Although Bert had been forbidden to leave the homestead, unless in company with some grown-up person, he had on several occasions forgotten this injunction, in the ardour of his play, but never so completely as on the day that, tempted by Charlie Chisholm, the most reckless, daring youngster in the neighbourhood, he went away off into the back-lands, as the woods beyond the hill pasture were called, in search of an eagle's nest, which the unveracious Charlie assured him was to be seen high up in a certain dead monarch of the forest.

It was a beautiful afternoon, toward the end of August, when Bert, his imagination fired by the thought of obtaining a young eagle, Charlie having assured him that this was entirely possible, broke through all restraints, and went off with his tempter. Unseen by any of the household, as it happened, they passed through the milk yard, climbed the hill, hastened across the pasture, dotted with the feeding cows, and soon were lost to sight in the woods that fringed the line of settlement on both sides of the valley, and farther on widened into the great forest that was traversed only by the woodsman and the hunter.

On and on they went, until at length Bert was tired out. "Aren't we far enough now, Charlie?" he asked, plaintively, throwing himself down upon a fallen tree to rest a little.

"Not quite, Bert; but we'll soon be," answered Charlie. "Let's take a rest, and then go ahead," he added, following Bert's example.

Having rested a few minutes, Charlie sprang up saying:

"Come along, Bert; or we'll never get there." And somewhat reluctantly the latter obeyed. Deeper and deeper into the forest they made their way, Charlie going, ahead confidently, and Bert following doubtfully; for he was already beginning to repent of his rashness, and wish that he was home again.

Presently Charlie showed signs of being uncertain as to the right route. He would turn first to the right and then to the left, peering eagerly ahead, as if hoping to come upon the big dead tree at any moment. Finally he stopped altogether.

"See here, Bert; I guess we're on the wrong track," said he, coolly. "I've missed the tree somehow, and it's getting late, so we'd better make for home. We'll have a try some other day."

Poor little Bert, by this time thoroughly weary, was only too glad to turn homeward, and the relief at doing this gave him new strength for a while. But it did not last very long, and soon, footsore and exhausted, he dropped down upon a bank of moss, and burst into tears.

"Oh, Charlie, I wish we were home," he sobbed. "I'm so tired, and hungry, too."

Charlie did not know just what to do. It was getting on toward sundown; he had quite lost his way, and might be a good while finding it again, and he felt pretty well tired himself. But he put on a brave face and tried to be very cheerful, as he said:

"Don't cry, Bert. Cheer up, my boy, and we'll soon get home."

It was all very well to say "cheer up," but it was another thing to do it. As for getting home soon, if there were no other way for Bert to get home than by walking the whole way, there was little chance of his sleeping in his own bed that night.

How thoroughly miserable he did feel! His conscience, his legs, and his stomach, were all paining him at once. He bitterly repented of his disobedience, and vowed he would never err in the same way again. But that, while it was all very right and proper, did not help him homeward.

At length Charlie grew desperate. He had no idea of spending the night in the woods if he could possibly help it, so he proposed a plan to Bert:

"See here, Bert," said he, "you're too played out to walk any more. Now, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll run home as fast as I can, and saddle the old mare and bring her here, and then we'll ride back again together. What do you say?"

"Oh, don't leave me here alone?" pleaded Bert. "I'll be awfully frightened."

"Chut! Bert. There's nothing to frighten you but some old crows. Stay just where you are, and I'll be back inside of an hour." And without waiting to argue the point, Charlie dashed off into the woods in the direction he thought nearest home; while Bert, after crying out in vain for him to come back, buried his face in the moss and gave himself up to tears.

One hour, two hours, three hours passed, and still Bert was alone. The sun had set, the gloaming well-nigh passed, and the shadows of night drew near. All kinds of queer noises fell upon his ear, filling him with acute terror. He dared not move from the spot upon which Charlie had left him, but sat there, crouched up close against a tree, trembling with fear in every nerve. At intervals he would break out into vehement crying, and then he would be silent again. Presently the darkness enveloped him, and still no succour came.

Meantime, there had been much anxiety at Maplebank. On Bert's being missed, diligent inquiry was made as to his whereabouts, and at length, after much questioning, some one was found who had seen him, in company with Charlie Chisholm, going up through the hill pasture toward the woods. When Mrs. Lloyd heard who his companion was, her anxiety increased, for she well knew what a reckless, adventurous little fellow Charlie was, and she determined that search should be made for the boys at once. But in this she was delayed by Uncle Alec and the men being off at a distance, and not returning until supper time. So soon as they did get back, and heard of Bert's disappearance, they swallowed their supper, and all started without delay to hunt him up.

The dusk had come before the men—headed by Uncle Alec, and followed, as far as the foot of the hill, by the old Squire—got well started on their search; but they were half-a-dozen in number, and all knew the country pretty well, so that the prospect of their finding the lost boy soon seemed bright enough.

Yet the dusk deepened into darkness, and hour after hour passed—hours of intense anxiety and earnest prayer on the part of the mother and others at Maplebank—without any token of success.

Mrs. Lloyd was not naturally a nervous woman, but who could blame her if her feelings refused control when her darling boy was thus exposed to dangers, the extent of which none could tell.

The Squire did his best to cheer her in his bluff blunt way:

"Tut! tut! Kate. Don't worry so. The child's just fallen asleep somewhere. He'll be found as soon as it's light. There's nothing to harm him in those woods."

Mrs. Lloyd tried hard to persuade herself that there wasn't, but all kinds of vague terrors filled her mind, and refused to be allayed.

At length, as it drew toward midnight, a step was heard approaching, and the anxious watchers rushed eagerly to the door, hoping for good news. But it was only one of the men, returning according to arrangement to see if Bert had been found, and if not to set forth again along some new line of search. After a little interval another came, and then another, until all had returned, Uncle Alec being the last, and still no news of Bert.

They were bidden to take some rest and refreshment before going back in to the woods. While they were sitting in the kitchen, Uncle Alec, who was exceedingly fond of Bert, and felt more concerned about him than he cared to show, having no appetite for food, went off toward the red gate with no definite purpose except that he could not keep still.

Presently the still midnight air was startled with a joyful "Hurrah!" followed close by a shout of "Bert's all right—he's here," that brought the people in the house tumbling pell-mell against each other in their haste to reach the door and see what it all meant.



The light from the kitchen streamed out upon the road, making a broad luminous path, up which the next moment strode Crazy Colin, bearing Bert high upon his broad shoulders, while his swarthy countenance fairly shone with a smile of pride and satisfaction that clearly showed he did not need Uncle Alec's enthusiastic clappings on the back, and hearty "Well done, Colin! You're a trump!" to make him understand the importance of what he had done.

The two were at once surrounded by the overjoyed family. After giving her darling one passionate hug, Mrs. Lloyd took both of Crazy Colin's hands in hers, and, looking up into his beaming face, said, with a deep sincerity even his dull brain could not fail to appreciate: "God bless you, Colin. I cannot thank you enough, but I'll be your friend for life;" while the Squire, having blown his nose very vigorously on his red silk handkerchief, grasped Colin by the arm, dragged him into the house, and ordered that the best the larder could produce should be placed before him at once. It was a happy scene, and no one enjoyed it more than did Crazy Colin himself.

The exact details of the rescue of Bert were never fully ascertained; for, of course, poor Colin could not make them known, his range of expression being limited to his mere personal wants, and Bert himself being able to tell no more than that while lying at the foot of the tree, and crying pretty vigorously, he heard a rustling among the trees that sent a chill of terror through him, and then the sound of Crazy Colin's talk with himself, which he recognised instantly. Forgetting all about the fright Colin had given him a few days before, he shouted out his name. Colin came to him at once, and seeming to understand the situation at a glance, picked him up in his strong arms, flung him over his shoulder, and strode off toward Maplebank with him as though he were a mere feather-weight and not a sturdy boy. Dark as it was, Colin never hesitated, nor paused, except now and then to rest a moment, until he reached the red gate where Uncle Alec met him, and welcomed him so warmly.

Mrs. Lloyd did not think it wise nor necessary to say very much to Bert about his disobedience. If ever there was a contrite, humbled boy, it was he. He had learned a lesson that he would be long in forgetting. As for his tempter, Charlie Chisholm, he did not turn up until the next morning, having lost himself completely in his endeavour to get home; and it was only after many hours of wandering he found his way to an outlying cabin of the backwoods settlement, where he was given shelter for the night.



CHAPTER X.

BERT GOES TO SCHOOL.

With the waning of summer came the time for Mrs. Lloyd to return to the city. Both she and Bert felt very sorry to leave Maplebank, and the family there was unanimous in seeking to persuade her to allow Bert to remain for the winter. But this was not practicable, because, in the first place, Mr. Lloyd had been writing to say that he was quite tired of being without his boy, and would like to have him back again as soon as was convenient; and, in the second place, Bert had reached the age when he ought to begin his schooling, and must return home for that purpose.

So at length, after more than one postponement, the day of departure arrived. Grandmother and Aunt Martha, and Aunt Sarah, could not restrain their tears, and big, kind Kitty was among the mourners too, as Bert and his mother took their seat in the carriage beside the Squire and Uncle Alec, to drive in to the village where the coach would be met.

