CHAPTER VIII.

MAX MAKES A TREATY OF PEACE.

“I DON’T believe you fellows know how hard you are making it for Mr. Boniface,” Lieutenant Wilde had said to the boys who were gathered in his room one night, not long before Thanksgiving. “I told him so the other day when we were talking about it, for I don’t think any one of you would be mean enough to try to break up his classes.”

The subject was unexpected to them all, and for a moment they were speechless.

“Has he been complaining of us,” asked Jack scornfully, after the pause.

“Yes and no,” answered Lieutenant Wilde. “I saw that something was wrong, and asked him about it. He told me then, and not till then. You would all have been sorry for him, if you had seen him that day, for he seemed to feel so keenly that he was making a failure here. Now aren’t you boys all of you loyal enough to the doctor to feel that you must be polite and respectful to any man he may choose to put in here over you? Any rudeness to one of his teachers is an insult to himself.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” confessed Max frankly. “But Bony and the doctor are two different people.”

“That may be,” responded Lieutenant Wilde, as he pulled off his spectacles and fell to twirling them by the slender, bent ends of the bows; “but Mr. Boniface represents the doctor in his classes. And moreover, he’s come here a stranger, and you who know each other and the place, ought to try to make him feel at home, instead of forming a league against him, to torment him with childish tricks that are more suited to Gyp than to cadets of your ages. He is hired to teach you and is paid for it, I know; but he has come here with as true a wish to help you and be friends with you, as the doctor himself, but you all treat him like an enemy instead.”

“What makes him so queer and glum with us, then?” said Jack, as he leaned forward to give the coals a vigorous punch.

“Don’t you know yet, Jack, that everybody isn’t just like everybody else? Mr. Boniface would like to be pleasant and cordial with you; but he hasn’t the gift of it, as the doctor has—”

“‘And you, Brutus,’” put in Max with a wink.

Lieutenant Wilde laughed, but took no other notice of the interruption, as he went on with his plea,—

“Besides, Mr. Boniface has one quality that I’ve heard you all admire in other people.”

“What’s that?” inquired Paul skeptically.

“Stick-to-ativeness, in plain Saxon. I’ve often heard you talk about it in the boys, when they wouldn’t give up in some game, or the gymnasium; and you all say that Louis, here, saved the football match for the juniors in that very way. Mr. Boniface is doing just the same thing with his education. He has had disadvantages and setbacks enough to knock down a dozen ordinary men; but he has fought his way along till now, and in the very last battle—scrimmage, if you prefer—he is liable to be beaten and driven out of the field by a dozen thoughtless boys, who would some day be sorry to be responsible for breaking down a man’s courage and spoiling his life’s plans.”

“I don’t think we any of us started to be mean to Bony, Lieutenant Wilde,” said Alex. “We’ve sort of fallen into the habit of running on him, for we don’t any of us like him. He is pretty bad in class.”

“I didn’t suppose he really cared so much,” added Max. “It’s mean to hit a fellow when he’s down. I can’t like him, though, Lieutenant Wilde.”

“Have you tried very hard, Max?” inquired Lieutenant Wilde, laughing.

“Uncommonly,” responded Max with fervor. “I can’t like him, I know; but maybe I can swallow him like a very bitter pill, and he’ll be good for me.” And he rolled up his eyes at his teacher, with such wickedness sparkling in them that Lieutenant Wilde’s dignity broke down, and he joined the boys in their shout.

“But, Lieutenant Wilde,” remonstrated Paul Lincoln; “why do you go for us about it? We aren’t any worse than the other fellows.”

“Possibly not; but I doubt that. Even if you aren’t, though, I have spoken to you about it, partly because I know you better, and partly because you are the most organized set in the school, and so have more weight and influence. If you nine boys would make up your minds to stand by Mr. Boniface, you could carry the school along with you, till he wouldn’t have any more trouble at Flemming. Why not do it? Every young knight must win his spurs by helping the poor and oppressed. You won’t find many giants and dragons in your way, so why not lend a hand to help on Mr. Boniface? If you boys will treat him like a man and a friend, you’ll be more than repaid, for he is only waiting for a chance to know you and help you. And in some ways, he’s the finest teacher we have ever had at Flemming.”

Jack shook his head incredulously; then he said seriously,—

“I’ll tell you what, boys, we ought to be willing to do as much as this for Lieutenant Wilde’s sake.”

