CHAPTER XI.

THE PLOT EXPOSED.

The next week the master set James copies in fine hand, and also copies of capital letters; and he began to learn at home, and recite to Bertie, the multiplication table, that was, in those days, printed on the covers of the writing-books. The next week the master gave him short sentences to copy, and wound up the week’s work on Saturday, with setting him for a copy of his own name and that of his mother before her marriage. James was so much delighted with this as to overcome his usual diffidence, and show it to Mr. Whitman.

When school was half done, Mr. Conly put James into the class with Bertie, who no longer instructed James in reading, spelling, or writing at home, as the latter could read nearly as well as his former teacher; and write much better than any boy in the school, or even the master.

The afternoon of Saturday was a half-holiday and stormy; the old gentleman had a fire and was at work in the shop. Mr. Whitman having broken a whiffletree in the course of the week, laid the broken article on the bench, intending to mend it. James saw it, made a new one by it, and put the irons of the old one on the ends. About the middle of the afternoon, Mr. Whitman bethought himself of the whiffletree, and going to the shop, found the remains of it on the bench, and a new one lying beside it.

“Father, did you make this whiffletree?”

“No, Jonathan; your redemptioner made it.”

Mr. Whitman made no remark, but his father noticed that afterwards, on stormy days, he but seldom gave James any indoor work, but seemed well content to have him work in the shop with his father, who in the course of the winter and spring taught him to dovetail, hew with a broad axe, and saw with a whipsaw.

Although Peter, Bertie, and their friends, had taken such unwearied pains, and exhausted their ingenuity, to render the position of James at school both pleasant and profitable, circumstances conspired to render their efforts, to a great extent, and for some time, abortive.

Children hear all that is said in the family, and often much more than it is meant, or desirable, they should.

Many of the boys at the other extremity of the district, had seen James while Wilson had him at the tavern. They had many of them heard disparaging remarks made by their parents and brothers at home. Some of them had listened to the talk in the public-house by their elders respecting him, and imbibed the tone of feeling in the neighborhood that was in general hostile to redemptioners, and were thus prejudiced against him, even before he came to school. The parents of some of the largest scholars were, in politics, the opposite of the Whitmans, and they had heard their parents say that no doubt Jonathan Whitman took that ragamuffin to train him up to vote as he wanted him to, and then would get him naturalized. This feeling of prejudice would have probably worn off, if James had been less reserved, and had joined with the rest in the horse-plays that were ever going on at recess and between schools.

James, however, did not know how to play; sport and amusement were to him terms without signification. The only things he could do that boys generally practise were to shoot, swim, and throw stones. He could shoot indifferently well, swim like a fish, and could kill a bird or a squirrel with a stone.

His sensitiveness made him believe the boys would not care to associate with him, and his whole mind was given to his books, for he had begun to appreciate the value of knowledge, and desired to make the most of the present opportunity, for he did not expect to have another.

When the other boys were at play during noon and recess, he was in his seat getting his lessons, and never spoke unless he was spoken to.

This gave occasion to those who had come prepared to dislike him to say that he was stuck up; that the Whitmans and Edibeans, Nevins and Conlys, had made too much of him; that he was getting too large for his trousers, and should be taken down, and they were the boys to take him down; that he put on great airs for a redemptioner, just out of the workhouse.

Some were nettled because he, in so short a time, distanced them in study, and in spelling went above them, and kept above.

The master one day gave mortal offence to William Morse, because, being busy setting copies, he told him to go to James to mend his pen.

Some who disliked the Whitmans and Edibeans, because they were better scholars than themselves, and their parents were better off, were willing to see James annoyed, because they knew it would annoy them.

Chuck Witham felt aggrieved because he had sold his seat so cheap, and wanted Bertie and Arthur Nevins to give him two more quills; but they told him a bargain was a bargain, that they gave him all he asked; and being possessed of a sullen, vindictive temper, he likewise was on the watch to annoy them through James.

This hostile spirit had been long fermenting in the breasts of a portion of the scholars, and was only prevented from breaking out in offensive acts from wholesome fear of the strength of James, and uncertainty in regard to the temper of one so reserved.

