The Jester of St. Timothy's

In the post-office of Beasley's general store Irving Upton was eagerly sorting the mail. His eagerness at that task had not been abated by the repeated, the daily disappointments which it had caused him. During the whole summer month for which he had now been in attendance as Mr. Beasley's clerk, the arrival of the mail had constituted his chief interest. And because that for which he had been hoping had failed to come, his thin face had grown more worried, and the brooding look was more constantly in his eyes.

This afternoon his hand paused; he looked at the superscription on an envelope unbelievingly. The letter came from St. Timothy's School and was addressed to him. He finished distributing the other letters among the boxes, for people were waiting outside the partition; then he opened the envelope and read the type-written enclosure. A flush crept up over his cheeks, over his forehead; when he raised his eyes, the brooding look was no longer in them, but a quiet happiness instead, and his lips, which had so long been troubled, were smoothed out in a faint, contented smile. He read the letter a second time, then put it in his pocket, and stepped round behind the counter to sell five cents' worth of pink gumdrops to little Abby Lawson.

When she had gone and the callers after mail had been satisfied, Irving sat down at the table in the back of the store. He read the letter again and mused over it for a few moments contentedly; then, with it lying open before him, he proceeded to write an answer.

After finishing that, he drew from his pocket some papers-French exercises, done in a scrawling, unformed hand.

It was the noon hour, when the people of the village were all eating their dinners; Mr. Beasley had gone home, and Irving was undisturbed. He helped himself to the crackers and dried beef which were his luncheon perquisites, and with these at his elbow and nibbling them from time to time he set about correcting his brother's French.

He sighed in spite of the happiness which was pervading him; would Lawrence always go on confusing some of the forms of être and avoir? Would he never learn to know the difference between ils ont and ils sont?

Irving made his corrections in a neat, pretty little hand, which of itself seemed to reprove the student's awkward scrawl. He turned then to his own studies, which he was pursuing in a tattered volume of Blackstone's Commentaries on the English Common Law. He did not get on very fast with this book, and sometimes he wondered what bearing it could have on the practice of the law in Ohio at the present time. But he had been advised to familiarize himself with the work in the interval before he should enter a law school-an interval of such doubtful length!

Mr. Beasley's entrance caused him to look up.

"I shall be leaving you in less than a month now, Mr. Beasley," he said.

"Got a job to teach, have you?" asked the storekeeper.

"Yes-at St. Timothy's School."

"Where may that be?"

"Up in New Hampshire."

"Quite a ways off. But I suppose you don't mind that much-having been away to college."

"No, I think I'll like it. Besides,-now Lawrence will be able to go to college this fall, and he and I will be pretty near each other. We'll be able to spend our holidays together. I think it's fine."

"It does sound so," agreed Mr. Beasley. "Well, I'll be sorry to lose you, Irving. The folks all like to have you wait on 'em; you're so polite and tidy. But I know clerking in a country store ain't much of a job for a college graduate, and I'm glad you've found something better."

"I'm glad if I've been of any use to you," replied Irving. "I know you didn't expect I would be when you took me in. And your giving me this chance has meant that I could stay on here and tutor Lawrence this summer and at the same time pay all my living expenses. It's been more of a help than you know-to Lawrence as well as to me."

"You're both good boys," said Mr. Beasley. "But it seems like you're too shy and quiet ever to make much of a lawyer, Irving-or a teacher," he added, in candid criticism.

Irving blushed. "Maybe I'll get over that in time, Mr. Beasley."

"You had better," observed the storekeeper. "It's of no manner of use to anybody-not a particle. Lawrence, now, is different."

Yes, Lawrence was different; the fact impressed itself that evening on Irving when his brother came home from the haying field with his uncle. Lawrence was big and ruddy and laughing; Irving was slight and delicate and grave. The two boys went together to their room to make themselves ready for supper.

"We finished the north meadow to-day," said Lawrence,-"the whole of it. So don't blame me if I go to sleep over French verbs this evening."