With many a promise to come back ere very long, and many a fond "Good-bye! God bless you, my darling!" the travellers started on their homeward journey. The village was reached in good time, the coach found awaiting its passengers, the trunks safely stowed behind, the last good-bye to grandfather and Uncle Alec said, and then, amid cracking of whips and waving of handkerchiefs, the big coach rolled grandly off, and Bert had really parted with dear, delightful Maplebank, where he had spent such a happy summer.

The homeward journey was a very pleasant one, and marked by no exciting incidents. Jack Davis was in his place on the box, and, recognising Bert when the passengers got out at the first change of horses, hailed him with a hearty: "Holloa, youngster! Are you on board? Would you like to come up on top with me again?"

It need hardly be said that Bert jumped at the invitation, and, his mother giving her consent, he rode on the box seat beside Davis the greater part of the day as happy as a bird. The weather was perfect, it being a cool, bright day in early September, and Bert enjoyed very much recognising and recalling the different things that had particularly interested him on the way down. "Black Rory" was as lively as ever, and seemed determined to run away and dash everything to pieces as they started out from his stable, but calmed down again after a mile or two, as usual, and trotted along amiably enough the rest of his distance.

It happened that Davis had no one on the outside with whom he cared to talk, so he gave a good deal of attention to Bert, telling him about the horses and their peculiarities, and how they were in so many ways just like people, and had to be humoured sometimes, and sometimes punished, and how it was, upon the whole, so much better to be kind than cruel to them.

"If your father ever lets you have a pony, Bert," said Davis, "take my word for it it'll pay you to treat that ere pony like a brother. Just let him know you're fond of him from the start; give him a lump of sugar or a crust of bread now and then—it's wonderful how fond horses are of such things—and he'll follow you about just like a dog. Horses have got a good deal more human nature in 'em than folks generally give 'em credit for, I can tell you, and I think I know what I am talking about, for I've had to do with them ever since I've been as big as you."

Bert listened to this lecture with very lively interest, for his father had more than once hinted at getting him a pony some day if he were a good boy, and showed he could be trusted with one. He confided his hopes to his friend, and received in return for the confidence a lot more of good advice, which need not be repeated here.

The sun was setting as the coach drove up to the hotel at Thurso, where Mrs. Lloyd and Bert were to remain for the night, taking the train for Halifax the next morning. Bert felt quite sorry at parting with his big friend, the driver, and very gladly promised him that the next time he was going to Maplebank he would try to manage so as to be going down on Jack Davis' day that their friendship might be renewed.

Both Bert and his mother were very glad to get to bed that night. Coaching is fine fun in fine weather, but it is fatiguing, nevertheless. You cannot ride all day in a coach without more or less backache, and Bert was so sleepy that, but for his mother preventing him, he would have flung himself upon his bed without so much as taking off his boots. He managed to undress all right enough, however, and then slept like a top until next morning.

Bright and early they took the train, and by mid-day were at Halifax, where Mr. Lloyd and Mary received them with open arms and many a glad kiss.

After allowing him a few days to settle down to home life again, the question of Bert's going to school was raised. He was now full eight years of age, and quite old enough to make a beginning. His mother and sister had between them given him a good start in the "three R's" at home, for he was an apt pupil, and he was quite ready to enter a larger sphere.

At first his parents were somewhat undecided as to whether they would send him to a school presided over by a woman or a man. It was usual in Halifax for those who preferred the private to the public schools to send their boys for a year or two to a dame's school as a sort of easy introduction to school life; and in the very same street as that in which the Lloyds lived there was such a school where two rather gaunt and grim old-maid sisters aided one another in the application of primer and taws. To this institution Mrs. Lloyd thought it would be well for Bert to go. His father had no very decided views to the contrary, but on Bert himself being consulted, it became very clear that his mind was quite made up.

"Please don't send me to 'Old Goggles'' school, father," pleaded he, earnestly.

"'Old Goggles!' Why, Bert, what do you mean by calling Miss Poster by such a name as that?"

"It's most disrespectful," interrupted his mother, with a very much shocked expression, while Mr. Lloyd tried hard, but unsuccessfully, to conceal a smile beneath his moustache.

"Well, mother, that's what they all call her," explained Bert.

"Even though they do, Bert, you should not. Miss Poster is a lady, and you must act the gentleman toward her," replied Mrs. Lloyd. "But why don't you want to go to school there? Several boys about your own age are going."

"Oh, because a lot of girls go there, and I don't want to go to school with girls," was Master Bert's ungallant reply.

Mr. Lloyd, who had evidently been much amused at the conversation, now joined in it by drawing Bert toward him and asking, in a half-serious, half-humorous tone:

"Is my boy Bert afraid of little girls?"

Bert's face flushed till it was crimson, and dropping his head upon his breast, he muttered:

"I'm not afraid of them, but I don't like 'em, and I don't want to go to school with 'em."

The fact of the matter was that Bert not only had his full share of the repugnance to the other sex common to all boys of his age, but he had besides a strong notion that it was not a manly thing to go to school with girls, and if there was one thing more than another that he aspired after, it was manliness.

Mr. Lloyd thoroughly understood his son's feelings, and felt disposed to humour them. Accordingly, lifting up his head, he gave him a kiss on the forehead, saying:

"Very well, Bert; we'll see about it. Since you have such decided objections to Miss Goggles'—I beg her pardon, Miss Poster's—excellent establishment, I will make inquiry, and see if I cannot find something that will suit you better. I want you to like your school, and to take an interest in it."

Bert's face fairly beamed at these words, and he heaved a huge sigh of relief which brought another smile out on his father's countenance.

"You're such a good father," said Bert, hugging his knees, and there the matter dropped for a few days.

When it came up again, Mr. Lloyd had a new proposition to make. In the interval he had been making some inquiries, and had been recommended to send his boy to a school just lately established by an accomplished young lawyer, who had adopted that method of earning an honest penny while waiting for his practice to become more lucrative. It was a good deal of an experiment, Mr. Lloyd thought but possibly worth trying.

Accordingly, one fine morning in October, behold Master Bert in a rather perturbed frame of mind trotting along beside his father, who pretended not to be aware of his son's feelings, although at the same time seeking in every way to divert him. But it was not with much success. Bert felt thoroughly nervous over the new experience that awaited him. He had never seen Mr. Garrison, who was to be his teacher, and imagined him as a tall, thin man with a long beard, a stern face, a harsh voice, and an ever-ready "cat-o'-nine tails." As for his future schoolmates, they were no doubt a lot of rough, noisy chaps, that would be certain to "put him through a course of sprouts" before they would make friends with him.

If, then, such thoughts as these filled Bert's mind, it must not be wondered at that he lagged a good deal both as to his talking and walking, although he was always spry enough with both when out with his father. Much sooner than he wished they reached the building, a large rambling stone structure, only one room of which was occupied by the school; they climbed the broad free-stone staircase to the upper storey, knocked at a door from behind which came a confused hum of voices, and being bidden "Come in," entered a big room that at first seemed to Bert to be completely filled by a misty sea of faces with every eye turned right upon him. He cowered before this curious scrutiny, and but for his father's restraining grasp would probably have attempted a wild dash for the still unclosed door, when he heard his father saying:

"Good-morning, Mr. Garrison; I have brought my boy to place him in your care for a while, if you will have him as a pupil." Looking up, Bert beheld a person approaching very different from the schoolmaster of his gloomy anticipations.

Mr. Garrison was indeed tall, but there the similarity ended. He was youthful, slight, and very attractive in appearance, his manner being exceedingly graceful and easy, as he came forward with a winning smile upon his countenance, and extending his right hand to Mr. Lloyd, placed the other upon Bert's shoulder, and said, in a mellow, pleasant voice:

"Good-morning, Mr. Lloyd. I shall be very glad indeed to have your boy in my school, and if he is anything like as good a man as his father, he will make one of my very best pupils."

Mr. Lloyd laughed heartily at this flattering remark.

"Listen to that, Bert," said he. "When you are in any doubt just how to behave, you have only to ask yourself what I would do under the same circumstances, and act accordingly." Then, turning to Mr. Garrison, he said: "Perhaps you would like me to join your school, too, so as to set a good example to the other boys."

"Right glad would I be to have you, Mr. Lloyd," answered Mr. Garrison, with a cordial smile. "Many a time I find my boys almost too much for one man to handle."

Bert, clinging fast to his father's hand, and half-hoping he was in earnest, felt a pang of disappointment when he replied:

"I'm afraid it's too late, Mr. Garrison. My school-days are past; except so far as I may be able to live them over with this little chap here. I will leave him with you now; do your best with him. He can learn well enough when he likes, but he is just as fond of fun as any youngster of his age." Then giving Bert an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and whispering in his ear, "Now, be a man, Bert," Mr. Lloyd went away, and Bert followed Mr. Garrison up to the desk, where his name, age, and address were duly entered in the register book.

The next business was to assign him a seat. A few questions as to what he knew showed that his proper place was in the junior class of all, and there accordingly Mr. Garrison led him. A vacancy was found for him in a long range of seats, extending from the door almost up to the desk, and he was bidden sit down beside a boy who had been eyeing him with lively curiosity from the moment of his entrance into the room. So soon as Mr. Garrison went away, this boy opened fire upon the new-comer.

"Say, sonny, whats yer name?" he asked, with unhesitating abruptness.

Bert looked the questioner all over before replying. He was a short, stout, stubble-haired chap, evidently a year or two older than himself, with a broad, good-humoured face, and the inspection being, upon the whole, satisfactory, Bert replied, very pleasantly:

"Bert Lloyd—and what's yours?"