“Thank you, Jack,” replied Lieutenant Wilde quickly. “Start to do it for me, if you will; but the time will soon come that you are doing it for the sake of Mr. Boniface.”

The subject was dropped, but though no more was said at the time, it was plain that the little talk had had its effect, for matters were now going on most smoothly. Alex and Stanley had always been above any reproach of rudeness, although it must be confessed that they had shown a keen appreciation of the mischief of the others. Harry had gone over to their side, as a matter of conscience, and insisted upon Leon’s doing the same, while Jack Howard openly stated that he “stood up for Bony just because Lieutenant Wilde wanted them to.” For one reason or another, the other lads had followed their example, even to Max who, like most impulsive, affectionate fellows, was easily influenced by his friends for the time being, and not even the persuasions of Frank Osborn had been able to win him from his good resolutions.

The change in the situation was so marked that it was small wonder that Mr. Boniface had confided to Lieutenant Wilde his fear that it was too sudden and too good to last.

“Even Eliot is behaving like a model boy,” he remarked, the Tuesday night after Thanksgiving. “He is a likable fellow at times, too.”

“Max is a splendid fellow,” answered Lieutenant Wilde enthusiastically. “He’s freakish and thoughtless in his fun, often a little too much so, but he is the soul of honor and, in my opinion, that covers a multitude of sins.”

“So it does,” assented Mr. Boniface a little dubiously, for he was reflecting upon how large an expanse it had to work in the case in hand. “Eliot is a truthful boy, I think; but what a comfort it would be, if all the boys were as steady and as anxious to learn as little Smythe. That boy is a perfect wonder.”

“Yes,” said Irving Wilde, in a tone of deep disgust; “he’s a wonderful little prig. He learns like a poll parrot, and his only desires on earth are to show off what he knows, and to turn out his toes at a proper angle, when he’s on parade. The boys call him the King of the Fiends, and it’s my private opinion that they’re about right. I’ve no patience with him, and it just galls me to have to promote him over the heads of much better fellows than he. Let me take Max, with all his sins, and with proper training and influences, I’ll make ten times the man of him.”

“Well, I think I prefer Smythe,” replied Mr. Boniface.

“You’re welcome to him; I don’t want him,” answered Lieutenant Wilde. “Life is something besides committing schoolbooks to memory; put the two boys into the same emergency, and balance the selfish conceit of Smythe against the quick, impetuous generosity of Eliot, and tell me which will do more to help on his fellow-men. Smythe is just the boy to put behind a counter, to sell ribbons and tape and spools of thread; Eliot, if he keeps straight, will be a man from whom we shall hear, sometime or other. In the meantime, he’s neither saint nor sinner, but a genuine, healthy American boy, and taken at its best, there’s no better race in the world.”

The door closed behind him, and Luke Boniface sat down to read, feeling unusually at peace with the boys, even to Max himself. Fortunately he knew nothing of the mischief which was just then being plotted by the boy, who was restless with the concentrated impishness developed by his four days’ holiday. Had he suspected, his quiet, restful mood might have been rudely disturbed; now, as it was, he could enjoy it to the utmost.

Next morning, the lessons were under full headway. In the large school-room, left in the charge of Mr. Boniface, the seniors were having a recitation, while the members of the junior and second classes were deep in their work. Over in a sunny corner by the window, sat Max, in his favorite position, with his bent head held firmly between his hands, covering his ears from disturbing sounds. All at once, two or three of the boys near him raised their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously. A faint sickening odor began to be noticeable, and rapidly increased, filling the air and penetrating even to the teacher’s desk, at the far side of the room. In his turn, Mr. Boniface raised his head and looked wonderingly about, as if seeking the source of this fragrance, whose mystery was only equalled by its pungency. Nothing was to be seen to account for the phenomenon. Although some of the boys were beginning to choke, and Louis sat with his nose buried in his daintily-scented handkerchief, Max alone seemed undisturbed in his work, and paid no heed to the sensation in the room. At length it could be endured no longer, and Mr. Boniface said,—

“Please open a window, Campbell.”

Stanley rose to do his bidding. As he moved across the floor, he glanced at Max, surprised at his unusual interest in his lesson; then, for the first time in his whole school life, Stanley Campbell lost all consciousness of where he was, and burst into an irrepressible laugh. Carefully arranged on the knee of Max, in the full glare of the sunshine, lay a smoldering lump of india-rubber, mounted on a bit of iron, and above it, just where it would focus the rays of light upon it, was a powerful lens, for the moment converted from a magnifier into a burning-glass.