"I'll tell you something that will wake you up," Irving replied. "I'm going to teach at St. Timothy's School-in New Hampshire. So your going to college is sure, and we'll be only a couple of hours apart."

"Oh, Irv!" In Lawrence's exclamation there was more expressiveness, more joy, than in all his brother's carefully restrained statement. "Oh, Irv! Isn't it splendid! I think you're the finest thing-!" Lawrence grasped Irving's hand and at the same time began thumping him on the back. Then he opened the door and shouted down the stairs.

"Uncle Bob! Aunt Ann! Irv has some great news to-night."

Mrs. Upton put her head out into the hall; she was setting the table and held a plate of bread.

"What is it, Irv? Have you-have you had a letter?"

There was an anxious, almost a regretful note in her voice.

"Yes," said Irving. "I'll tell you about it when I come down."

At the supper table he expounded all the details. Like Mr. Beasley, his uncle and his aunt had never heard of St. Timothy's School. Irving was able to enlighten them. At college he had become familiar with its reputation; it was one of the big preparatory schools in which the position of teacher had seemed to him desirable almost beyond the hope of attainment.

He recited the terms which had been offered and which he had accepted: nine hundred dollars salary the first year, with lodging, board, washing all provided-so that really it was the equivalent of fourteen or fifteen hundred dollars a year. And then there would be the three months' vacation, in which he could prosecute his law studies and earn additional money.

"Sounds good," said Mr. Upton.

"Of course I'm very glad," said Mrs. Upton. "But how we shall miss you boys! I've got used to having Irving away,-but to be without Lawrence, too-"

"Yes," said her husband with a twinkle in his eyes, "we certainly shall miss Lawrence-especially in haying time. I'm glad you didn't get this news till most of the hay crop was in. No more farming for you this year, Lawrence."

"Why, but there's all the south meadow uncut-"

"I'll handle that. As long as there was so much doubt as to whether you'd be able to go to college or not, I felt that you might be making yourself useful first of all and studying only in the odd moments. Now it's different; you've got to settle down to hard study and nothing else. And Irving had better devote himself entirely to you, and leave Mr. Beasley to struggle along without any college help."

"I don't believe he'll miss me very much," Irving admitted. "And you're right, Uncle Bob; I can accomplish a great deal more working with Lawrence this next month. I ought to be able to get him entered in regular standing."

"If I can do that," cried Lawrence, "perhaps I'll be able to earn my way as Irv did-tutoring and so on-and not have to call on you or him for any help."

"What on earth should I do with nine hundred a year?" Irving exclaimed.

"Save it for your law school fund," said Lawrence.

Irving shrugged his shoulders grandly. "Oh, I can earn money."

Lawrence gave him an affectionate push. "Tut!" he said. "Be good to yourself once in a while."

It was a happy family that evening. The uncle and the aunt rejoiced in the good news, even while regretting the separation.

Mr. Upton, the younger brother of the boys' father, who had been the village clergyman, shared his brother's tastes; he read good books, he would travel to hear a celebrated man speak, he had ideas which were not bounded by his farm. He had encouraged Irving as well as Lawrence to seek a university education. The two boys were proud, eager to free themselves from dependence on the uncle and aunt who, after their father's death, had given them a home. Irving had worked his way through college, hardly ever asking for help; he had been a capable scholar and the faculty had found for him backward students in need of tutoring.

Meanwhile, Mr. Upton had been busily engaged in developing and increasing his farm; that he was beginning to be prosperous Irving was aware; that he did not more earnestly insist upon helping his nephews stimulated their spirit of independence. They knew that they had been left penniless; Irving sometimes suspected his uncle of parsimony, yet this was a trait so incongruous with Mr. Upton's genial nature that Irving never communicated the suspicion to his brother. Irving felt, too, that his uncle cared less for him than for Lawrence. Well, that was natural; Irving was humble there.