Ignoring the question put to him, the other boy gave a sort of grunt that might be taken as an expression of approval of his new schoolmate's name, and then said:

"Guess you don't live down our way; never seen you before, that I know of."

"I live in Fort Street. Where do you live?" replied Bert, giving question for question.

"I'm a West-ender," said the other, meaning that his home was in the western part of the city.

"But whats your name?" asked Bert again.

"Oh, my name's Frank Bowser," was the careless reply. "But everybody calls me 'Shorty,' and you may as well, too."

"All right," said Bert. And the two began to feel quite good friends at once.

As the morning passed, and Bert came to feel more at home, he took in the details of his surroundings. Mr. Garrison's school consisted of some fifty boys, ranging in age from sixteen downward, Bert being about the youngest of them all. They all belonged to the better class, and were, upon the whole, a very presentable lot of pupils. Scanning their countenances curiously as they sat at their desks or stood up in rows before the teacher to recite, Bert noticed more than one face that he instinctively liked, and, being charmed with Mr. Garrison, and well pleased with his new friend "Shorty," his first impressions were decidedly favourable.

He had, of course, nothing to do that morning, save to look about him, but Mr. Garrison gave him a list of books to be procured, and lessons to be learned in them before the school broke up for the day; and with this in his pocket he went home in excellent spirits, to tell them all there, how well he had got on his first day in school.



CHAPTER XI.

SCHOOL LIFE AT MR. GARRISON'S.

Bert had not been long at Mr. Garrison's school before he discovered that it was conducted on what might fairly be described as "go-as-you-please" principles. A sad lack of system was its chief characteristic. He meant well enough by his pupils, and was constantly making spurts in the direction of reform and improvement, but as often falling back into the old irregular ways.

The fact of the matter was that he not only was not a schoolmaster by instinct, but he had no intention of being one by profession. He had simply adopted teaching as a temporary expedient to tide over a financial emergency, and intended to drop it so soon as his object was accomplished. His heart was in his profession, not in his school, and the work of teaching was at best an irksome task, to be got through with each day as quickly as possible. Had Mr. Lloyd fully understood this, he would never have placed Bert there. But he did not; and, moreover, he was interested in young Mr. Garrison, who had had many difficulties to encounter in making his way, and he wished to help him.

In the first place, Mr. Garrison kept no record of attendance, either of the whole school, or of the different classes into which it was divided. A boy might come in an hour after the proper time, or be away for a whole day without either his lateness or his absence being observed. As a consequence "meeching"—that is, taking a holiday without leave from either parents or teachers—was shamefully common. Indeed, there was hardly a day that one or more boys did not "meech." If by any chance they were missed, it was easy to get out of the difficulty by making some excuse about having been sick, or mother having kept them at home to do some work, and so forth. Schoolboys are always fertile in excuses, and, only too often, indifferent as to the quantity of truth these may contain.

Another curious feature of Mr. Garrison's system, or rather lack of system, was that he kept no record of the order of standing in the classes; and so, when the class in geography, for instance, was called to recite, the boys would come tumbling pell-mell out of their seats, and crowd tumultuously to the space in front of the desk, with the invariable result that the smaller boys would be sent to the bottom of the class, whether they deserved to be there or not. Then as to the hearing of the lesson, there was absolutely no rule about it. Sometimes the questions would be divided impartially among the whole class. Sometimes they would all be asked of a single boy, and if he happened to answer correctly,—which, however, was an extremely rare occurrence,—the class would be dismissed without one of the others being questioned.

Another peculiarity of Mr. Garrison's was his going out on business for an hour or more at a time, and leaving the school in charge of one of the older boys, who would exercise the authority thus conferred upon him in a lax and kindly, or severe and cruel manner, according to his disposition. One of the boys generally chosen for this duty was a big, good-hearted fellow named Munro; another was an equally big, but sour-dispositioned chap named Siteman; and whenever Mr. Garrison showed signs of going out, there was always intense excitement among the boys, to see who would be appointed monitor, and lively satisfaction, or deep disappointment, according to the choice made.

It was a little while, of course, before Bert found all this out, and in the meantime he made good headway in the school, because his father took care that his lessons were well learned every evening before he went to bed; and Mr. Garrison soon discovered that whoever else might fail, there was one boy in Bert's classes that could be depended upon for a right answer, and that was Bert himself.

There was another person who noticed Bert's ready accuracy, and that was "Shorty" Bowser.

"Say, Bert," said he one day, "how is that you always have your lessons down so fine? You never seem to trip up at all."

"Because father always sees that I learn 'em," answered Bert. "If I don't learn 'em in the evening, I've got to do it before breakfast in the morning."

"I wish my dad 'ud do as much for me; but he don't seem to care a cent whether I ever learn 'em or not," said poor Shorty, ruefully. For he was pretty sure to miss two out of every three questions asked him, and Mr. Garrison thought him one of his worst scholars.

"Won't your mother help you, then?" asked Bert, with interest.

"Got no mother," was the reply, while Shorty's eyes shone suspiciously. "Mother's been dead this good while."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Bert, in tones of genuine sympathy that went right to Frank Bowser's heart, and greatly strengthened the liking he had felt from the first for his new schoolmate.

It was not long before he gave proof of what he thought of Bert in a very practical way. They were for the most part in the same classes, and it soon became evident that Shorty felt very proud of his friend's accuracy at recitation. That he should remain at the foot while Bert worked his way up steadily toward the head of the class, did not arouse the slightest feeling of jealousy in his honest heart; but, on the contrary, a frank admiration that did him infinite credit.

But it was just the other way with Bob Brandon, an overgrown, lanky boy, who seemed to have taken a dislike to Bert from the first, and seized every opportunity of acting disagreeably toward him. Being so much smaller, Bert had to endure his slights as best he could, but he found it very hard, and particularly so that Bob should prevent him from getting his proper place in his class. Again and again would Bert pass Bob, who, indeed, rarely knew his lessons; but so sure as the class reassembled, Bob would roughly shoulder his way toward the top and Bert would have to take a lower position, unless Mr. Garrison happened to notice what was taking place and readjusted matters, which, however, did not often occur.

This sort of thing had been going on for some time, until at last one day Bert felt so badly over it that when he went back to his seat he buried his head in his hands and burst out crying, much to the surprise of Shorty, who at once leaned over and asked, with much concern:

"What's the matter, Bert? Missed your lesson?"

Bert checked his tears and told his trouble.

"Sho! that's what's the matter, hey? I guess I'll fix Bob as sure as my name's Bowser."

"What'll you do?" asked Bert. "Tell the master?"

"No, sir. No tattling for me," replied Shorty, vigorously. "I'll just punch his head for him, see if I don't."

And he was as good as his word. Immediately after the dismissal of the school, while the boys still lingered on the playground, Shorty stalked up to Bob Brandon, and told him if he didn't stop shoving Bert Lloyd out of his proper place in the classes he would punch his head. Whereat Bob Brandon laughed contemptuously, and was rewarded with a blow on the face that fairly made him stagger. Then, of course, there was a fight, the boys forming a ring around the combatants, and Bert holding his champion's coat and hat, and hardly knowing whether to cry or to cheer. The fight did not last long. Bob was the taller, but Frank the stouter of the two. Bob, like most bullies, was a coward, but Frank was as plucky as he was strong. Burning with righteous wrath, Frank went at his opponent hammer and tongs, and after a few minutes' ineffective parrying and dodging, the latter actually ran out of the ring, thoroughly beaten, leaving Frank in possession of the field, to receive the applause of his companions, and particularly of Bert, who gave him a warm hug, saying gratefully:

"Dear, good Shorty. I'm so glad you beat him."

That fight united the two boys in firmer bonds of friendship than ever, especially as it proved quite effective so far as Bob Brandon was concerned, as he needed no other lesson. It was curious how Bert and Frank reacted upon one another. At first the influence proceeded mainly from Bert to Frank, the latter being much impressed by his friend's attention to his lessons and good behaviour in school, and somewhat stirred up to emulate these virtues. But after Bert had been going to the school for some little time, and the novelty had all worn off, he began to lose some of his ardour and to imitate Frank's happy-go-lucky carelessness. Instead of being one of the first boys in the school of a morning, he would linger and loiter on the playground until he would be among those who were the last to take their places. He also began to take less interest in his lessons, and in his standing in the classes, and but for the care exercised at home would have gone to school very ill prepared.

Frank Bowser was not by any means a bad boy. He had been carelessly brought up, and was by nature of rather a reckless disposition, but he generally preferred right to wrong, and could, upon the whole, be trusted to behave himself under ordinary circumstances, at all events. His influence upon Bert, while it certainly would not help him much, would not harm him seriously. He did get him into trouble one day, however, in a way that Bert was long in forgetting.

The winter had come, and over in one corner of the playground was a slide of unusual length and excellence, upon which the Garrison boys had fine times every day before and after school. Coming up one morning early, on purpose to enjoy this slide, Bert was greatly disappointed to find it in possession of a crowd of roughs from the upper streets, who clearly intended to keep it all to themselves so long as they pleased. While Bert, standing at a safe distance, was watching the usurpers with longing eyes, Shorty came up, and, taking in the situation, said:

"Let 'em alone, Bert; I know of another slide just as good, a couple of squares off. Let's go over there."

"But, isn't it most school time?" objected Bert.