The boys were constantly pitting themselves against each other, and testing their strength and activity by wrestling, jumping and lifting rocks and logs.

James never manifested the least interest in their sport, not even enough to look on. Thus they could find no opportunity to form any estimate of his strength, or disposition. His whole bearing, however, was indicative both of strength and activity, for he had lost the low, creeping gait he once had, and the despondent look. In addition to this, two of their number, Ike Whitcomb and John Dennet, were fishing for eels in the mill-pond the day Wilson brought James to Mr. Whitman, and told the others that they saw him pitch the barrels of flour into the wagon as though they had been full only of apples. This information tended also to inspire caution.

There was still another sedative, and by no means the least influential. There was a circle of friends around James, not merely those we have named, but several others from both districts, of like sympathies and principles; and though far inferior in numbers, they comprised the best minds and the most energetic persons of the whole school, and were actuated by a sentiment of chivalry, taking the part of the oppressed, that made them doubly formidable.

Arthur Nevins was in his twentieth year; the most, athletic boy in the school, the leader in all exercises that tested strength and endurance, and resolute as a lion. There was no doubt which side he would take, in any affair that Peter or Bertie Whitman were concerned in.

As, however, this feeling of enmity increased, and grew all the faster from being causeless, and open rupture being considered imprudent,—it found vent at first in ill-natured remarks, slurs and gibes, as, for instance: “There goes the redemptioner.” “Here comes ‘work’us;’ got any cold vittles?” “Any old clo’es?”

At noon, when James was in the schoolhouse, and his enemies outside, one boy would shout to another so as to be heard all over the schoolhouse,—“I say, John Edmands, do you know how to pick oakum?”

“No.”

“Well, then ask Redemptioner. He learned the trade in the work’us, and he’s a superior workman.”

Did James leave the schoolroom at recess, half a dozen snowballs flung by nobody would hit him. When at night he had his books under his arm going home a volley of balls would cover his books with snow.

James endured all this in silence, and without manifesting the least resentment, which only served to encourage imposition. Not so, however the Whitmans, and the Nevins boys, and the Valentines; when either of those caught a boy flinging a snowball at James, they returned it with interest, and Arthur Nevins generally had an icy one at hand.

This brought on a general snowball fight, under cover of which James, as his enemies said, “meeched” off.

It was now the turn of James to build the fire. Orcutt, who built it the morning previous, had put on a very large rock-maple log, which, being but half burnt out, gave promise of a noble bed of coals for James to kindle his fire with in the morning.

After school at night, the three boys cut up and carried into the schoolhouse a large quantity of wood to build the morning fire, but when James reached the schoolhouse in the morning, there was not a coal on the hearth, the fireplace was full of half-melted snow, and not a single stick of all the wood carried in the night before was to be found anywhere.

James had his axe on his shoulder, and was equal to the occasion; he cut a log, back-stick, fore-stick, and small wood, went into the woods and split kindling from a pine stump, then went to Mr. Nevins’ for fire. Arthur and Elmer instantly came with him; Elmer with a firebrand, and Arthur hauling a load of dry wood on a hand-sled, which, in addition to what James had already prepared, made one of the hottest fires of the season, and soon dried up the snow-water that flooded the hearth, and the floor around it that was smeared with ashes. They cut some hemlock-brush, made a broom, and soon restored things to their pristine order.

“Now,” said Arthur, “whoever did this thing thought that James, not being used to wood fires, would not be able to make one; the master and scholars would get here, find no fire, and he would appear like a fool, and be blamed. James, don’t you lisp a word of it, and we won’t; if it comes out, the one who did it will have to tell of it himself, and then we shall find out who did it.”

The perpetrators of the trick did not know that James had built the fire every morning at Mr. Whitman’s for two months.

Just as the school was called to order, Arthur and Elmer came in, and stood so long with their backs to the fire, that the master at last said,—

“Boys, are you not sufficiently warm?”

They were by no means suffering from cold, but as they stood thus, facing the whole school, they took careful note of the surprise depicted on several faces at finding a good fire, and everything as usual, likewise of sundry nods, winks, and whispers; sometimes saw something written on a slate, and the slate held up for some one in another seat to read the message. When the two brothers came to compare notes that night, after returning home, they were not in much doubt as to the perpetrators of this low trick.