When the dean of the college had said that it would be inadvisable for Lawrence to make a start unless he had at least three hundred dollars at command, it had seemed to Irving a little narrow on his uncle's part not to have come forward at once with that sum. Instead he had merely given Lawrence the opportunity to work harder in the hay-field and so increase his small bank account. And it had soon become apparent to Irving that unless he and Lawrence could between them raise the money, they need not look to their uncle for help beyond that which he was already giving. Therefore Irving went into Mr. Beasley's store, and hoped daily for the letter which at last had come.

Day after day the two brothers worked together. Irving, quick, impatient, sometimes losing his temper; Lawrence, slow, calm, turning the edge of the teacher's sarcasm sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a quiet appeal. Irving always felt ashamed after these outbreaks and uneasily conscious that Lawrence conducted himself with greater dignity. And Lawrence forgot Irving's irritations in gratitude to him for his help. "It must be a trial to teach such a numskull," Lawrence thought; and at the end of one particularly hard day he undertook to console his brother by saying, "Never mind, Irv; it won't be long now before you have pupils who aren't country bumpkins and don't need to have things pounded into their heads with an axe."

It had been a rather savage remark that had called this out; Irving threw down his book and perching on the arm of his brother's chair, put his arm around his neck and begged his forgiveness.

"As if I could ever like to teach anybody else as much as I like to teach you!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Lawrence; I'll try to keep a little better grip on myself."

Sometimes it seemed to Irving odd that Lawrence should be so slow at his books; Irving did not fail to realize that with the neighbors or with strangers, in any gathering whatsoever, Lawrence was always quick, sympathetic, interested; he himself was the one who seemed dull and immature.

It had been so with him at college; he had been merely the student of books. Social life he had had none, and only now, with the difference between his brother and himself enforcing a clearer vision, had he become aware of some deficiency in his education. In silence he envied Lawrence and wished that he too possessed such winning and engaging traits.

He realized the contrast with especial keenness on the afternoon when he and Lawrence began their eastward journey. There was a party assembled at the station to see them off,-to see Lawrence off, as Irving reflected, for never on his own previous departures had he occasioned any such demonstration.

Lawrence was presented on the platform with various farewell gifts-a pair of knit slippers from Sally Buxton, who was the prettiest girl in the valley and who tried to slip them into his hand when no one else was looking, and blushed when Nora Carson unfeelingly called attention to her shy attempt; a pair of mittens from old Mrs. Fitch; a pocket comb and mirror from the Uptons' hired man; a paper bag of doughnuts from Mrs. Brumby.

There were no gifts for Irving; indeed, he had never cared or thought much, one way or the other, about any of these people clustered on the platform. Only this summer, seeing them so frequently in Mr. Beasley's store, he had felt the first stirrings of interest in them; now for the first time he was aware of a wistfulness because they did not care for him as they did for Lawrence.

Mr. Beasley came up to him. "So you're off-both of you. Funny thing-I guess from the looks of you two, if a stranger was to come along, he'd pick Lawrence out for the teacher and you for the schoolboy. Lawrence looks as old as you, and handles himself more grown up, somehow."

"He's bigger," Irving sighed.

"Yes, 't ain't only that," drawled Mr. Beasley. "Though 't is a pity you're so spindling; good thing for a teacher to be able to lay on the switch good and hard when needed."

"I don't believe they punish with the switch at St. Timothy's."

"Then I guess they don't learn the boys much. How you going to keep order among boys if you don't use the switch?"

At that moment the train came whistling round the bend. Irving caught up his bag, turned and grasped Mr. Beasley's hand, then plunged into the crowd which had closed about his brother. His aunt turned and flung her arms about him and kissed him; his uncle gave him a good-natured pat on the back and then stooped and said in his ear, "Irv, if you ever get into trouble,-go to Lawrence."

There was the merry, kindly twinkle in his eyes, the quizzical, humorous smile on his lips that made Irving know his uncle meant always, deep in his heart, to do the right thing.