"Why, no," replied Shorty. "There's ten minutes yet. Come along." And thus assured, Bert complied.

The slide was farther away than Shorty had said, but proved to be very good when they did reach it, and they enjoyed it so much that the time slipped away unheeded, until presently the town clock on the hill above them boomed out ten, in notes of solemn warning.

"My sakes!" exclaimed Bert, in alarm. "There's ten o'clock. What will we do?"

"Guess we'd better not go to school at all. Mr. Garrison will never miss us," suggested Shorty.

"Do you mean to meech?" asked Bert, with some indignation.

"That's about it," was the reply. "What's the harm?"

"Why, you know it ain't right; I'm not going to do it if you are." And Bert really meant what he said.

But, as luck would have it, on their way back to the school, what should they meet but that spectacle, one of the most attractive of the winter's sights in the eyes of a Halifax schoolboy, a fireman's sleigh drive. Driving gaily along the street, between lines of spectators, came sleigh after sleigh, drawn by four, six, or even eight carefully matched and brightly decked horses, and filled to overflowing with the firemen and their fair friends, while bands of music played merry tunes, to which the horses seemed to step in time.

Bert and Shorty had of course to stop and see this fine sight, and it chanced that when it was about one-half passed, one of the big eight horse teams got tangled up with a passing sleigh, and a scene of confusion ensued that took a good while to set right. When at length all was straightened out, and the procession of sleighs had passed, Shorty asked a gentleman to tell him the time.

"Five minutes to eleven, my lad," was the startling reply.

Shorty looked significantly at Bert. "Most too late now, don't you think?"

Bert hesitated. He shrank from the ordeal of entering the crowded schoolroom, and being detected and punished by Mr. Garrison, in the presence of all the others. Yet he felt that it would be better to do that than not go to school at all—in other words, meech.

"Oh, come along, Bert," said Shorty; "old Garrison can do without us to-day."

Still Bert stood irresolute.

"Let's go down and see the big steamer that came in last night," persisted Shorty, who was determined not to go to school, and to keep Bert from going too.

Yielding more to Shorty's influence than to the attraction of the steamer, Bert gave way, and spent the rest of the morning playing about, until it was the usual time for going home.

He said nothing at home about what he had done, and the next morning went back to school, hoping, with all his heart, that his absence had not been noted, and that no questions would be asked.

But it was not to be.

Soon after the opening of the school when all were assembled and quiet obtained, Mr. Garrison sent a thrill of expectation through the boys by calling out, in severe tones, while his face was clouded with anger:

"Frank Bowser and Cuthbert Lloyd come to the desk."

With pale faces and drooping heads the boys obeyed, Frank whispering in Bert's ear as they went up:

"Tell him you were kept at home."

Trembling in every nerve, the two culprits stood before their teacher. Mr. Garrison was evidently much incensed. A spasm of reform had seized him. His eyes had been opened to the prevalence of "meeching," and he determined to put a stop to it by making an example of the present offenders. He had missed them both from school the day before, and suspected the cause.

"Young gentlemen," said he, in his most chilling tones, "you were absent yesterday. Have you any reason to give?"

Frank without answering looked at Bert, while the whole school held their breath in suspense. Bert remained silent. It was evident that a sharp struggle was going on within. Becoming impatient, Mr. Garrison struck the desk with his hands, and said, sternly:

"Answer me this moment. Have you any excuse?"

With a quick, decided movement, Bert lifted his head, and looking straight into Mr. Garrison's face with his big brown eyes, said, clearly:

"No, sir. I meeched."

Quite taken aback by this frank confession, Mr. Garrison paused a moment, and then, turning to Frank, asked:

"And how about you, sir?"

Without lifting his head, Frank muttered, "I meeched, too," in tones audible only to his questioner.

So pleased was Mr. Garrison with Bert's honesty, that he would have been glad to let him off with a reprimand; but the interests of good discipline demanded sterner measures. Accordingly, he called to one of his monitors:

"Munro, will you please go over to the Acadian School and get the strap?"

For be it known that Mr. Garrison shared the ownership of a strap with his brother, who taught a school in an adjoining block, and had to send for it when a boy was to be punished.

While Munro was gone, Bert and Frank stood before the desk, both feeling deeply their position, and dreading what was yet to come. When Munro returned, bearing the strap—a business-like looking affair, about two feet in length—Mr. Garrison laid it on the desk, and seemed very reluctant to put it in use. At length, overcoming his disinclination, he rose to his feet, and, taking it up, said:

"Cuthbert Lloyd, come forward!"

Bert, his head drooping upon his breast, and his face flushed and pale by turns, moved slowly forward. Grasping the strap, Mr. Garrison raised it to bring it down upon Bert's outstretched hand, when suddenly a thought struck him that brought a look of immense relief to his countenance, and he arrested the movement. Turning to the boys, who were watching him with wondering eyes, he said:

"Boys, I ask for your judgment. If Bert and Frank say, before you all, that they are sorry for what they have done, and will promise never to do it again, may I not relieve them of the whipping?"

A hearty and unanimous chorus of "Yes, sir," "Yes, sir," came from the school at once.

"Now, my lads, do you hear that?" continued Mr. Garrison in a kindly tone, turning to the two offenders. "Will you not say you are sorry, and will never meech again."

"I am sorry, and promise never to do so again," said Bert, in a clear distinct voice, as the tears gathered in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, and won't do it again," echoed Frank, in a lower tone.

"That's right, boys," said Mr. Garrison, his face full of pleasure. "I am sure you mean every word of it. Go to your seats now, and we will resume work."

It took the school some little time to settle down again after this unusual and moving episode, the effect of which was to raise both Mr. Garrison and Bert a good deal higher in the estimation of every one present, and to put a check upon the practice of "meeching" that went far toward effecting a complete cure.

Although the result had been so much better than he expected, Bert felt his disgrace keenly, and so soon as he got home from school he told the whole story from the start to his mother, making no excuses for himself, but simply telling the truth.

His mother, of course, was very much surprised and pained, but knew well that her boy needed no further reproaches or censure to realise the full extent of his wrong-doing. Bidding him, therefore, seek forgiveness of God as well as of her, she said that she would tell his father all about it, which was a great relief to Bert, who dreaded lest he should have to perform this trying task himself; and so the matter rested for the time.



CHAPTER XII.

A QUESTION OF INFLUENCE.

When Mr. Lloyd heard the story of Bert's "meeching," it was evident that it hurt him sorely. He was quite prepared for a reasonable amount of waywardness in his boy, but this seriously exceeded his expectations. He could not, of course, put himself exactly in Bert's place, and he was inclined to think him guilty of far more deliberate wrong than poor Bert had for a moment contemplated.

Then, again, he was much puzzled as to what should be done with reference to Frank Bowser. He had evidently been Bert's tempter, and Bert ought, perhaps, to be forbidden to have any more to do with him than he could possibly help. On the other hand, if Bert were to be interdicted from the companionship of his schoolmates, how would he ever learn to take care of himself among other dangerous associations? This was a lesson he must learn some day. Should he not begin now?

So Mr. Lloyd was not a little bewildered, and his talk with Bert did not give him much light; for while Bert, of course, was thoroughly penitent and ready to promise anything, what he had to tell about Frank was simply how good-natured and generous and plucky he was, and so forth.

The three of them, father, mother, and sister, held a consultation over the matter that night after Bert had gone to bed.

"I wish I felt more sure as to what is the wisest thing to do," said Mr. Lloyd. "We can't keep Bert in a glass case, and yet it seems as if we should do our best to protect him from every evil influence. I would like to know more about that Bowser boy."

"Bert tells me he has no mother," said Mrs. Lloyd, in sympathetic tones, "and from what he says himself, his father does not seem to take much interest in him. Poor boy! he cannot have much to help him at that rate."

"He's a good, sturdy little chap," put in Mary. "He came down from school with Bert one day. He seems very fond of him."

"Well, what had we better do?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "Forbid Bert to make a companion of him, or say nothing about it, and trust Bert to come out all right?"

"I feel as though we ought to forbid Bert," answered Mrs. Lloyd. "Frank Bowser's influence cannot help him much, and it may harm him a good deal."

"Suppose you put that the other way, mother," spoke up Mary, her face flushing under the inspiration of the thought that had just occurred to her. "Frank Bowser has no help at home, and Bert has. Why, then, not say that Bert's influence cannot harm Frank, and it may help him a good deal?"

"Mary, my dear," exclaimed Mr. Lloyd, bending over to pat her affectionately on the shoulder, "that's a brilliant idea of yours. You're right. Bert should help Frank, and not let Frank harm him. We must make Bert understand that clearly, and then there will be nothing to fear."

And so the consultation closed, with Mary bearing off the honours of having made the best suggestion.

It was acted upon without delay. Calling Bert to him next morning while they were awaiting breakfast, Mr. Lloyd laid the matter before him:

"Bert," said he, kindly, "we were talking about you last night, and wondering whether we ought to forbid your making a companion of Frank Bowser. What do you think?"

"Oh, father, don't do that," answered Bert, looking up with a startled expression. "He's been so good to me. You remember how he served Bob Brandon for shoving me down in class?"

"Yes, Bert; but I'm afraid he's leading you into mischief, and that is not the sort of companion I want for you."

Bert dropped his head again. He had no answer ready this time.