The Nevins boys held themselves in readiness to assist James, if needful, the next morning, who came early but found everything as usual.

“Their gun has missed fire,” said Arthur to James.

“Elmer, you and I must be all eyes and ears, for we shall certainly hear about it to-day. They’ll get no fun out of it, unless it comes out.”

It was not long after school began, before there took place an unusual movement all over the room. Every one seemed to be excited in regard to something, but in a very different way; some very much pleased, but by far the larger number indignant. Presently a slate was passed to Arthur, on which was written, “There is a story going, that night before last the fireplace was filled with snow, and all the wood we cut was carried off; but it is a lie, for if it had been so, James would have told us of it,” signed “Albert.”

The slate was passed back with the question, “Who told?”

Soon the answer was returned,—

“Chuck Witham started it.”

At recess the affair became a matter of discussion, but it was almost universally condemned. Even most of those who were prejudiced against James and the Whitmans revolted at the low character of this act.

The girls came out _en masse_ in favor of James, avowing it was the meanest and most dastardly thing they ever had heard of; that there was not a more obliging or better behaved boy in the school than James, and if they knew who the fellows that did it were they would never speak to them again.

The girls had ascertained the willingness of James to oblige; for, noticing that he always made and mended pens for Bertie Whitman, they got Maria to carry their pens and quills to him, and as they became better acquainted, went to him themselves.

Arthur Nevins said very little, but taking Chuck aside said,—

“Who told you all that news?”

“Sam Topliff.”

He went to Sam, and found that Will Orcutt told him. Going to Orcutt he inquired,—

“Who told you about what was done in the schoolhouse, night before last?”

“None of your business.”

“Say that again, I’ll shake your teeth out of your head; you were one of them.”

“No, I wasn’t one of them, neither.”

“Ay, my fine fellow, you may think it a good joke, but I can tell you it may prove a sore joke to you. Every decent boy, and all the girls in school, are down on you; and if it gets to the ears of the master and the school-committee, you’ll see trouble, for it was not merely a trick upon a boy, but it was trespass, breaking into the schoolhouse in the night. You broke a lock, you villain. Mr. Jonathan Whitman is one of the school-committee, and is not a man to be trifled with; you had better think about it.”

He then left him, but when Arthur started for home at night, Will Orcutt followed him and said,—

“I wasn’t one of them, and you needn’t think, nor say, I was.”

“Then why won’t you tell who told you?”

Orcutt made no reply.

“If you’ll tell me the names of all who were in it, I’ll give you a pistareen, and if you won’t, I’ll tell Mr. Whitman you was one of them.”

“I’m afraid to; they’ll lick me to death.”

“I never will tell who told me.”

“But they’ll know, because they know I am the only one, except themselves, who knows who did it.”

“If I guess whom they were, will you tell me if I guess right?”

“If, instead of the pistareen, you’ll give me a quarter, and keep it to yourself till day after to-morrow noon, I’ll tell you.”

“Why don’t you want me to keep it to myself any longer than till day after to-morrow noon?”

“Because to-morrow is my last day of school, and I am going off the next morning to Reading, to learn a trade, and I know you won’t tell a lie.”

“I’ll give you the quarter, and promise to keep it till then.”

“Then go into the schoolhouse with me. I’ll show you on the fire-list.”

The fire-list was a paper fastened to the master’s desk, on which were the names of all the boys who were expected to take their turns in making the fires, and Orcutt pricked with a pin the names of William Morse, David Riggs, George Orcutt.

“Two of them are the very fellows I had picked out, the other was Sam Dinsmore. I never should have thought your brother George would have been in it.”

After this matter came out, the boys told James that he was able to take his own part, and ought not to tamely submit to anymore abuse; for still the petty insults from small boys, set on by the larger ones, continued.

Peter Whitman told the others, that there were only four or five large boys who set the rest on, and they ought to pitch into them, give them a good beating, and protect James.

“I don’t feel like going into a fight,” said Arthur, “to protect a fellow who is better able to protect us than we are him, and could thrash the whole of ‘em with one hand tied behind him; they are a set of cowards, and would be quiet enough if they once saw in him any inclination to resist.”