In a moment, too soon for Max to remove his apparatus, Mr. Boniface stood beside him. Silently he stretched out his hand; silently Max put into it the glass and bit of rubber, noting, with a naughty satisfaction, that his teacher winced as the hot mass dropped into his palm. Then Mr. Boniface said quietly,—

“Come to my room at three this afternoon, Eliot.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Max, with unwonted meekness.

That was all. Mr. Boniface returned to his class and Max fell to studying with a will, though pausing now and then, while he turned over a leaf, to speculate as to what direful punishment was in store for him. There seemed something ominous in the calm, collected manner of the teacher, and Max wondered if he were aware of the doctor’s strong prejudice against corporal punishment. Like most boys, Max disliked the idea of being whipped, not only on account of the hurt, but also because he had a vague idea that it took from his manliness, and put him on a level with dogs and horses and very small babies. Still, he would pay the penalty for his fun, and take the consequences as easily as he could.

But Mr. Boniface was wily. He had watched Irving Wilde’s methods with the boys, and had come to the conclusion that they were worth imitating. He was gradually schooling himself until he had lost something of his old excitable manner, and could more easily meet the little annoyances that came to him, day after day. Now at length he was to attempt his master-stroke and see if he could win over his arch-enemy, for so he regarded Max. Directly after dinner, he went out for a long, rapid walk in the clear, cold air, and came in with every sense so quickened and refreshed from the hour of active exercise, that he felt himself ready for the coming interview.

Punctually at three, there came a knock at his door. For a moment the teacher’s courage failed. He could more easily face the whole examining board of a missionary association, than one solitary, mischievous schoolboy. But it was too late to draw back, so, as cordially as he could, he told Max to enter.

Max strolled into the room, with his hands stuck into his trousers pockets, and stood leaning against the table with a carelessness which somehow failed to agree with the little troubled look in the blue eyes. Not only was Master Max rather anxious to know what was in store for him, but his conscience, too, was beginning to be uncomfortably active. His burning the rubber seemed not quite so funny to him as it had done in the time of it, or as it would have done if Mr. Boniface had been very angry, instead of so quiet about it. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, while he listened to hear his teacher come to the subject in hand.

“Sit down, Eliot,” said Mr. Boniface, motioning him to a chair.

Max obeyed, with an unhappy feeling that this lessened his chance of flight. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and carefully fitted the tips of his fingers together, bestowing a little extra attention on the thumbs. Suddenly Mr. Boniface turned to him.

“Eliot, what am I going to do with you?” he asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” answered Max, half-defiantly, half-meekly.

“I don’t know as I do, either,” said. Mr. Boniface, with a smile. Then he went on quite seriously. “Eliot, suppose we forget for a while that we are teacher and pupil, and have a little talk, as one man would to another.”

Mr. Boniface had struck the right chord. At this appeal to his manhood, Max straightened up suddenly and looked his teacher squarely in the eyes as he went on,—

“You’ll admit, won’t you, Eliot, that you were guilty of a great rudeness this morning? I was doing my best to carry on the work for which I am here, and you deliberately and purposely tried to break up my class. Isn’t it so?”

“I—I s’pose so,” said Max, glaring down at his folded hands, as if they were in some way to blame for his present position.

“But why did you do it?” went on Mr. Boniface, pursuing his advantage unrelentingly.

“Fun,” answered Max laconically.

“Which was the fun,” inquired Mr. Boniface, “to sicken us all, yourself among the rest, with a disagreeable smell, or to interrupt the class for ten minutes and make the school work so much longer at noon? Whichever way you put it, Eliot, it strikes me that the game isn’t worth the candle, as they say, and the trick reacts on you and the other boys, as much as on myself.”

Max raised his head at this.

“Honestly, Mr. Boniface, the other boys weren’t in it a bit. Nobody else had anything to do with it.”

“Is this your glass?” asked Mr. Boniface, taking it from the table and pointing to the initials H. P. A. cut in the handle.

“That’s Hal Arnold’s,” answered Max. “I borrowed it of him yesterday; but I didn’t tell him what I wanted of it. I knew if I did, he wouldn’t let me take it,” he added, with an artless confession that he knew he was in the wrong.

“That’s as much as to say you knew you were doing something to be ashamed of,” said Mr. Boniface slowly.