In the train he pondered for a few moments that last word of advice, wondering if it had been sincere. It rather hurt his dignity, to be referred to his younger brother in that way-and yet it pleased him too; he was glad to have Lawrence appreciated.

Irving spent a day in Cambridge, helping his brother to get settled in the rooms which he himself had occupied for four years. Then he bade Lawrence good-by and resumed his journey to New Hampshire.

It was a pleasant September morning when he presented himself, a sallow, thin-cheeked, narrow-shouldered, bespectacled youth, before Dr. Davenport, the rector of St. Timothy's School. The sunlight streamed in through the southern windows of the spacious library, throwing mellow tints on the bindings of the books which lined the opposite wall from floor to ceiling. It was all so bright that Irving, who was troubled with weak eyes, advanced into it blinking; and perhaps that was one reason for the disappointment which flitted across the rector's face-and which Irving, who was acutely sensitive, perceived in his blinking glance. He flushed, aware that somehow his appearance was too timorous.

But Dr. Davenport chatted with him pleasantly, told him how highly the college authorities had recommended him, and only laughingly intimated a surprise at finding him so young-looking.

"I hope that teaching won't age you prematurely," he added. "You will probably have some trying times with the boys-we all do. But it oughtn't to be hard for you-especially as you will be thrown most of all with the older boys. Mr. Williams, who has had charge of the Sixth Form dormitory at the Upper School, is ill with typhoid fever and will probably not come back this term. So I'm going to put you in charge there. You will have under you twenty fellows, some of them the best in the school. But just because they are in some ways pretty mature, don't be-don't be self-effacing."

"I understand," said Irving. He sat on the edge of his chair, and crumpled his handkerchief nervously in his hands. And all the time-with his singular clearness of intuition-he was aware of the doubt and distrust passing through Dr. Davenport's mind.

"Don't be afraid of the boys or show embarrassment or discomfort before them," continued Dr. Davenport, "and on the other hand don't try to cultivate dignity by being cold and austere. Be natural with them-but always be the master.-There!" he broke off, smiling, for he saw that Irving looked worried and seemed to be taking all this as personal criticism-"that's the talk that I always give to a new master; and now I'm done. Here is a printed copy of the rules and regulations which I advise you to study; you must try to familiarize yourself with our customs before any of the boys arrive. To-morrow the new boys will come, and you will report for duty at the Gymnasium, where the entrance examinations will be held. You will find your room in the Sixth Form dormitory, at the Upper School. I hope you will like the life here, Mr. Upton-and I wish you every possible success in it."

The rector gave him an encouraging handshake and another friendly smile. But Irving departed feeling depressed and afraid. He had seen that the rector was disappointed in him-in his appearance, in his manner. And the rector's little speech had given him the clue. Until now, he had not much considered how large a part of his work would be in the management and the discipline of the boys; the mere teaching of them was what had been in his mind, and for that he felt perfectly competent. In college, that was all that the tutoring, in which he had been so successful, meant. But, confronted by the necessity of establishing and maintaining friendly human relations with a lot of strange boys, Irving for the first time questioned his qualifications, realizing that the rector too was questioning them.

He became more cheerful the next day, when the new boys began to arrive and he found himself at once with work to do. He had mastered pretty thoroughly the names of the buildings and the geography of the place, and it was rather pleasant to be able to give information and directions to those younger and more ignorant than himself.

It was pleasant, too, to have one mother who was wandering round vaguely with her small son and to whom he shyly proffered assistance, show such appreciation of his courtesy and end by appealing to him to keep always a friendly eye on her little forlorn Walter. As it turned out, Irving never afterwards came much into contact with the boy, who lived in a different building and was not in any of his classes; he asked about him from time to time, and discovered that Walter was a mischievous person, not troubled by homesickness.

But most agreeable and reassuring was it to take charge of the examination-room, where the new boys were undergoing the tests of their scholarship. Most of them were candidates for the Second, Third, and Fourth Forms, and their ages ranged from twelve to fifteen; Irving sat at a desk on the platform and surveyed them while they worked, or tiptoed down the aisle in response to an appeal from some uplifted hand.