“I think as Arthur does,” said Elmer.

The Edibean boys were of the same mind.

“But he won’t resist. He’ll only say, ‘It is not for such as me to be making a disturbance,’” said Bertie, sorely puzzled.

“Do you think he’s afraid of ‘em, Bertie? Don’t he know we’ll back him up?”

“I don’t believe he cares a straw for them, or cares whether anybody backs him up, or not; but it seems as if he thinks, because he came out of a workhouse, that he was made for other people to wipe their feet on.”

“Let’s go at him,” said Stillman Russell; “and tell him that he must stick up to them, and thrash the next one who insults him, and we’ll back him up. But if he don’t, we shan’t care anything about him and shall be ashamed of him.”

“That’s it; only leave the last part out, for that would break his heart, and it would be a falsehood for me to say I would not care anything about him,” said Bertie; “and let us also do another thing. James thinks everything of my grandfather; they talk together a great deal, when they are at work in the shop, and grandfather never will tell anything if you ask him not to. We’ll tell grandfather the whole story, and get him to stir James up. If grandfather tells James to defend himself, he’ll think it’s right, and he will, but as for us, we are but boys like himself.”

“It is not for such as me to make any disturbance. I didn’t go to school to make a disturbance. I went to learn,” was the reply of James to his aged adviser.

“_Such as me_,” replied the irate grandfather; “don’t ever use that phrase again. Haven’t I told you, time and again, that in this country, one man’s as good as another, provided he behaves as well; and if he don’t he is not. It’s the character, and not the nation, the blood, nor money, that makes a man here.”

“The boys in the school don’t seem to think so.”

“The most of ‘em do, and their parents do, and the most of their parents wouldn’t uphold ‘em in anything else. It is only a few rapscallions who are at the bottom of the whole thing. They are keeping the whole school in confusion, and taking the attention of the scholars off their lessons; and you are helping to keep it along by putting up with it. If they insult you without provocation, knock ‘em over, and they will be quiet as frogs, when a stone is flung into the pond.”

“It is not my place to strike and hurt boys whose fathers own land, when my father hadn’t any land; my mother went out to service and died in the workhouse, and was buried by the parish. If I was in England they would all call me a workhouse brat. Old Janet, my nurse, when she got mad used to say to me,—

“‘My grandfather was a hieland lord and my father was a hieland gentleman; but your mither was a servant girl, and your father was a hedger and ditcher, and out of nothing comes nothing, ye feckless bairn.’”

“Pshaw, it’s no fault of yours that your parents were poor and that you was born in a workhouse, nor disgrace neither; and it’s no merit of theirs that their fathers own land. It came about in the providence of God, who is no respecter of persons.”

“Is not a man who owns land, better than one who don’t?”

“No; he may be a great deal worse; owning land don’t make a man any better in the sight of God, and it ought not to in the sight of men.”

“I always thought that anybody who owned land was next to the quality; ain’t the quality better?”

“No.”

“I always thought they were kind of little kings.”

“Kings are no better.”

“O, yes, grandfather, kings must be better, because the Bible tells about ‘em; and Mr. Holmes always used to say, his most sacred majesty.”

“All moonshine; half of ‘em are great rascals. Being a king don’t make a man better or worse any more than owning land does. It only gives them a better chance to act out their true characters.”

“If a king was no more and no better than a man, how could he cure the king’s evil?”

“No king ever did cure it, and it’s my opinion it never was cured.”

“O, yes, there was Farmer Vinal’s son, whose father I worked for, had a great swelling on his neck, and his father carried him into the procession when the king went to the tower, and the king touched it and it went away.”

“I’ve no doubt it went away,” replied the sturdy republican; “but if the king had never been born, it would have gone away all the same. It’s a disorder that once in the blood is always there, and goes and comes. Medicine will appear to cure it, and drive it from one part of the body to another, and just as like as not, it went away on account of some medicine the child had been taking. You’d better put all such nonsense out of your head; it is not worth bringing over the water. If those boys impose upon you, defend yourself; you are big enough. Give no offence and take none; the whole district will uphold you in it.”