"But then there are always two sides to a question, Bert," continued Mr. Lloyd, while Bert pricked up his ears hopefully. "Why should you not help Frank to keep out of mischief, instead of his leading you into it? What do you say to that?"

Bert did not seem quite to understand, so his father went on:

"Don't you see, Bert? You must either help Frank to be better, or he will cause you to be worse. Now, which is it to be?"

Bert saw it clearly now.

"Why, father," he cried, his face beaming with gladness at this new turn to the situation, "I'll do my best to be a good boy, and I know Shorty will, too, for he always likes to do what I do."

"Very well then, Bert," said Mr. Lloyd, "that's a bargain. And now, suppose you invite Frank, or 'Shorty,' as you call him, to spend next Saturday afternoon with you, and take tea with us."

"Oh, father, that will be splendid," cried Bert, delightedly. "We can coast in the fort all the afternoon and have fun in the evening. I'm sure Shorty will be so glad to come."

The question thus satisfactorily settled, Bert took his breakfast, and went off to school in high glee and great impatience to see Frank, for the invitation he bore for him fairly burned in his mouth, so to speak.

As he expected, Frank needed no pressing to accept it. He did not get many invitations, poor chap! and the prospect of an afternoon at Bert's home seemed very attractive to him. He did enjoy himself thoroughly, too, even if he was so shy and awkward that Mrs. Lloyd and Mary were afraid to say very much to him; he seemed to find it so hard to answer them.

But Mr. Lloyd got on much better with him. Although his boyhood was a good way in the past, he kept its memories fresh, and could enter heartily into the discussion of any of the sports the younger generation delighted in. He knew all the phrases peculiar to baseball, cricket, marbles, and so forth, and fairly astonished Frank by his intimate knowledge of those amusements, so that ere long Frank, without knowing just how it happened, was chatting away as freely as though he were out on the Garrison playground instead of being in Mr. Lloyd's parlour.

Having once got him well started, Mr. Lloyd led him on to talk about himself and his home, and his way of spending his time, and thus learned a great deal more about him than he had yet known. One fact that he learned pointed out a way in which Bert's influence could be exerted for good at once. Frank attended no Sunday school. He went to church sometimes, but not very often, as his father took little interest in church-going, but he never went to Sunday school; in fact, he had not been there for years. Mr. Lloyd said nothing himself on the subject to Frank. He thought it better to leave it all to Bert.

After Frank had gone, leaving behind him a very good impression upon the whole, Mr. Lloyd told Bert of the opportunity awaiting him.

"Wouldn't you like to ask Frank to go with you to Sunday school, Bert?" he inquired.

"Of course, I would, father," replied Bert, promptly; "and I'm sure he'd go, too, and that Mr. Silver would be very glad to have him in our class."

When Bert, however, came to talk to Frank about it, he found him not quite so willing to go as he had been to accept the invitation for Saturday.

"I'm not anxious to go to Sunday school, Bert," said he. "I shan't know anybody there but you, and it'll be awfully slow."

"But you'll soon get to know plenty of people," urged Bert; "and Mr. Silver is so nice."

And so they argued, Frank holding back, partly because his shyness made him shrink from going into a strange place, and partly because, having been accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons pretty much as he pleased, he did not like the idea of giving up his liberty. But Bert was too much in earnest to be put off. The suggestion of his father that he should try to do Frank some good had taken strong hold upon his mind, and he urged, and pleaded, and argued until, at last, Frank gave way, and promised to try the Sunday school for a while, at any rate.

Bert reported the decision at home with much pride and satisfaction. He had no doubt that when once Frank found out what a pleasant place the Sunday school was, and how kind and nice Mr. Silver—his teacher there—was, he would want to go every Sunday.

The Sunday school of Calvary Baptist Church certainly had about as pleasant and cheery quarters as could be desired. For one thing, it was not held in a damp, dark, unventilated basement as so many Sunday schools are.

And, oh, what a shame—what an extraordinary perversion of sense this condemning of the children to the cellars of the churches is! Just as though anything were good enough for them, when in them lies the hope of the Church, and every possible means should be employed to twine their young affections about it! But these words do not apply to the Calvary Sunday School, for it was not held in a dingy basement, but in a separate building that united in itself nearly every good quality such an edifice should possess. It was of ample size, full of light and air, had free exposure to the sunshine, and was so arranged that every convenience was offered for the work of the school. Around the central hall were arranged rooms for the Bible classes, the infant class, and the library, so planned that by throwing up sliding doors they became part of the large room. The walls were hung with pictures illustrating Bible scenes, and with mottoes founded upon Bible texts; and finally, the benches were of a special make that was particularly comfortable.

All this was quite a revelation to Frank when, after some little coaxing, Bert brought him to the school. His conception of a Sunday school was of going down into a gloomy basement, and being lectured about the Bible by a severe old man with a long grey beard. Instead of that, he found himself in one of the brightest rooms he had ever seen, and receiving a cordial welcome from a handsome young gentleman, to whom Bert had just said:

"This is my friend Frank, Mr. Silver. He's going to come to school with me after this."

"Very glad indeed to have you, Frank," said Mr. Silver, giving him a warm grasp of the hand. "Sit right down with Bert, and make yourself at home."

And Frank sat down, so surprised and pleased with everything as to be half inclined to wonder if he was not dreaming. Then the fine singing, as the whole school, led by an organ and choir, burst forth into song, the bright pleasant remarks of the superintendent, Mr. Hamilton, Bert's ideal of a "Christian soldier," and the simple earnest prayer offered,—all impressed Frank deeply.

No less interesting did he find Mr. Silver's teaching of the lesson. Mr. Silver attached great importance to his work in the Sunday school. Nothing was permitted to interfere with thorough preparation for it, and he always met his class brimful of information, illustration, and application, bearing upon the passage appointed for the day. And not only so, but by shrewd questioning and personal appeal he sent the precious words home to his young hearers and fixed them deep in their memories. He was a rare teacher in many respects, and Bert was very fond of him. Frank did not fail to be attracted by him. As he and Bert left the school together, Bert asked:

"Well, Frank, how do you like my Sunday school?"

"First rate," replied Frank, heartily. "Say, but isn't Mr. Silver nice? Seems as though I'd known him for ever so long instead of just to-day."

"Guess he is nice," said Bert. "He's just the best teacher in the school. You'll come every Sunday now, won't you, Frank?"

"I think so," answered Frank; "I might just as well be going there as loafing about on Sunday afternoon doing nothing."

Mr. Lloyd was very much pleased when he heard of Bert's success in getting Frank to the Sunday school. He recognised in Bert many of those qualities which make a boy a leader among his companions, and his desire was that his son's influence should always tell for that which was manly, pure, and upright. To get him interested in recruiting for the Sunday school was a very good beginning in church work, and Mr. Lloyd felt thankful accordingly.

Neither was he alone in feeling pleased and thankful. Mr. John Bowser, Frank's father, although he showed great indifference to both the intellectual and moral welfare of his boy, was, nevertheless, not opposed to others taking an interest in him. He cared too little about either church or Sunday school to see that Frank was a regular attendant. But he was very willing that somebody else should take an interest in the matter. Moreover, he felt not a little complacency over the fact that his son was chosen as a companion by Lawyer Lloyd's son. Engrossed as he was in the making of money, a big, burly, gruff, uncultured contractor, he found time somehow to acquire a great respect for Mr. Lloyd. He thought him rather too scrupulous and straightforward a man to be his lawyer, but he admired him greatly, nevertheless; and, although he said nothing about it, secretly congratulated himself upon the way things were going. He had little idea that the circle of influence Bert had unconsciously started would come to include him before its force would be spent.



CHAPTER XIII.

BERT AT HOME.

It was an article of faith in the Lloyd family that there was not a house in Halifax having a pleasanter situation than theirs, and they certainly had very good grounds for their belief. Something has already been told about its splendid view of the broad harbour, furrowed with white-capped waves, when of an afternoon the breeze blew in smartly from the great ocean beyond; of its snug security from northern blasts; of the cosy nook it had to itself in a quiet street; and of its ample exposure to the sunshine. But, perhaps, the chief charm of all was the old fort whose grass-grown casemates came so close to the foot of the garden, that ever since Bert was big enough to jump, he had cherished a wild ambition to leap from the top of the garden fence to the level top of the nearest casemate.

This old fort, with its long, obsolete, muzzle-loading thirty-two pounders, was associated with Bert's earliest recollection. His nurse had carried him there to play about in the long, rank grass underneath the shade of the wide-spreading willows that crested the seaward slope before he was able to walk; and ever since, summer and winter, he had found it his favourite playground.

The cannons were an unfailing source of delight to him. Mounted high upon their cumbrous carriages, with little pyramids of round iron balls that would never have any other use than that of ornament lying beside them, they made famous playthings. He delighted in clambering up and sitting astride their smooth, round bodies as though they were horses; or in peering into the mysterious depths of their muzzles. Indeed, once when he was about five years old he did more than peer in. He tried to crawl in, and thereby ran some risk of injury.

He had been playing ball with some of the soldier's children, and seemed so engrossed in the amusement that his mother, who had taken him into the fort, thought he might very well be left for a while, and so she went off some little distance to rest in quiet, in a shady corner. She had not been there more than a quarter of an hour, when she was startled by the cries of the children, who seemed much alarmed over something; and hastening back to where she had left Bert, she beheld a sight that would have been most ludicrous if it had not been so terrifying.

