we fellows would like it, and he may take the hint, in time.”

“I wonder if the doctor likes him?” said Leon.

“I don’t see how he can,” said Louis, while he carefully brushed his cap and replaced it on the back of his head. “I have an idea that the doctor took him out of charity.”

“That’s just it,” responded Harry, clasping his hands behind his head. “Bony’s got to grub along somewhere till he gets money enough to pay for his course in the seminary. If he gets turned out here, it will be no easy thing for him to get in somewhere else.”

“The sooner he goes off for a missionary, the better it will be for this side of the world,” remarked Jack encouragingly. “You’re right there, Hal, and we ought to do our share towards sending him off in a hurry.”

“If he only wasn’t so grumpy, I wouldn’t mind,” added Max; “but I hate a man that can’t see a joke when it’s fired at him head first; and then it’s such fun to see him get mad over every little thing.” And Max twisted up his face in imitation of his teacher’s frown.

“I don’t blame you much, Max,” said Harry candidly. “He is pretty bad; I don’t see what makes him so uncommonly disagreeable.”

“One thing’s sure,” suggested Max, laughing; “when he goes as a missionary, the cannibals won’t do anything but taste him, for he’s so sour that he’ll set their teeth on edge, first thing.”

At this point, a window just above their heads was abruptly closed. As they heard the sound, the boys exchanged glances of consternation.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Jack Howard. “That’s Bony’s window. Do you suppose he’s been up there, all this time?”

“I hope he enjoyed himself, then,” answered Louis, as he slipped down from the rail.

“I don’t know as I much care if he did hear,” said Max deliberately. “I don’t want to be ugly and hurt his feelings, any more than Hal does; but now honestly, if he knew just what we thought of him, perhaps he’d try to treat us a little more decently.”

But how well he did know just what they thought of him! Sitting by the open window, in the yellow sunset light, Mr. Boniface had been quite absorbed in his work until the repeated use of his unpleasant nickname had roused him from his book, and forced him to listen. It was only for a few moments that he had sat there; but it was long enough to hear Harry’s attempted defence and final confession to sharing in the general dislike, to writhe under the jests of Max and to note the contempt in the tone of all the boys. Then he closed the window; but it was too late, for the winged words, sharp as arrows, had already flown in and struck home, touching just the points where he knew himself weakest. And with all their teasing, they were sorry for him; that was the worst of it all. He could bear their dislike, but not their half-scornful pity, as to an inferior. Just because their lives had been spent in luxury, should they despise him on account of his struggle with poverty? The thought galled him, and with his arms folded tightly in front of him and his head bowed, he paced angrily up and down the room.

Irving Wilde found him so, when he knocked at his door, half an hour later, to return a borrowed book. As he heard the nervous steps, he paused for a moment to listen. Then he rapped with decision.

“Come in,” said an unwelcoming voice.

“I just came to bring back your book,” said Lieutenant Wilde, looking with some surprise on the flushed face and angry eyes of his host, who stood facing him, without making the slightest movement towards receiving the book. “I am afraid I am intruding,” he went on.

“No,” the other man replied briefly; “I’m not busy.”

Irving Wilde felt a little perplexed. It was evident that Mr. Boniface was in some trouble, but his rather hostile manner made it difficult to offer any sympathy. The lieutenant put the book down on the table and turned to go away.

“Sit down,” said the other abruptly.

It was more a command than an invitation, and Lieutenant Wilde meekly obeyed, wondering what was to follow.

“I thought,” he was beginning vaguely, when Mr. Boniface interrupted him.

“Lieutenant Wilde, what am I going to do about these boys?” he said, rushing at once into the midst of his subject, with the air of a man too much in earnest to waste time in mere words.

Lieutenant Wilde met him with equal directness.

“What boys?” he inquired. “Has there been any fresh trouble, Mr. Boniface?”

“No,” burst out the other; “nothing fresh, but it’s a matter of every day, and it’s wearing the life out of me. They hate me and they try to annoy me in every way, till I feel like an old dog, at the mercy of a crowd of snarling, yelping puppies. I’ve tried everything, but it’s getting worse every day. I want the boys to like me, and I want to like them,” he continued, resuming his march; “but it’s come to where we regard each other as sworn enemies. It’s spoiling the best years of my life and sapping my best energies.”

“Oh, pshaw, Boniface!” exclaimed Lieutenant Wilde, with sudden impatience; “men in our position haven’t any business to know whether we have any best energies or not; all we are here for is to make the best we can out of our boys. But I beg your pardon,” he added more quietly; “I didn’t mean to be rude. Who are the boys that are annoying you?”

Luke Boniface dropped into a chair and began twisting his watch-chain restlessly.

“All the boys, more or less; but most of all, that Max Eliot and his set.”

“Max Eliot?” responded the other teacher thoughtfully. “Max is an incorrigible imp; but really, Mr. Boniface, he isn’t a bad boy, only a thoughtless, mischievous tease. I am sorry he’s made you trouble, for I think he and his set are the finest fellows in the school.”

Mr. Boniface looked at him incredulously.

“Have you ever found Max doing anything really dishonorable?” asked Lieutenant Wilde. “All that set of boys are wide-awake, happy-go-lucky fellows, ready for any amount of fun, and often a little too careless of others’ feelings; but I don’t believe one of them would lie, if it were to save himself from being expelled.”

“They must be remarkable boys,” said Mr. Boniface sarcastically.

Irving Wilde turned on him with a frown; then he controlled himself and said quietly,—

“That is just where you lose ground with the boys, Mr. Boniface, by making them feel that you distrust them. Do you remember what the Rugby fellows used to say: ‘It’s no fun to lie to Arnold, for he always believes us.’ There’s a great deal of truth there. Treat boys like honorable gentlemen and, to a great extent, they will become so. Watch them like pickpockets, and they will act accordingly. Boys are quick to see when they are trusted, and nine out of ten of them will do their best to be worthy of the trust. Try and see if it isn’t so, Boniface.” And he beamed on his companion with such hearty good-will that Mr. Boniface was forced to admit the truth of his remark, as far as he himself was concerned.

There were a few moments of silence; then Lieutenant Wilde rose and moved across the room to where his host was sitting. Leaning on the back of his chair, he said, with the genial, off-hand manner that was peculiarly his own,—

“Now, Boniface, take the advice of a friend, and forget all about your best energies. Excuse my speaking so freely; but you asked my opinion, you know. Trust the lads and make them feel that you trust them; like them as well as you can and show them all the liking that you feel. That is the main thing in dealing with boys. And then, if you could only be a little more sociable with them, talk to them at table and when you meet them around the grounds, till you know every single fellow for what he really is; then I promise you that they will do their share towards meeting you. For my part, I’ll have a little talk with Eliot and Howard and two or three more of them, and I hope your trouble will be mostly over.” And he went away, leaving Mr. Boniface to ponder on his words.