“I was; and what’s more, I believe I am a little ashamed,” answered Max honestly. “I did just want to see if that glass would burn rubber, and it was a splendid place to try. The other fellows did look so astonished; didn’t they?” And Max laughed at the memory.

In spite of himself, Mr. Boniface laughed too. That laugh settled the matter, for it won Max completely. The boy put both elbows on the table, rested his chin in his hands and remarked with a frankness which took away the teacher’s breath,—

“Mr. Boniface, now see here: I’m sorry for what I did, and I won’t do it again—if I can help it. I’m willing to say I’m sorry before all the boys, if you want. It’s no use for me to promise not to do that kind of thing again, though, for I shall most likely forget and do something just as bad, in a week or two. You see, when you just came, I sort of got into the habit of teasing you, and I’ve kept on. I promised Lieutenant Wilde that I wouldn’t any more, but I’ve broken my promise. Now I’ll try again. You said we might talk together like two men, so I thought ’twas fairer to tell you this, than to keep saying it about you.”

During this clear, but surprising statement, Mr. Boniface had looked first perplexed, then annoyed. At length his face brightened and, with a smile as cordial as Lieutenant Wilde’s own, he held out his hand to the boy, saying,—

“Thank you, Eliot, for being so honest; now I know just how we stand. I don’t see but we mean to do the fair thing by each other, only, once in a while, we both make mistakes. Shall we shake hands on it, and try again in the future?”

What need to ask? As he put the question, Max’s brown hand lay in his and the pressure of the boy’s fingers upon those of the man told an eloquent story of a newly-gained friend. No direful punishment, no long, solemn lecture could have done the work which this pleasant talk had accomplished, and as Max sat there, he was resolving, in his boyish soul, “to stand by Bony” in the future.

Meanwhile in Louis’s room, the boys were restlessly lounging about, while they waited for the reappearance of the young sinner.

“He must be having a bad time,” said Jack, taking out his watch for the twentieth time in the last half hour.

“I’m afraid Bony’s giving it to him strong,” added Paul.

“You don’t suppose Bony’d whip him, do you?” suggested Leon, in an awed tone.

“Whip Max? Nonsense!” responded Harry.

“Don’t you be too sure, Hal,” said Jack. “Bony looks as if he’d be ready for anything when his blood is up. He’s just made up his mind that he is not to be interfered with.”

“But Dr. Flemming doesn’t allow whipping,” said Alex. “Bony’s much more likely to report him. It’s mean to come down on Max, though, for such a little thing, when we’ve all been as bad as he.”

“Or would have been, if we’d been bright enough and had dared,” added Harry, unconsciously striking the two main causes of Max’s being singled out to be the one in disgrace.

“The truth of it is,” said Louis; “Bony has been holding off, this long time, and now at last, after we’ve walked all over him, the worm has turned, so I shouldn’t much wonder if he was pretty severe. I only wish it hadn’t been Max. A little discipline wouldn’t hurt Smythe or some of those fellows, they’re such sneaks; but Max—”

“Here he comes!” interrupted Paul excitedly. “Now we shall hear all about it.”

“Well,” remarked Max coolly, as he came into the room; “this is quite an unexpected pleasure; but I am delighted to see you, gentlemen, I am sure.” And with a low bow of mock ceremony, he crossed the room and sat down on the bed.

The boys waited eagerly to hear him speak, for they felt sure that he would have an interesting story to tell; but Max held his peace. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes looked a deeper, clearer blue than ever; but otherwise there was nothing to show that anything unusual had occurred. At length Louis’s impatience could be restrained no longer.

“Say, Max, what did he do to you?” he asked anxiously.

“Who?” inquired Max, with a preoccupied air.

“Oh come, Max, that’s no go,” interrupted Jack. “Bony, of course. Is he going to report you?”

“Report me? No, indeed,” answered Max calmly.

“Did he scold you much?” asked Alex sympathetically.

“Scold me?” echoed Max. “Not a bit.”

“Well then, what the mischief did he do? Tell us, Max, for we’re dying to know,” said Harry persuasively.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” answered Max slowly. “He treated me like a gentleman that had made a mistake, and I’m going to try to behave like a gentleman, after this. Bony’s a good man, boys, even if he is queer; and I mean to stand by him. I’m ashamed of myself that I’ve carried on so, and I told him I was. That’s all there is about it.”

“I’ll tell you what,” remarked Harry, as he and Alex went away together; “Bony must have had a change of heart.”

“It’s much more likely that Max has,” responded Alex Sterne.