Protruding from the mouth of one of the cannons, and kicking very vigorously, were two sturdy, mottled legs that she instantly recognised as belonging to her son, while from the interior came strange muffled sounds that showed the poor little fellow was screaming in dire affright, as well he might in so distressing a situation. Too young to be of any help, Bert's playmates were gathered about him crying lustily, only one of them having had the sense to run off to the carpenter's shop near by to secure assistance.



Mrs. Lloyd at once grasped Bert's feet and strove to pull him out, but found it no easy matter. In his efforts to free himself he had only stuck the more firmly, and was now too securely fastened for Mrs. Lloyd to extricate him. Fortunately, however, a big soldier came along at this juncture, and, slipping both hands as far up on Bert's body as he could reach, grasped him firmly, and with one strong, steady pull, drew him out of the cannon.

When he got him out, Bert presented so comical a spectacle that his stalwart rescuer had to lay him down and laugh until the tears rolled down his cheeks. Mrs. Lloyd, too, relieved from all anxiety, and feeling a reaction from her first fright, could not help following his example. His face, black with grime, which was furrowed with tears, his hands even blacker, his nice clothes smutched and soiled, and indeed, his whole appearance suggested a little chimney-sweep that had forgotten to put on his working clothes before going to business. Bert certainly was enough to make even the gravest laugh.

Beyond a bruise or two, he was, however, not a whit the worse for his curious experience, which had come about in this way:—While they were playing with the ball, one of the children had, out of mischief, picked it up and thrown it into the cannon, where it had stayed. They tried to get it out by means of sticks, but could not reach it. Then Bert, always plucky and enterprising to the verge of rashness, undertook to go after the ball himself. The other boys at once joined forces to lift him up and push him into the dark cavern, and then alarmed by his cries and unavailing struggles to get out again, began to cry themselves, and thus brought Mrs. Lloyd to the scene.

Mr. Lloyd was very much amused when he heard about Bert's adventure.

"You've beaten Shakespeare, Bert," said he, after a hearty laugh, as Mrs. Lloyd graphically described the occurrence. "For Shakespeare says a man does not seek the bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth, until he becomes a soldier, but you have found it, unless I am much mistaken, before you have fairly begun being a schoolboy."

Bert did not understand the reference to Shakespeare, but he did understand that his father was not displeased with him, and that was a much more important matter. The next Sunday afternoon, when they went for their accustomed stroll in the fort, Bert showed his father the big gun whose dark interior he had attempted to explore.

"Oh, but father, wasn't I frightened when I got in there and couldn't get out again!" said he earnestly, clasping his father's hand tightly, as the horror of the situation came back to him.

"You were certainly in a tight place, little man," answered Mr. Lloyd, "and the next time your ball gets into one of the cannons you had better ask one of the artillerymen to get it out for you. He will find it a much easier job than getting you out."

Bert loved the old fort and its cannons none the less because of his adventure, and as he grew older he learned to drop down into it from the garden fence, and climb back again, with the agility of a monkey. The garden itself was not very extensive, but Bert took a great deal of pleasure in it, too, for he was fond of flowers—what true boy, indeed, is not?—and it contained a large number within its narrow limits, there being no less than two score rose bushes of different varieties, for instance. The roses were very plenteous and beautiful when in their prime, but at opposite corners of the little garden stood two trees that had far more interest for Bert than all the rose trees put together. These were two apple trees, planted, no one knew just how or when, which had been allowed to grow up at their own will, without pruning or grafting, and, as a consequence, were never known to produce fruit that was worth eating. Every spring they put forth a brave show of pink and white blossoms, as though this year, at all events, they were going to do themselves credit, and every autumn the result appeared in half-a-dozen hard, small, sour, withered-up apples that hardly deserved the name. And yet, although these trees showed no signs of repentance and amendment, Bert, with the quenchless hopefulness of boyhood, never quite despaired of their bringing forth an apple that he could eat without having his mouth drawn up into one tight pucker. Autumn after autumn he would watch the slowly developing fruit, trusting for the best. It always abused his confidence, however, but it was a long time before he finally gave it up in despair.

At one side of the garden stood a neat little barn that was also of special interest to Bert, for, besides the stall for the cow, there was another, still vacant, which Mr. Lloyd had promised should have a pony for its tenant so soon as Bert was old enough to be trusted with such a playmate.

Hardly a day passed that Bert did not go into the stable, and, standing by the little stall, wonder to himself how it would look with a pretty pony in it. Of course, he felt very impatient to have the pony, but Mr. Lloyd had his own ideas upon that point, and was not to be moved from them. He thought that when Bert was ten years old would be quite time enough, and so there was nothing to do but to wait, which Bert did, with as much fortitude as he could command.

Whatever might be the weather outside, it seemed always warm and sunny indoors at Bert's home. The Lloyds lived in an atmosphere of love, both human and Divine. They loved one another dearly, but they loved God still more, and lived close to Him. Religion was not so much expressed as implied in their life. It was not in the least obtrusive, yet one could never mistake their point of view. Next to its sincerity, the strongest characteristic of their religion was its cheeriness. They saw no reason why the children of the King should go mourning all their days; on the contrary, was it not rather their duty, as well as their privilege, to establish the joy of service?

Brought up amid such influences, Bert was, as a natural consequence, entirely free from those strange misconceptions of the true character of religion which keep so many of the young out of the kingdom. He saw nothing gloomy or repellent in religion. That he should love and serve God seemed as natural to him as that he should love and serve his parents. Of their love and care he had a thousand tokens daily. Of the Divine love and care he learned from them, and that they should believe in it was all the reason he required for his doing the same. He asked no further evidence.

There were, of course, times when the spirit of evil stirred within him, and moved him to rebel against authority, and to wish, as he put it himself one day when reminded of the text, "Thou God seest me," that "God would let him alone for a while, and not be always looking at him." But then he wasn't an angel by any means, but simply a hearty, healthy, happy boy, with a fair share of temper, and as much fondness for having his own way as the average boy of his age.

His parents were very proud of him. They would have been queer parents if they were not. Yet they were careful to disguise it from him as far as possible. If there was one thing more than another that Mr. Lloyd disliked in children, and, therefore, dreaded for his boy, it was that forward, conscious air which comes of too much attention being paid them in the presence of their elders. "Little folks should be seen and not heard," he would say kindly but firmly to Bert, when that young person was disposed to unduly assert himself, and Bert rarely failed to take the hint.

One trait of Bert's nature which gave his father great gratification was his fondness for reading. He never had to be taught to read. He learned, himself. That is, he was so eager to learn that so soon as he had mastered the alphabet, he was always taking his picture books to his mother or sister, and getting them to spell the words for him. In this way he got over all his difficulties with surprising rapidity, and at five years of age could read quite easily. As he grew older, he showed rather an odd taste in his choice of books. One volume that he read from cover to cover before he was eight years old was Layard's "Nineveh." Just why this portly sombre-hued volume, with its winged lion stamped in gold upon its back, attracted him so strongly, it would not be easy to say. The illustrations, of course, had something to do with it, and then the fascination of digging down deep into the earth and bringing forth all sorts of strange things no doubt influenced him.

Another book that held a wonderful charm for him was the Book of Revelation. So carefully did he con this, which he thought the most glorious of all writings, that at one time he could recite many chapters of it word for word. Its marvellous imagery appealed to his imagination if it did nothing more, and took such hold upon his mind that no part of the Bible, not even the stories that shine like stars through the first books of the Old Testament, was more interesting to him.

Not only was Bert's imagination vivid, but his sympathies were also very quick and easily aroused. It was scarcely safe to read to him a pathetic tale, his tears were so certain to flow. The story of Gellert's hound, faithful unto death, well-nigh broke his heart, and that perfect pearl, "Rab and His Friends," bedewed his cheeks, although he read it again and again until he knew it almost by heart.

No one ever laughed at his tenderness of heart. He was not taught that it was unmanly for a boy to weep. It is an easy thing to chill and harden an impressionable nature. It is not so easy to soften it again, or to bring softness to one that is too hard for its own good.

With such a home, Bert Lloyd could hardly fail to be a happy boy, and no one that knew him would ever have thought of him as being anything else. He had his dull times, of course. What boy with all his faculties has not? And he had his cranky spells, too. But neither the one nor the other lasted very long, and the sunshine soon not only broke through the clouds, but scattered them altogether. Happy are those natures not given to brooding over real or fancied troubles. Gloom never mends matters: it can only make them worse.



CHAPTER XIV.

AN HONOURABLE SCAR.

Bert was not learning very much at Mr. Garrison's school. He had some glimmering of this himself, for he said to Frank one day, after they had returned to their seats from having gone through the form—for really it was nothing more—of saying one of their lessons:

"It's mighty easy work getting through lessons at this school, isn't it, Shorty?" And Shorty, being of the same opinion, as he had happened not to be asked any questions, and, therefore, had not made any mistakes, promptly assented.

"That's so, Bert," said he, "and the oftener he asks Munro and you to say the whole lesson, and just gives me the go-by, the better I like it."

But Bert was not the only one who noticed that his education was not making due progress. His father observed it too, and, after some thinking on the subject, made up his mind that he would allow Bert to finish the spring term at Mr. Garrison's, and then, after the summer holidays, send him to some other school.