He had come so recently from examination-rooms where he had been one of the pupils that this experience exhilarated him; it conferred upon him an authority that he enjoyed. He liked to be addressed by these nice-mannered young boys as "sir," and to be recognized by them so unquestioningly as a person to whom deference must be shown. Altogether this first day with the new boys inspired him with confidence, and at the end of it he attacked the pile of examination books enthusiastically.

Mr. Barclay aided him in that task; Mr. Barclay was a young master also, comparatively, though he had had several years' experience. Irving was attracted to him at once, and was grateful for the way in which he made suggestions when there was some uncertainty as to how a boy should be graded.

Irving liked, too, the genial chuckle which preceded an invitation to inspect some candidate's egregious blunder; Irving would read and smile quietly, unaware that Barclay was watching him and wondering how appreciative he might be of the ludicrous.

Two nights Irving spent all alone in the Sixth Form dormitory; it amused him to walk up and down the corridors with the list of those to whom rooms there had been assigned. "Collingwood, Westby, Scarborough, Morrill, Anderson, Baldersnaith, Hill"-some of them had occupied these rooms as Fifth Formers, and Irving had asked Mr. Barclay about them.

Louis Collingwood was captain of the school football team; Scarborough was captain of the school crew.

"Neither of them will give you any trouble," said Barclay. "Scarborough used to be a cub, but he has developed very much in the last year or two, and now he and Collingwood are the best-liked fellows in the school. They have a proper sense of their responsibility as leaders of the school, and are more likely to help you than to make trouble. Morrill is their faithful follower, though a little harum-scarum at times. Westby-" the master hesitated over that name and looked at Irving with a measuring glance-"Westby is what you might call the school jester. He's very popular with the boys-not equally so with all the masters. Personally I'm rather fond of him. He's almost too quick-witted sometimes."

That evening Barclay took the new master home to dine with him. Mrs. Barclay was as cordial and as kind as her husband; Irving began to feel more than satisfied with his surroundings.

"Pity you're not married, Upton," Barclay said, half jokingly. "You'd escape keeping dormitory if you were-which you'll find the meanest of all possible jobs. And then if your wife's the right kind-the boys have to be pretty decent to you in order to keep on her good side."

Mrs. Barclay laughed. "I suppose that's the only reason they're pretty decent to you, William!-You'll find it easy, Mr. Upton,-for the reason that they're a pretty decent lot of boys."

The next day at noon the old boys began to arrive. Irving was coming out of the auditorium, where he had been correcting the last set of examination papers, when a barge drew up before the study building and boys clutching hand-bags tumbled out and hurried into the building to greet the rector.

Irving stood for a few moments looking on with interest: other barges kept coming over the hill, interspersed with carriages, in which a few arrived more magnificently.

It occurred to Irving that perhaps he had better hasten to his dormitory in order to be on hand when his charges should begin to appear; he was just starting away when three boys arm in arm rushed out of the study building. They came prancing up to him, all smiles and twinkles; they were boys of seventeen or eighteen. They confronted him, blocking his path; and the one in the middle, a slim, straight fellow in a blue suit, said,-

"Hello, new kid! What name?"

A blush of embarrassment mounted in Irving's cheeks; feeling it, he conceived it all the more advisable to assert his dignity. So he said without a smile, in a constrained voice,-

"I am not a new kid. I am a master."

The three boys who had been beaming on him with good humor in their eyes stared blankly. Then the one in the middle, with a sudden whoop of laughter, swung the two others round and led them off at a run; and as they went, their delighted laughter floated back to Irving's ears.

His cheeks were tingling, almost as if they had been slapped. He followed the boys at a distance; they moved towards the Upper School. His heart sank; what if they were in his dormitory?

He entered the building just as the last of the three was going up the Sixth Form dormitory stairs.

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