The winter passed away and spring drew near. Spring is the most dilatory and provoking of all the seasons at Halifax. It advances and retreats, pauses and progresses, promises and fails to perform, until it really seems, sometimes, as though mid-summer would be at hand and no spring at all. With the boys it is a particularly trying time of the year. The daily increasing heat of the sun has played havoc with the snow and ice, and winter sports are out of the question. Yet the snow and ice—or rather the slush they make—still lingers on, and renders any kind of summer sport impossible. For nearly a month this unsatisfactory state of affairs continues, and then, at length, the wet dries up, the frost comes out of the ground, the chill leaves the air, and marbles, rounders, baseball, and, later on, cricket make glad the hearts and tire the legs of the eager boys.

This spring was made memorable for Bert by an occurrence that left its mark upon him, lest, perhaps, he might be in danger of forgetting it. In front of the large building, in one room of which Mr. Garrison's school was held, there was a large open square, known as the Parade. It was a bare, stony place kept in order by nobody, and a great resort for the roughs of the city, who could there do pretty much what they pleased without fear of interruption from the police. On the upper side of this square, and over toward the opposite end from Mr. Garrison's, was another school, called the National, and having a large number of scholars, of a somewhat commoner class than those which attended Mr. Garrison's. It need hardly be said that the relations between the two schools were, to use a diplomatic phrase, "chronically strained." They were always at loggerheads. A Garrison boy could hardly encounter a National boy without giving or getting a cuff, a matter determined by his size, and riots, on a more or less extensive scale, were continually taking place when groups of boys representing the two schools would happen to meet.

Bert was neither quarrelsome nor pugnacious by nature. He disliked very much being on bad terms with anyone, and could not understand why he should regard another boy as his natural enemy simply because he happened to go to a different school. More than once he had quite an argument with Frank Bowser about it. Frank was always full of fight. He hated every National boy as vigorously as though each one had individually done him some cruel injury. As sure as a collision took place, and Frank was present, he was in the thick of it at once, dealing blows right and left with all his might.

In obedience to the dictation of his own nature, strengthened by his father's advice, Bert kept out of these squabbles so far as he possibly could, and as a natural consequence fell under suspicion of being a coward. Even Frank began to wonder if he were not afraid, and if it were not this which kept him back from active participation in the rows. He said something about it to Bert one day, and it hurt Bert very much.

"I'm not afraid, Shorty; you know well enough I'm not," said he, indignantly. "But I'm not going to fight with fellows who never did me any harm. It's wrong, that's what it is, and I'm not going to do it. I don't care what you say."

"But you ought to chip in sometimes, Bert, or the boys will think that you're a coward," urged Frank.

"I can't help it if they do, Shorty," was Bert's unshaken reply. "I don't feel like it myself, and, what's more, father doesn't want me to."

The very next day there was a row of unusual dimensions, brought about by one of the Garrison boys at the noon recess having started a fight with one of the National boys, which almost in a twinkling of an eye involved all the boys belonging to both schools then in the Parade. It was a lively scene, that would have gladdened the heart of an Irishman homesick for the excitement of Donnybrook Fair. There were at least one hundred boys engaged, the sides being pretty evenly matched, and the battle ground was the centre of the Parade. To drive the other school in ignominious flight from this spot was the object of each boyish regiment, and locked in hostile embrace, like the players in a football match when a "maul" has been formed, they swayed to and fro, now one side gaining, now the other, while shouts of "Go in, Nationals!" "Give it to them, Garrisons!" mingling with exclamations of anger or pain, filled the air.

Bert was not present when the struggle began. In fact, it was well under way before he knew anything about it, as he had lingered in the schoolroom to ask Mr. Garrison some question after the other boys had run out. On going out upon the Parade, he was at first startled by the uproar, and then filled with an intense desire to be in the midst of the battle. But, remembering his father's injunctions, he paused for a moment irresolute. Then he noticed that the National boys were gaining the advantage, and the Garrison boys retreating before them. The next instant he caught sight of Frank Bowser, who had, of course, been in the forefront of the fight, left unsupported by his comrades, and surrounded by a circle of threatening opponents. Bert hesitated no longer. With a shout of "Come on, boys!" he sprang down the steps, rushed across the intervening space, and flung himself into the group around Frank with such force that two of the Nationals were hurled to the ground, and Frank set at liberty. Inspirited by Bert's gallant onset, the Garrisons returned to the charge, the Nationals gave way before them, and Bert was just about to raise the shout of victory when a big hulk of a boy who had been hovering on the outskirts of the Nationals, too cowardly to come to any closer quarter, picked up a stone and threw it with wicked force straight at Bert's face. His aim was only too good. With a sharp thud, the stone struck Bert on his left temple, just behind the eye, and the poor boy fell to the ground insensible.

Instantly the struggle and confusion ceased, but not before Frank, in a passion of fury, had dealt Bert's cowardly assailant a blow that sent him reeling to the ground, and had then sprung to his friend's side.

"Get a doctor, some fellow," he shouted, holding up the pale, calm face, down which the blood was trickling from an ugly wound. "Let's carry him into the school!"

A dozen eager volunteers came forward. Carefully and tenderly Bert was lifted up, and carried into the schoolroom, which, fortunately, Mr. Garrison had not yet left. Placed upon one of the benches, with Frank's coat for a pillow, his head was bathed with cold water, and presently he revived, much to the relief and delight of the anxious boys standing round. A few minutes later the doctor arrived. With quick, deft fingers he stanched the wound, covered it with plaster, enveloped it with bandages, and then gave directions that Bert should be sent home in a cab without delay.

"Why, Bert darling, what does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Lloyd, as she opened the door for him.

"Ask Frank, mother; my head's aching too bad to tell you," replied Bert, putting up his hand with a gesture of pain. And so, while Bert lay on the sofa, with his mother close beside him, and Mary preparing him a refreshing drink, Frank told the story in his own, rough, straightforward fashion, making it all so clear, with the help of a word now and then from Bert, that when he ended, Mrs. Lloyd, bending over her son, kissed him tenderly on the forehead, saying:

"You know, Bert, how I dislike fighting, but I cannot find it in my heart to blame you this time. You acted like a hero."

In this opinion Mr. Lloyd, when he came home, fully concurred. He had not a word of blame for Bert, but made the boy's heart glad by telling him to always stand by his friends when they were in trouble, and then he would never be without friends who would stand by him.

Bert's wound took some time to heal, and when it did heal, a scar remained that kept its place for many years after. But he did not suffer for nought. The incident was productive of good in two directions. It established Bert's character for courage beyond all cavil, and it put an end to the unseemly rows between the schools. The two masters held a consultation, as a result of which they announced to their schools that any boys found taking part in such disturbances in future would be first publicly whipped, and then expelled; and this threat put an effectual stop to the practice.

The days and weeks slipped by, and the summer vacation, so eagerly looked forward to by all schoolboys, arrived. None were more delighted at its arrival than Bert and Frank. Their friendship had grown steadily stronger from the day of their first acquaintance. They had few disagreements. Frank, although the older and larger of the two, let Bert take the lead in almost all cases, for Bert had the more active mind, and his plans were generally the better. Happily for the serenity of their relations, Bert, while he was fond enough of being the leader, never undertook to "boss" his companions. If they did not readily fall into line with him, why he simply fell into line with them, and that was an end of it. His idea of fun did not consist in being an autocrat, and ordering others about. He very much preferred that all should work together for whatever common purpose happened to be in their minds at the time; and thus it was, that of the boys who played together in the old fort, and waded in the shallow water that rippled along the sand beach at its foot, no one was more popular than Bert Lloyd.

They had fine fun during this summer vacation. Neither Frank nor Bert went out of the city, and they played together every day, generally in the fort; but sometimes Bert would go with Frank to the Horticultural Gardens, where a number of swings made a great attraction for the young folk, or down to the point where they would ramble through the woods, imagining themselves brave hunters in search of bears, and carrying bows and arrows to help out the illusion.

The greatest enjoyment of all, however, was to go out upon the water. Of course, they were not allowed to do this by themselves. They were too young for that yet, but very often Mr. Lloyd would leave his office early in the afternoon in order to take them out in the pretty skiff he kept at the fort, or the whole family would spend the long summer evenings together on the water.

Bert was at his happiest then. Under his father's directions he was vigorously learning to row, and it was very stimulating to have his mother and sister as spectators. They took such a lively interest in his progress, that he did not mind if they did laugh heartily, but of course not unkindly, when sometimes in his eagerness to take an extra big stroke he would "catch a crab," and roll over on his back in the bottom of the boat, with his feet stuck up like two signals of distress. Bert accomplished this a good many times, but it did not discourage him. He was up and at it again immediately.

"Don't look at your oar, boys! Don't look at your oar! Keep your faces toward the stern," Mr. Lloyd would call out as Bert and Frank tugged away manfully, and they, who had been watching their oars to make sure that they went into the water just right, would answer "Ay, ay, sir!" in true sailor fashion; and then for the next few moments they would keep their eyes fixed straight astern, only to bring them back again soon to those dripping blades that had such a saucy way of getting crooked unless they were well watched.

A more delightful place than Halifax harbour of a fine summer evening could hardly be desired. The wind, which had been busy making "white caps" all the afternoon, went to rest at sundown. The ruffled waters sank into a glassy calm, the broad harbour becoming one vast mirror in which the rich hues of the sunset, the long dark lines of the wharves, and the tall masts of the ships sleeping at their moorings were reflected with many a quaint curve and curious involution. Boats of every kind, the broad-bottomed dory, the sharp-bowed flat, the trim keel-boat, the long low whaler, with their jolly companies, dotted the placid surface, while here and there a noisy steam launch saucily puffed its way along, the incessant throb of its engine giving warning of its approach. Far up the harbour at their moorings off the dockyard, the huge men-of-war formed centres around which the boats gathered in numerous squads, for every evening the band would play on board these floating castles, and the music never seemed more sweet than when it floated out over the still waters. Sometimes, too, after the band had ceased, the sailors would gather on the forecastle and sing their songs, as only sailors can sing, winning round after round of applause from their appreciative audience in the boats.

All of this was very delightful to Bert. So, too, was the paddling about on the beach that fringed the bottom of the fort's grassy slope, and the making of miniature forts out of the warm, dry sand, only to have them dissolve again before the advancing tide. Just as delightful, too, was the clambering over the boulders that marked the ruins of an old pier, searching for periwinkles, star-fish, and limpets, with never-ceasing wonder at the tenacity with which they held on to the rocks. Playing thus in the sunshine almost from dawn to dark, Bert grew visibly bigger and browner and sturdier, as the days slipped swiftly by.



CHAPTER XV.

A CHANGE OF SCHOOLS.

With the coming of September the holidays ended, and the question of schools once more was earnestly discussed in the Lloyd household.

"I have quite made up my mind not to send Bert back to Mr. Garrison," said Mr. Lloyd. "He seems to be learning little or nothing there. The fact of the matter is, what he does learn, he learns at home, and Mr. Garrison simply hears him recite his lessons."

"That's very true," assented Mrs. Lloyd. "I am only too glad to help Bert all I can in his studies, but I do not see the propriety of our having the greater part of the work of teaching him ourselves when we are at the same time paying some one else to do it. Do you, Mary?" she added, turning to her daughter.

"No, mother," replied Mary. "I suppose it is not quite fair. Yet I would feel sorry if Bert went to a school where everything was done for him, and nothing left for us to do. I like to help him. He gets hold of an idea so quickly; it is a pleasure to explain anything to him."

"It seems to me that a school where there is a good deal of healthful rivalry among the boys would be the best place for Bert. He is very ambitious, and eager to be at the top, and in a school of that kind his energies would be constantly stimulated," said Mr. Lloyd. "What do you think, Kate?" addressing his wife.

"I think that would be very good, indeed," answered Mrs. Lloyd. "But do you know of any such school?"

"I have been hearing good accounts of Dr. Johnston's school, and he certainly seems to have a great deal of system in his methods, so that I am inclined to give him a trial."

"Oh, Dr. Johnston's is a splendid school," spoke up Mary, with enthusiasm. "Both of Edie Strong's brothers go there, and I have often heard them tell about it. But isn't Bert too young for it yet? He's only nine, you know, and they are mostly big boys who go to Dr. Johnston's."

"Not a bit!" said Mr. Lloyd, emphatically. "Not a bit! True, Bert is only nine, but he looks more like twelve, and thinks and acts like it, too. It will be all the better for him to be with boys a little older than himself. He will find it hard to hold his own among them, and that will serve to strengthen and develop him."

"Poor little chap!" said Mrs. Lloyd, tenderly. "I expect he will have a pretty hard time of it at first. I wish Frank were going with him, for he thinks all the world of Bert, and is so much older and bigger that he could be a sort of protector for him."

"I'm glad you mentioned Frank, Kate," exclaimed Mr. Lloyd. "You've given me an idea. If I decide to send Bert to Dr. Johnston's, I will make a point of seeing Mr. Bowser, to ask him if he will not consent to send Frank, too. I hardly expect he will make any objection, as it is not likely there will be any difference in the expense."

"Oh, I do hope Frank will go, too," cried Mary, clapping her hands. "If he does, I shall feel ever so much easier about Bert. Frank is so fond of him that he won't let him be abused, if he can help it."

"Very well, then," said Mr. Lloyd, bringing the conversation to a close. "I will make some further inquiries about Dr. Johnston's, and if the results are satisfactory I will see Mr. Bowser, and do what I can to persuade him to let Frank accompany Bert."

A few days after, Mr. Lloyd called Bert to him, while they were all sitting in the parlour, just after dinner.

"Come here, Bert," said he. "I want to have a talk with you about going to school. You know I don't intend you to go back to Mr. Garrison's. Now, where would you like to go yourself?"

"Oh, I don't know, father," replied Bert. "I don't want to go to the Acadian or National school anyway."

"You need not feel troubled on that score. So far as I can learn, they are no better than the one you have been going to. But what do you think of Dr. Johnston's school? How would you like to become a pupil there?"

"Oh, father," exclaimed Bert, looking up, with a face expressive of both surprise and concern, "I'm not big enough for that school. They're all big boys that go there."

"But you're a big boy,—for your age, at all events,—Bert," returned Mr. Lloyd, with a reassuring smile, "and you'll soon grow to be as big as any of them."

"But, father," objected Bert, "they're awfully rough there, and so hard on the new fellows. They always hoist them."

"Hoist them?" inquired Mr. Lloyd. "What do you mean?"

"Why, they hang them up on the fence, and then pound them. It hurts awfully. Robbie Simpson told me about it. They hoisted him the first day."

"Humph!" said Mr. Lloyd. "I must say I don't like that, but at the worst I suppose you can survive it, just as the others have done. Is there any other reason why you wouldn't like to go to Dr. Johnston's?"

"Well, father, you know he has a dreadful strap, most a yard long, and he gives the boys dreadful whippings with it."

"Suppose he has, Bert; does he whip the boys who know their lessons, and behave properly in school?" asked Mr. Lloyd, with a quizzical glance at his son.

Bert laughed. "Of course not, father," said he. "He only whips the bad boys."

"Then why should his long strap be an objection, Bert? You don't propose to be one of the bad boys, do you?"

"Of course not, father; but I might get a whipping, all the same."

"We'll hope not, Bert; we'll hope not. And now, look here. Would you like it any better going to Dr. Johnston's if Frank were to go with you?"

"Oh, yes indeed, father," exclaimed Bert, his face lighting up. "If Frank goes too, I won't mind it."

"All right then, Bert; I am glad to say that Frank is going, too. I went to see his father to-day, and he agreed to let him go, so I suppose we may consider the matter settled, and next Monday you two boys will go with me to the school." And Mr. Lloyd, evidently well-pleased at having reconciled Bert to the idea of the new school, took up his paper, while Bert went over to his mother's side to have a talk with her about it.

Mrs. Lloyd felt all a mother's anxiety regarding this new phase of life upon which her boy was about to enter. Dr. Johnston's was the largest and most renowned school in the city. It was also in a certain sense the most aristocratic. Its master charged high rates, which only well-to-do people could afford, and as a consequence the sons of the wealthiest citizens attended his school. Because of this, it was what would be called select; and just in that very fact lay one of the dangers Mrs. Lloyd most dreaded. Rich men's sons may be select from a social point of view, but they are apt to be quite the reverse from the moral standpoint. Frank Bowser, with all his clumsiness and lack of good manners, would be a far safer companion than Dick Wilding, the graceful, easy-mannered heir of the prosperous bank president.

On the other hand, the school was undoubtedly the best in the city. A long line of masters had handed down from one to the other its fame as a home of the classics and mathematics with unimpaired lustre. At no other school could such excellent preparation for the university be obtained, and Bert in due time was to go to the university. Many a long and serious talk had Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd over the matter. True, they had great confidence in their boy, and in the principles according to which they had sought to bring him up. But then he was their only boy, and if their confidence should perchance be found to have been misplaced, how could the damage be repaired? Ah! well, they could, after all, only do their best, and leave the issue with God. They could not always be Bert's shields. He must learn to fight his own battles, and it was as well for him to begin now, and at Dr. Johnston's school.

Bert himself took quite a serious view of the matter, too. He was a more than ordinarily thoughtful boy, and the prospect of going to Dr. Johnston's made his brain very busy. While the school was not without its attractions for him, there were many reasons why he shrank from going to it. The most of the boys were, as he knew from often seeing them when on his way to and from Mr. Garrison's, older and bigger than himself, and, still worse, they were strangers to him with one or two exceptions. Of course, since Frank was to go with him, he would not mind that so much, but it counted for a good deal, notwithstanding.

Then he had heard startling stories of Dr. Johnston's severity; of his keeping boys in after school for a whole afternoon; of the tremendous whippings he gave with that terrible strap of his, the tails of which had, according to popular rumour, been first soaked in vinegar, and then studded with small shot; of the rigorous care with which the lessons were heard, every boy in the class having to show that he was well prepared, or to take the consequences. These, and other stories which had reached Bert's ears, now perturbed him greatly.

At the same time, he had no idea of drawing back, and pleading with his father to send him somewhere else. He saw clearly enough that both his father and mother had quite made up their minds that it would be the best thing for him, and he knew better than to trouble them with vain protests. He found his sister an inexpressible comfort at this time. He confided in her unreservedly, and her sweet, serene, trustful way of looking at things cleared away many a difficulty for him. It was easy to look at the bright side of affairs with Mary as an adviser, and the more Bert talked with her, the more encouraged he became. It was a happy coincidence, that on the Sunday preceding Bert's entrance into Dr. Johnston's school, the lesson for the Sabbath school should contain these ringing words: "Quit you like men; be strong." Mr. Silver had much to say about them to his class: