"I want no reward for saving your boy, sir. It's proud I am of pulling so fine a boy as that out of the water. I did no more than you'd do for my boy, sir, if he were in the same scrape," said he, in reply to Mr. Lloyd's delicately worded offer.

"That may be, Connors. I'm sure I would do as you say, but all the same I would feel much more comfortable if you would accept this purse as some expression of my gratitude," urged Mr. Lloyd.

"And, thanking you kindly, sir, I'd feel much more comfortable if I didn't take it," returned Connors, in a tone there was no mistaking. So Mr. Lloyd, resolving in his mind that he would find out some other way of rewarding the worthy fellow, said no more then, and shortly after took his leave.

As Bert and his father walked home together they were still talking about the event of the afternoon.

"If you had been drowned, Bert, it would to some extent have been my fault," said Mr. Lloyd; "for I should not have so long neglected teaching you to swim. A boy of your age ought to be well able to take care of himself in the water, and I should have seen that you were. However, now that this escape of yours has waked me up, I will attend to the matter at once. So we will begin to-morrow morning, Bert, and have a swimming lesson every day before breakfast."

"Oh, father; I'm so glad," exclaimed Bert, skipping about joyfully. "I want to know how to swim ever so much, and I'll soon learn if you'll teach me."

"All right, my boy. You see to waking me in good time, and I'll see that you learn to swim," replied Mr. Lloyd, clapping Bert affectionately on the back.

The next morning at six o'clock Bert was rapping loudly on his father's door, and calling upon him to get up, and a quarter of an hour later the pair with towels on their arms were off in the direction of a secluded, deserted wharf that would just suit their purpose.

On arriving at this place, Mr. Lloyd showed Bert how he proposed to teach him to swim, and it certainly was about as excellent a way as could well have been devised. He had brought with him two things besides the towels: a piece of rope about the thickness of a clothes line, and ten yards or more in length, and a strong linen band, two yards in length. The linen band he put round Bert's shoulders in such a way that there was no possibility of its slipping, or interfering with the action of his arms; and then the rope was so fastened to the band that when Bert was in the water his father, standing on the wharf above him, could hold him in just the right position for swimming.

The preparations having been completed, Bert was bidden descend the steps and plunge into the water. He started off bravely enough, but when he reached the bottom step he hesitated. The water was at least ten feet in depth beneath him, and he had never been "over his head," as they say, before, except when he came so near being drowned. Naturally, therefore, he shrank from committing himself to the deep in this fashion.

"Well, Bert, what's the matter? Are you afraid the water is too cold?" asked his father, as he noticed his hesitation.

"No, father; not exactly," answered Bert, feeling half ashamed of himself.

"You're afraid it's too deep, then?" suggested Mr. Lloyd. And Bert looked up with a smile that showed he had hit the mark.

"Never mind, my boy," said Mr. Lloyd, cheeringly. "You're all right. I won't let go of you. Jump in like a man."

Bert hung back a moment; then, shutting his mouth tightly and closing his eyes, he sprang boldly into the cool, green water. He went under a little at first, but a slight tug on the rope brought him quickly to the top, and recovering his breath and his self-possession at the same time, he struck out with his arms and kicked with his legs, according to the best of his ability. His motions were sadly unskilful, as may be easily imagined, and although they used up his strength pretty rapidly, they would not have kept his head above water for a minute; but a gentle pressure on the rope in Mr. Lloyd's hand made that all right, and, feeling quite at his ease, Bert struggled away until he was tired out, and then his father, who had all the time been cheering and directing him, drew him back to the steps, and the lesson was over.

"You did very well, Bert; very well, indeed," said he, in tones of warm approval, as Bert proceeded to rub off the salt water and get into his clothes again. "I don't think it will take a great many lessons to make a swimmer of you."

And Mr. Lloyd's confidence was well founded; for so earnestly did Bert give himself to the business of learning to swim that by the end of a fortnight he could go ten yards out and back without any help from the rope at all. Another fortnight and the rope was no longer needed. Mr. Lloyd now went into the water with Bert, and swimming out to the middle of the dock, would have the boy come to him, and after resting upon his broad shoulders a moment, make his way back to the steps again.

Thus, in little more than a month, Bert became quite able to take care of himself in the water under ordinary circumstances; and his father, feeling well satisfied with his proficiency, gave him liberty to go to the wharves as often as he pleased—a boon Bert highly appreciated.

A pleasure unshared by his faithful Frank was but half a pleasure to Bert. Next in importance to his being able to swim himself was Frank's acquiring the same invaluable accomplishment. Invaluable? Yes, one might indeed rightly use a stronger term, and say indispensable; for the education of no boy is complete until he has mastered the art of swimming. And if the boys knew their own interests as thoroughly as their parents and guardians ought to know them, they would agitate all over the land for the provision of swimming baths in connection with their schools, or in some other way that would ensure them the opportunity of learning what to do with themselves in the water, as well as upon the land.

Frank could swim a stroke or two before Bert took him in hand, and consequently was soon able to dispense with the rope; but timid little Ernest Linton, who was the next pupil, took a lot of teaching, and there seemed small prospect of his conquering his timidity sufficiently to "go it alone" before the swimming season would be over.

The fame of Bert's swimming school spread among his playmates to an extent that threatened to be embarrassing. By the time they were half way through the mid-summer holidays, a crowd of boisterous youngsters gathered every morning at the old wharf, and struggled for the use of band and rope, until at last there had to be several of these provided. Then they had fine fun. A dozen boys would be in the water at the same time—some of them expert swimmers, the others in all stages of learning—and there would be races, splashing matches, unexpected duckings, sly tricks upon the nervous learners, and all sorts of capers, such as might be expected from boys of their age and enterprise.

By way of deepening the interest in this healthful amusement, they organised a competition, the prizes being supplied by their parents, who were duly waited upon by a properly-authorised committee; and one fine August afternoon, the sleepy old wharf was made to fairly tremble with excitement, as race followed race in quick succession, amid the cheering and shouting of some two-score vigorous boys. Much to his delight, Frank succeeded in carrying off the first prize. He was a persistent, painstaking fellow when his interest was thoroughly aroused, and while other chaps were skylarking about in the water, he had been practising long swims, the consequence of which was that at the competition—when, of course, the best prize was given for the longest race; the course, in this instance, being out to the head of the wharf, and back—Frank left all the other contestants behind, and came in an easy winner.

Bert was exceedingly pleased. He had not won any prizes himself, except an unimportant little second one; but Frank's success more than consoled him, and he bore him off home with him in high glee, that the family might share in the joy of the occasion.

Nearly two years now had passed since the two friends first made one another's acquaintance, and the course of events had fully confirmed the expectation of Bert's parents, that he would be far more likely to influence Frank for good than Frank would be to influence him for evil. There had been unmistakable improvement in Frank, both in manners and morals. Constant association with a playmate brought up under home influences so different from his own; the wise and kindly words that Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd lost no opportunity of speaking to him; the refinement and brightness of their home; the atmosphere of sunny religion that pervaded it; and all these supplemented by an ever-interesting presentation of common-sense Christianity at the hands of Mr. Silver every Sunday afternoon, had worked deep into Frank's strong, steadfast nature, and without being distinctly conscious of it himself, he was growing refined, pure, and religious in thought and desire, like those with whom it was the joy of his life to associate. The current of his being had been turned Godward, and in him, though he knew it not, Bert had won the first star for his crown.



CHAPTER XXII.

HOW HOISTING WAS ABOLISHED.

The month of September was close at hand, and Bert would soon begin his second year with Dr. Johnston. Mr. Lloyd, though well content with the progress his son had been making in his studies, thought it would be a wise thing to hold out some extra inducement that might incite him to still greater diligence, and so one evening, while the family were sitting together, he broached the subject:

"Dr. Johnston gives a lot of prizes at the end of the term, doesn't he, Bert?"

"Yes, father, a good many; always books, you know," answered Bert.

"Why didn't you get a prize of some kind last term?" asked Mr. Lloyd, with a smile.

"Oh, I don't know, father. Didn't try hard enough, I suppose," replied Bert, smiling in his turn.

"Well, do you intend to try this term, Bert?"

"Indeed I do; and Frank's going to try, too. My best chance is in the arithmetic, so I'm going to try for that; and he's going in for grammar."

"Very well, then, Bert, do your best; and if you win a prize I will give you what you have wanted so long—a pony."

The expression of Bert's countenance at this quite unexpected announcement was a study. His eyes and mouth, the former with surprise, the latter with a smile, opened to their fullest extent, and for a moment he stood motionless. Then, springing across the floor, he leaped into his father's lap, put both arms around his neck, and burying his happy face in the brown whiskers, ejaculated, fervently:

"You dear, dear father, you dear, dear father, how I do love you!"

Mr. Lloyd returned the affectionate hug with interest, and then, holding Bert out on his knee, said, in a playful tone:

"Aren't you in too much of a hurry about thanking me, Bert? You haven't won your pony yet, you know."

"That's all right, father," returned Bert. "I mean to win it, and what's more, I'm going to."

It need hardly be said that the first item of news Bert had for his friend Frank next morning was his father's offer.

"Won't it be splendid to have a pony of my very own!" he exclaimed, his eyes dancing with delight at the prospect. "Perhaps your father will give you a pony, too, if you win a prize; hey, Frank?"

Frank shook his head dubiously:

"Not much chance of that, Bert. That's not his way of doing things."

"Oh, well, never mind. You can ride turn about with me on mine, and we'll have just splendid fun."

As the boys were talking together, little Ernest Linton approached, looking as if he had something on his mind. Getting close to Bert, he touched him gently on the arm to attract his attention, and, turning a very earnest, appealing face to his, said:

"Bert, I want to ask a favour."

"Hallo, Ernie, what's up?" asked Bert, in his kindest tones.

Ernest then proceeded to tell him that his younger brother, Paul, was to come to the school in a few days, and that he was a very timid, delicate little chap that would be sure to be half frightened out of his life if they hoisted him; and what Ernest wanted was that Bert and Frank should see if they could not, in some way or other, save Paul from being hoisted.

The two boys were filled with the idea at once. It was good enough fun to hoist sturdy fellows like themselves, who were none the worse for it; but if Paul were the sort of chap his brother said he was, it would be a real shame to give him such a scare, and they would do their best to prevent its being done. Accordingly, they promised Ernest they would protect his brother if they could, and Ernest felt very much relieved at their promise.

But how were they going to carry it out? No exceptions had been made as to the hoisting since they had come to Dr. Johnston's, but all new boys were hoisted with perfect impartiality. They would be powerless by themselves, that was certain. Their only plan was to persuade a lot of the boys to join them, and they did not feel entirely sure about being able to do this. However, the first thing to be done was to ask Teter Johnston. If they could enlist his sympathies, their task would be a good deal easier. Accordingly, at recess, they made directly for Teter, and laid the whole matter before him. Like themselves, he took hold of it at once. It was just the sort of thing that would appeal to his big, warm, manly heart, and without hesitation he promised the boys he would give them all the help in his power.

The next step was to secure recruits for their party. In this Teter helped them greatly, and Frank was very active too, because big Rod Graham, whom he disliked none the less, though Bert had thrashed him so soundly, always headed the hoisting party, and Frank looked forward with keen delight to balking this tormenting bully by means of the anti-hoisting party they were now organising.

Of course, the movement could not be kept a secret. It soon leaked out, and then Rod Graham and Dick Wilding—who, by the way, since the stolen money episode, had been as cool in his relations with Bert as he had previously been cordial, evidently resenting very much Bert's withdrawal from his companionship—these two, with their associates, began to organise in their turn, so that it was not long before the school was divided into two parties, both of which were looking forward eagerly to the event which should decide which would have their own way.

On the Monday following the opening of the school Ernest Linton brought his brother with him, a slight, pale, delicate little fellow, not more than eight years old, who clung close to his brother's side, and looked about with a frightened air that was sufficient in itself to arouse one's sympathies. Bert and Frank had known him before, but Teter had never seen him, and his kind heart prompted him to go up and slap the little fellow kindly on the back, saying:

"So you're Linton's brother Paul, eh? Cheer up, little chap; we'll see they're not too hard upon you."

Paul's pale face brightened, and looking up with a grateful glance, he said, softly:

"Thank you, sir."

Teter laughed at being "sirred," and went off, feeling quite pleased with himself.

According to the custom of the school, Paul would be hoisted at the mid-day recess of the following day, and the boys looked forward eagerly to the struggle for which they had been preparing. During the morning their thoughts clearly were not upon the lessons, and so many mistakes were made that the shrewd doctor suspected there must be something brewing, but preferred to let it reveal itself rather than to interfere by premature questions. He was a profound student of human nature, and especially of boy nature. He knew his boys as thoroughly as an Eastern shepherd ever knew his sheep. They were like open books before him, and in this perhaps more than in anything else lay the secret of his rare success as a teacher.

When the eagerly expected recess came, all the boys, with the exception of a small group, poured out tumultuously into the street, and ranged themselves in two bands in close proximity to the door. The group that remained consisted of the two Lintons, Bert, Frank, and Teter, the latter three constituting a sort of body-guard for poor timorous little Paul, who shrank in terror from the ordeal, the nature of which in truth he did not fully understand. Having consulted together for a minute or two, the body-guard then moved out through the door, taking care to keep Paul in the middle. As they emerged into the street, a kind of hum of suppressed excitement rose from the crowd awaiting them, followed immediately by cries of "Hoist him! hoist him!" uttered first by Graham and Wilding, and quickly taken up by their supporters.

Pale with fright, Paul cowered close to Teter, while Bert and Frank stood in front of him, and their supporters quickly encircled them. Then came the struggle. Graham and Wilding and their party bore down upon Paul's defenders, and sought to break their way through them to reach their intended victim. Of course, no blows were struck. The boys all knew better than to do that; but pushing, hauling, wrestling, very much after the fashion of football players in a maul, the one party strove to seize Paul, who indeed offered no more resistance than an ordinary football, and the other to prevent his being carried off. For some minutes the issue was uncertain, although the hoisting party considerably outnumbered the anti-hoisting party. More than once did Graham and Wilding force their way into the centre of Paul's defenders, and almost have him in their grasp, only to be thrust away again by the faithful trio that stood about him like the three of whom Macaulay's ringing ballad tells:

"How well Horatius kept the bridge, In the brave days of old."

Shouting, struggling, swaying to and fro, the contest went on, much to the amusement of a crowd of spectators, among which the tall, blue-coated form of a policeman loomed up prominently, although he deigned not to interfere. At length the weight of superior numbers began to tell, and despite all their efforts the anti-hoisting party were borne slowly but surely toward the fence, upon which some of the boys had already taken their positions, ready to have Paul handed up to them. The case was looking desperate, and Teter, heated and wearied with his exertions, had just said, in his deepest tones, to Bert and Frank, "Come, boys, all together, try it once more," when suddenly a silence fell upon the noisy mob, and their arms, a moment before locked in tense struggling, fell limply to their sides; for there, standing between them and the fence, his keen, dark face lighted with a curious smile, and holding his hand above his head by way of a shield from the hot sun, stood Dr. Johnston!

A genuine ghost at midnight could hardly have startled the boys more. Absorbed in their struggle, they had not seen the doctor until they were fairly upon him. For aught they knew he had been a spectator of the proceedings from the outset. What would he think of them? Rod Graham and Dick Wilding, slaves to a guilty conscience, slunk into the rear of their party, while Bert, and Frank, and Teter, glad of the unexpected relief, wiped their brows and arranged their disordered clothing, as they awaited the doctor's utterance. It soon came.

"I desire an explanation of this unseemly disturbance. The school will follow me immediately into the schoolroom," said he, somewhat sternly; and turning upon his heel went back to his desk, the boys following at a respectful distance.

When all had been seated, and the room was quiet, Dr. Johnston asked:

"Will the leaders in the proceedings outside come to my desk?"

There was a moment's pause, and then Teter rose from his seat, Bert immediately imitating him, and the two walked slowly down to the open space before the master's desk.

Having waited a minute, and no one else appearing, the doctor leaned forward and said to his nephew:

"You and Lloyd were on the same side, were you not?"

"Yes, sir," replied Teter.

"Well, who were the leaders of the other side? I wish to know."

"Graham and Wilding, sir," answered Teter.

"Graham and Wilding, come forward," called the doctor, sternly; and the two boys, looking very conscious and shamefaced, reluctantly left their seats and took their places before the throne.

"Now, then, I wish to be informed of the whole matter," said the doctor.

Bert looked at Teter, and Teter looked at Bert.

"You tell him," he whispered; "you know most about it."

Thereupon, with the utmost frankness, Bert proceeded to tell his story, beginning at his first talk with Ernest Linton.

The doctor listened intently, his inscrutable face revealing nothing as to how the story impressed him. When Bert had finished, he turned to Graham and Wilding, and asked them:

"Is Lloyd's statement correct? or have you anything to add?"

They hung their heads, and were silent.

The doctor looked very hard at them for a moment, during which the silence was so intense that the fall of a pin upon the floor would have been heard; then, turning to the school, he spoke as follows:

"The events that have just transpired have hastened a decision that has been forming in my mind for some time past. I was not unaware of this practice of which Lloyd has just spoken, but deemed it well not to interfere until my interference should seem necessary. That time, in my judgment, has arrived, and I have determined that there shall be no more of this hoisting. Be it, therefore, distinctly understood by the pupils of this school, that any future attempts at the hoisting of new boys will incur punishment, and possibly even expulsion from the school. You will now resume work."

A subdued murmur of applause arose from the anti-hoisting party at the conclusion of the doctor's announcement. They had more than carried their point; for, intending only to protect Paul Linton, they had obtained the complete abolition of the practice. Bert was greatly elated, and could talk of nothing else when he got home. Father, and mother, and sister, had to listen to the fullest details of the struggle and its surprising issue, and Bert fairly outdid himself in the vigour and minuteness of his description. When the fountain of his eloquence at last ran dry, Mr. Lloyd had a chance to say, with one of his expressive smiles:

"And so my boy has come out as a reformer. Well, Bert, dear, you have taken the first step in the most thankless and trying of all careers, and yet I would not discourage you for the world. I would a thousand times rather have you a reformer than an opposer of reforms. I wonder what work God has in store for you."



CHAPTER XXIII.

PRIZE WINNING AND LOSING.

There were many ways in which the methods employed at Dr. Johnston's school were unique. The system of registering attendance, proficiency, and conduct has been already fully explained. It was hardly possible that this could have been more perfect. No boy could be absent without being missed, and an explanation or excuse of a thoroughly satisfactory nature was required the next day. No mistake could occur as to the standing of the pupils in the different classes. The record of each day was all comprehensive. It constituted a photograph, so to speak, of each pupil's doings, in so far as they related to his school, and the doctor was exceedingly proud of the journals, which he kept with scrupulous care and neatness.

Another feature of the school, peculiar to itself, was the system by which a knowledge of arithmetic was fostered, and the faculty of using it quickly was developed. The whole of one morning each week was devoted to this. The scholars were grouped in classes according to their varying proficiency, care being taken to give each one a fair chance by associating him with those who were about as far advanced as himself. These classes were then arranged upon seats very much after the fashion of a Sunday school, save that instead of a teacher being in their centre, they were placed around a backless chair, in such a manner that it was equally convenient of access to all. Each boy had his slate and pencil in readiness.

The school having been called to order, the doctor then proceeded to read out to the senior class a problem in proportion or compound interest, or whatever it might be, and this they hurriedly scribbled down on their slates. If they did not understand it fully at first, he would read it again, but of course never gave any explanations. So soon as a scholar had clearly grasped the problem to be solved he set to work at its solution with all his might, and it was a most interesting spectacle to watch when the whole class, with heads bent close to the slates, made their squeaking, scratching pencils fly over them. Every possible shade of mental condition, from confident knowledge to foreboding bewilderment, would be expressed in their faces. The instant one of them had completed his work, he banged his slate down upon the backless chair, with the writing turned under. The others followed as best they could, and all the slates being down, they awaited the doctor's coming around to their class again.

When Dr. Johnston had completed the round of the classes, and given each a problem, he would, after a pause, call upon each in turn to read the answers as set down upon the slate. The boy whose slate was first on the chair, and therefore at the bottom of the pile, would read his answer first. If it were correct, he scored a point, and none of the others were called upon. If incorrect, the next to him would read his answer, and so on until a correct answer was given, and a point scored by somebody. Only one point could be made each round, and so the unsuccessful ones had to console themselves with the hope of having better luck next time. Not more than four or five rounds would be had each day, and it rarely happened that the same boy would be successful in all of them. Three points were considered a very good day's work, and if a boy made four points he was apt to feel that the prize in that class was as good as his, until some other boy made four points also, and thereby lessened his chances.

It did not always happen that being first down with his slate assured the scholar of scoring a point. A slight mistake in his addition, subtraction, or division might have thrown him off the track, and then number two, or maybe number three, would come in with a correct answer and triumphantly score the point, success being all the sweeter, because of being somewhat unexpected.

Now this kind of competition suited Bert thoroughly. He was as quick as any of his companions, cooler than many of them, and had by this time acquired a very good understanding of the chief principles of arithmetic. He greatly enjoyed the working against time, which was the distinctive feature of the contest. It brought out his mental powers to their utmost, and he looked forward to "arithmetic day," with an eagerness that was not caused entirely by what his father had promised him in the event of his being successful in carrying off a prize.

In the same class with him were Frank Bowser, Ernest Linton, and a half-dozen other boys of similar age and standing in the school. He had no fear of Frank or Ernest. They were no match for him either as to knowledge, or rapidity of work; but there was a boy in the class who seemed fully his equal in both respects. This was Levi Cohen, a dark-skinned, black-haired chap, whose Jewish features were in entire harmony with his Jewish name. He was indeed a Jew, and, young though he was, had all the depth, self-control, and steadfastness of purpose of that strange race. He also had, as the sequel will show their indifference as to the rightness of the means employed so long as the end in view was gained.

The school had been in session for more than a month, and those who were particularly interested in the arithmetic competitions were already calculating their chances of success. In Bert's class it was clear beyond a doubt that the contest lay between him and Levi Cohen. It rarely happened that they did not monopolise the points between them, and so far, they had divided them pretty evenly. One day Bert would score three and Levi two, and then the next week Levi would have three, and Bert two, and so it went on from week to week.

As the second month drew to a close, Bert began to gain upon his rival. He nearly always made the majority of the points, and was now at least six ahead. Then suddenly the tide turned and Levi seemed to have it all his own way. The quickness with which he got the answers was bewildering. Nay, more, it was even suspicious. One familiar with the details of the problems given, and the amount of work a full working out would require, could not help being struck by the fact that Cohen seemed to arrive at his answer after a remarkably small expenditure of slate-pencil. Time and again he would have his slate down at least half-a-minute before Bert did his, although previous to this sudden change in his fortunes, the difference in time between them had been rarely more than a few seconds. Then again it was noticeable that he took the utmost care that none of the others should see what was on his slate. He did his work in a corner, hunched up over it so that it was well concealed, and he snatched his slate away from the pile at the very first opportunity.

Bert noticed all these things, and they perplexed him quite as much as Cohen's rapid gain alarmed him. He soon became convinced that there was something wrong, that Cohen was doing crooked work; but, puzzle his brains as he might, he could not get at the bottom of the mystery. Frank and Ernest fully shared his suspicions, and they had many a talk over the matter. Frank thought that Cohen must have the answers written on a piece of paper which he managed to peep at somehow while all the other boys were absorbed in working out the problems; but although he on several occasions purposely refrained from doing anything himself in order to watch Cohen the more closely, he failed to find the slightest ground for his suspicions in that direction. Then Bert put forward his theory.

"I'll tell what it is Frank: Cohen must learn the answers off by heart, and then he sets them down without working out the whole sum."

"Shouldn't wonder a bit," said Frank. "He's got a great memory, I know, and we always can tell from what part of the arithmetic Dr. Johnston is going to get the sums."

"But how can we make sure of it, Frank?" inquired Bert, anxiously.

"The only way is to get hold of his slate, and see how he works his sums out," replied Frank.

"Yes; but he takes precious good care not to let anybody see how he does them."

"So he does; but we've got to find out some way, and I'm going to do it, so sure as my name's Frank Bowser."

"How'll you manage it, Frank?" asked Bert, brightening up; for he really was a good deal troubled over Cohen's continued success, particularly as he felt so strongly that there was something wrong at the bottom of it.

"I don't know yet, Bert; but I'll find out a way somehow. See if you can't think of a plan yourself."

"I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll ask father about it," said Bert, in a tone that implied perfect confidence in Mr. Lloyd's ability to furnish a solution for any difficulty.

Accordingly, that evening, Bert laid the whole case before his father, who listened with judicial gravity, and then proceeded to ask a question or two:

"You feel quite sure that Cohen does not take the time to work out the sums properly?"

"Yes, father; perfectly sure."

"Then why don't you inform Dr. Johnston of your suspicions, and he will make an examination into the matter?"

"Oh, father!" exclaimed Bert, with a look of profound surprise. "You wouldn't have me turn tattle-tale, would you?"

"No, Bert, dear; indeed, I would not, although you should lose a dozen prizes. I said that simply to see what you would think of it, and I am glad you answered me as I expected you would. But, Bert, you have asked my advice in this matter. Did you think of asking somebody else who is infinitely wiser than I am?"

Bert understood his father at once.

"No, father; I did not. I never thought of it," he answered, frankly.

"Then had you not better do so when you are saying your prayers to-night?"

"I will, father. I'm so glad you reminded me." And with that Bert dropped the subject for the time.

That night, ere he went to bed, Bert laid the matter before his Father in heaven, just as he had done before his father upon earth. He had imbibed his ideas of prayer from what he heard from his own father at family worship. Mr. Lloyd's conception of prayer was that it could not be too simple, too straightforward. It often seemed as though God were present in the room, and he was talking with him, so natural, so sincere, so direct were his petitions. And Bert had learned to pray in the same manner. A listener might at times be tempted to smile at the frankness, the naivete of Bert's requests; but they were uttered not more in boyish earnest than in truest reverence by the petitioner.

The next morning, when Bert came down to the breakfast-room, he was evidently in the best of spirits.

"It's all right, father," said he. "I asked God to show me what's the best thing to do, and I'm sure He will."

"That's it, Bert; that's the way to look at it," replied Mr. Lloyd, with a smile of warm approval.

On reaching the school Bert found Frank awaiting him.

"I've got it! I've got it!" he shouted, so soon as Bert appeared. "I know how Levi manages it now."

"How is it?" asked Bert, eagerly.

"Why, he learns all the answers off by heart, and then doesn't work out the sums at all, but just pretends to, and slaps down the answer before the rest of us fellows are half through," explained Frank.

"To be sure, Frank; you know I thought of that before. But how are we going to stop him?"

"That's just what I'm coming to. When the time comes to read the answers I'm going to take up the slates, just as if mine was down first; and then, if Levi's been playing sharp on us, I'll expose him."

"What a brick you are!" exclaimed Bert, admiringly, patting Frank on the back. "That's a grand plan of yours, and I do believe it's the way God is going to answer my prayer."

"Answer your prayer, Bert? Why, what do you mean?" inquired Frank.

"Why, you know, Frank, last night when I was saying my prayers, I told God all about it, and now I believe He's going to make it all right. You just see if He doesn't."

Frank was evidently very much struck with the idea of his being chosen by God to answer Bert's prayer. It was quite a new thought, and made a deep impression upon him. He was a clear and strong, if not very rapid, reasoner, and his reasoning in this case led him to the conclusion that if God thought that much of him he certainly ought to think more of God. He did not talk about it to anyone, but for many days his mind was occupied with thoughts of this nature, and their direct result was to lead him nearer to the kingdom.

At the very first opportunity Frank put his plan into execution. Arithmetic day came round, the class gathered in its place, the first sum was read out to them, and before Bert was half through working it out, Levi Cohen placed his slate softly upon the chair, and leaned back in his seat with a sly smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. Frank glanced up from his work, gave Bert a meaning look, and then dropped his slate upon Cohen's with a loud bang. The others followed more slowly, and presently the time came for the answers to be read.

Before Cohen could leave his corner, Frank rose up, seized the pile of slates, turned them over, and examined the first intently, while Bert watched him with breathless expectancy, and Cohen, at first too surprised to act, sprang forward to wrest it from his hands. But Frank moved out of his reach, and at the same time, with a triumphant smile, exhibited the face of the slate to the rest of the class, saying, in a loud whisper:

"Look, boys, that's the way he works them out."

Dr. Johnston noticed the slight commotion this created, but he was too far away to see clearly what it meant, so he called out:

"Why does not class six read their answers?"

Cohen stood up, and held up his hand.

"Well, Cohen, what is it?" asked the doctor.

"Please, sir, Bowser has taken my slate, and won't give it to me," answered Cohen, in a whining voice.

"Bowser, what's the meaning of this? What are you doing with Cohen's slate?" demanded the doctor, frowning darkly.

Frank did not look a bit frightened, but still holding on to the slate, which Cohen was making ineffectual efforts to regain, replied, in respectful tones:

"May I hand you the slate first, sir?"

At these words Cohen turned ashy pale, and Dr. Johnston, realising that there must be something going on that required explanation, ordered Frank to bring all the slates up to him.

With radiant face Frank proceeded to obey, giving Bert a triumphant look as he passed by him, while Cohen shrank back into his corner, and bit his nails as though he would devour his finger tips. Taking up Cohen's slate, the doctor scrutinised it carefully. One glance was sufficient. A deep flush spread over his dark face, his eyes lighted up threateningly, and in his sternest tones he called out:

"Cohen, come here!"

Amid the expectant hush of the school, none but class six knowing what was the matter, Cohen, looking as though he would give his right hand to be able to sink through the floor, walked slowly up into the dreadful presence of the angered master. Holding up the slate before him, Dr. Johnston asked:

"Is this your slate, sir?"

Cohen gave it a cowering glance, and said, faintly:

"Yes, sir."

"How long has this been going on?" thundered the doctor.

Cohen made no reply.

"Answer me, sir, at once. How long has this been going on?" repeated the doctor.

"I don't quite know, sir; but not very long," faltered out Cohen.

With an exclamation of disgust, Dr. Johnston turned from him, and, holding the slate up high so that all the school might see it, relieved the curiosity of the scholars, now at fever pitch, by addressing them thus:

"Cohen has just been detected in one of the most contemptible tricks that has come under my observation since I have been master of this school. He has evidently been committing to memory the answers to the problems that would be given out, and instead of doing the work properly has been scratching down a few figures, then writing the answers, and so finishing long before any of the other scholars. I need hardly say that this is not only a most contemptible trick, as I have already said, but a serious blow at the principles of fair play and justice which should regulate the winning of prizes in this school. I therefore feel bound to express my indignation at Cohen's offence in the most decided manner."

Turning to Cohen: "You, sir, shall stand upon the floor for punishment. All the points scored by you already this term will be taken from you, and you will not be permitted to compete for any prize until I shall so determine."

A kind of subdued whistle rose from the boys when they heard the doctor's severe, and yet not too severe, sentence. Cohen was no favourite with them; and yet they could not help some pity for him, as thoroughly cowed and crushed he stood before them all, the very picture of misery. Bert's tender heart was so touched by his abject appearance, that he half relented at his exposure. But Frank was troubled by no such second thoughts. The unexpectedly complete success of his scheme filled him with delight. It had accomplished two objects, both of which gave him keen pleasure. Bert's most dangerous rival for the prize had been put out of the way, and Cohen, whom he cordially disliked, had been well punished for his knavery.

With Cohen disqualified, Bert had a comparatively easy time of it for the rest of the term. He usually managed to secure four out of the five points obtainable, and steadily added to his score until at last there was no chance of anyone beating him, and he could look forward with comfortable confidence to the prize that meant so much in his case. A few days before Christmas the results were declared, and the prizes awarded, and although Bert gained only the one upon which his heart had been set, while other boys carried off two, and even three, he envied none of them. Their prizes meant nothing more perhaps than the brightly-bound books which the doctor selected with special reference to boyish preferences. But his prize meant more than a book. It meant a pony. And so if he was the happiest boy in all the land of Acadia it was not without good reason. Frank was hardly less jubilant, for he had gained his prize, and there was a hope taking strong hold upon his heart, that if fortune was kind to him, there might be a pony for him as well as for Bert.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A CHAPTER ON PONIES.

It was a proud day for Bert when he came home from school, bearing a handsome volume of Captain Gordon Cumming's Adventures in Africa, and he felt as though he could scarcely wait for his father's return from the office, so eager was he to show him his prize. As it was, he watched impatiently for him, and so soon as he came in sight rushed toward him, holding the book above his head, and shouting:

"I've won it. I've won the prize."

The Lloyds were all quite as proud as Bert himself over his success, and they made a very merry quartette as they sat around the dinner-table that evening.

"Dear me! I suppose I'll have to keep my promise now, though it takes my last cent to pay for it," said Mr. Lloyd, with a pretence of looking rueful.

"Indeed you will, father. I'm not going to let you off, of that you may be sure," exclaimed Bert, gleefully, knowing very well that his father was only in fun, and that it would take the cost of a good many ponies to reach his last cent.

"Well, then, sir, since you insist upon it, may I venture to inquire what sort of a pony you would like."

"Oh, I don't know, father."

"I suppose you're not very particular, Bert, so long as he'll let you stay on his back," said Mr. Lloyd, smiling.

"That's about it, father," assented Bert.

"Be sure and get a nice, quiet pony that won't run away with Bert, or give him a nasty kick some time," interposed Mrs. Lloyd, with an anxious look, as she contemplated the possibility of some accident happening to her darling.

"Never fear, mother, I'll make sure of that," answered Mr. Lloyd, with a reassuring smile. "And for that very reason," he continued, addressing himself to Bert, "I may be some time in finding one just to suit. So you must be patient, my little man, and be willing to wait, so that when your pony does come, he may be a good one."

As it turned out, Bert had to wait several months, and the chill winter had given way to the warm sunshine of spring, and the boy's patience had almost given way altogether, when at last his father, on coming home one evening, announced, to his immense joy, that after much searching he had secured a pony that thoroughly suited him, and that this equine treasure would be brought to the house the next morning early.

If Bert was too much excited to sleep for more than half-an-hour at a time that night, who cannot sympathise with him? And if, when he did fall into a troubled doze, he had nightmare visions which soon woke him up again, who would dare laugh at him? In all his young life he had never been in such a fever of expectation, and long before dawn he was wide awake, with no hope of again closing his eyes, and tossed and tumbled about until it was light enough to get up and dress himself.

As soon as he had dressed he went down to the barn to assure himself for the twentieth time that the little stall was in perfect readiness; that there was no lack of oats in the bin or hay in the loft; that the brand-new halter was hanging in its place, waiting to be clasped upon the head of the coming pony, and thus he managed to while away the time until the breakfast bell rang.

The pony was to arrive shortly after breakfast, and, hungry as he was, Bert could scarcely be persuaded to taste his porridge, toast, or coffee, and he made the others laugh by jumping up to run to the door at the slightest suspicion of a sound in the street. At length, just when he had settled down again after one of these excursions, the door bell rang vigorously. Bert rushed through the hall, opened the door, and immediately there was a glad shout of "Hurrah! Here he is! Isn't he a beauty?" which brought the whole family to the door, and there they beheld the overjoyed boy with his arms clasped tightly round the neck of a brown pony that seemed to quite appreciate this little demonstration, while the groom looked on with a superior smile at Bert's enthusiasm.

The pony was indeed a beauty. He was of a rich brown colour, without a white spot upon him, just high enough for Bert to see comfortably over his back, and as round and plump as the best master could wish. His head was small and perfectly shaped, his neck beautifully arched, and he had large brown eyes that looked out upon the world with an intelligence almost human. He had the highest testimonials as to soundness of wind and limb, and sweetness of temper, and was altogether just the very kind of a pony to make a boy happy.

And yet all of his good points have not been recounted. He had a list of accomplishments quite as long as his list of virtues, for at some previous stage of his life he had, on account of his beauty and great docility, been put in training for the circus; and although for some reason or other he had never got so far as to make his appearance in the saw-dust arena, he had been taught a great many tricks, and these he was generally willing to perform, provided an apple or lump of sugar were held out as a reward.

All this the groom explained while they were standing at the door, and then the pony, having been sufficiently introduced, was led round to the yard, and duly installed in his corner of the stable, Bert clinging as close to him as if he feared he had wings like the fabled Pegasus, and might fly away if not carefully watched.



The days that followed were days of unalloyed happiness to Bert. He, of course, had to learn to ride "Brownie," as the pony was christened by Mary, to whom was referred the question of a name. But it was an easy matter learning to ride so gentle and graceful a creature. First at a walk, then at a trot, then at a canter, and finally at full gallop, Bert ere long made the circuit of the neighbouring squares; and as he became more thoroughly at home he extended his rides to the Point, where there were long stretches of tree-shaded road that seemed just intended for being ridden over.

The best of it was that, as Bert prophesied, the wish being in his case father to the thought, Mr. Bowser did follow Mr. Lloyd's example.

"I reckon I can stand a pony for my boy about as well as Lawyer Lloyd can for his," said he to himself, pressing his hand upon a fat wallet in his pocket, after Frank had been earnestly petitioning him, without eliciting any favourable response. "There's no point in Frank's going on foot while Bert's on horseback. I must see about it."

He gave poor disappointed Frank, however, no hint of what he had in mind; and then one day he made him fairly wild with delight, by sending home a pretty bay pony with a star in his forehead, which, although he was not quite as handsome or accomplished as "Brownie," was an excellent little animal, nevertheless. Oh, what proud, happy boys the two friends were, the first day they rode out together! It was a lovely afternoon, not too warm to make it hard upon the ponies, and they rode right round the Point, and along the road skirting the arm of the sea, going much farther than Bert had ever been before; now pattering along the smooth dry road at a rattling pace, and now jogging on quietly with the reins hanging loosely on the ponies' necks. If Bert's pony knew the more tricks, Frank's showed the greater speed, so they both had something to be especially proud of, and were content accordingly.

Brownie's performances were very amusing indeed, and after he and his young master had become thoroughly acquainted, he would go through them whenever called upon to do so. Often when the Lloyds had guests, they would entertain them by having Bert put Brownie through his programme. Then the cute little fellow would be at his best, for he evidently enjoyed an appreciative audience quite as much as they did his feats. He would begin by making a very respectful bow to the spectators, lifting his pretty head as high as he could, and bringing it down until his nose touched his breast. He would then, as commanded, "say his prayers," which he did by kneeling with his forefeet, and dropping his head upon his knees; "knock at the door," which meant going up to the nearest door, and knocking at it with his hoof until some one opened it; "walk like a gentleman"—that is, rear up on his hind legs, and walk up and down the yard; "go to sleep," by lying down and shutting his big brown eyes tight; shake hands by gracefully extending his right hoof; allow a cap to be placed on his head, and then sidle up and down the yard in the most roguish way; and other little tricks no less amusing, which never failed to elicit rounds of applause from the delighted spectators.

There were many ways in which Brownie endeared himself to every member of the Lloyd family. If Mrs. Lloyd or Mary happened to come into the yard when, as often happened, he was roaming about loose, he would go up to them and rub his nose gently against their shoulder, thus saying as plainly as could be, "Haven't you got a crust for me?" and the moment Mr. Lloyd showed himself, Brownie's nose would be snuffing at his coat pockets for the bit of apple or lump of sugar that rarely failed to be there. As for his bearing toward Bert, it showed such affection, obedience, and intelligence, that it is not to be wondered at, if the boy sometimes asked himself if the "Houyhnhnms" of Gulliver's Travels had not their counterpart in nature, after all.

Great, then, was the concern and sorrow when, after he had been just a year with them, Brownie fell sick, and the veterinary surgeon said that he must be sent away to the country to see if that would make him well again. Bert sobbed bitterly when the little invalid was led away. He would have dearly loved to accompany Brownie, but that could not be managed, so there was nothing for it but to wait patiently at home for the news from the sick pony.

Unhappily, the reports were not cheering. Each time they were less hopeful, and at last one dull rainy day that Bert was long in forgetting, the farmer came himself to say that despite his utmost care dear little Brownie had died, and was now buried beneath a willow tree in a corner of the pasture. Poor Bert! This was the first great grief of his life. Had Brownie been a human companion, he could hardly have felt his loss more keenly or sorrowed more sincerely. The little, empty stall, the brass-mounted bridle, and steel-stirruped saddle hanging up beside it, brought out his tears afresh every time he looked upon them. Frank did his best to console him by offering him the use of his pony whenever he liked; but, ah! though "Charlie" was a nice enough pony, he could not fill the blank made by Brownie's loss.

In the meantime Mr. Lloyd had been making diligent inquiry about a successor to Brownie, and had come to the conclusion to await the annual shipment from Sable Island, and see if a suitable pony could not be picked out from the number. The announcement of this did much to arouse Bert from his low spirits, and as Mr. Lloyd told him about those Sable Island ponies he grew more and more interested. They certainly have a curious history. To begin with, nobody knows just how they got on that strange, wild, desolate, sand bank that rises from the ocean about a hundred miles to the east of Nova Scotia. Had they the power of speech, and were they asked to give an account of themselves, they would probably reply with Topsy that "they didn't know—they 'spects they grow'd." There they are, however, to the number of several hundred, and there they have been ever since anybody knew anything about Sable Island. And such a place for ponies to be! It is nothing but a bank of sand, not twenty-five miles long, by about one and a-half wide, covered here and there with patches of dense coarse grass, wild pea vine, and cranberry swamps. There are no trees, no brooks, no daisied meadows, and through all seasons of the year the ponies are out exposed to the weather, whether it be the furious snow storms of winter, the burning heat of summer, or the mad gales of the autumn.

Once a year the Government officials who live upon the island, having charge of the lighthouses and relief stations, for it is a terrible place for wrecks, have what the Western ranchmen would call a "round-up" of the ponies. They are all driven into a big "corral" at one end of the island, and the best of the younger ones carefully culled out, the rest being set free again. Those selected are then at the first opportunity put on board a ship and carried off to Halifax, where rough, shaggy, ungroomed, and untamed, they are sold at auction to the highest bidders.

It was one of these ponies that Mr. Lloyd proposed to purchase for Bert. The latter was an expert rider now, and could be intrusted with a much more spirited animal than dear, little Brownie. The arrival of the annual shipment was accordingly looked forward to by both Bert and his father with a good deal of interest, Bert wondering if on the whole shipload there would be anything to compare with Brownie, and Mr. Lloyd hoping that he would be able to obtain a pony big enough to carry him if he felt in the humour for a ride on a bright summer morning.



CHAPTER XXV.

ABOUT TWO KINDS OF PONIES.

In due time the Sable Island ponies arrived, and were announced to be sold by auction, at the Government Wharf. Taking Bert with him, Mr. Lloyd went down in time to have a good look at the shipment before the sale commenced, so that he might have his mind made up before beginning to bid. They certainly were a queer lot of little creatures. Not a curry-comb had touched their hides since they were born, nor had the shears ever been near their manes or tails. Their coats were long, thick, and filled with dirt; their manes and tails of prodigious length, and matted together in inextricable knots. They were of all colours, and within certain limits of all sizes. Brown, bay, black, piebald, grey, and sorrel. There was no lack of variety; and Mr. Lloyd and Bert wandered up and down the long line as they stood tethered to the wall, scrutinising them closely, and sorely puzzled as to which to decide upon.

It was, of course, quite impossible to tell anything as to disposition, for all the ponies seemed equally wild and terrified at their novel situation; but, after going over them carefully, Mr. Lloyd decided upon a very promising-looking black pony that stood near the middle of the row. He was of a good size, seemed to be in better condition than many of those around him, had a well-shaped head, and altogether presented about as attractive an appearance as any in the lot.

There were numerous bidders at the auction, and Bert grew deeply interested in the selling, as pony after pony was put up, and after a more or less spirited contest, according to his looks, was knocked down to the person that bid the highest for him. By the time the pony his father had selected was reached, he was fairly trembling with excitement. He was full of apprehension lest somebody else should take him away from them, and when the bidding began, he watched every movement and word of the auctioneer with breathless anxiety, raising quite a laugh at one time, by answering his oft-repeated question "Will anybody give me five? I have thirty—will anybody give me five?" with an eager "I will!" that was easily heard by everybody in the crowd. It was an immense relief to him, when, at length, after what seemed to him most unnecessary persistence in trying to get more, the auctioneer called out "Going, going, going, at thirty-five dollars. Will you give me any more? Going at thirty-five—going, going, gone; and sold to Mr. Lloyd."

Thirty-five dollars does not seem very much to give for a pony; but considering that this pony had everything to learn, and nobody to guarantee his good behaviour, it was a fair enough price for him. The getting him home proved to be quite a serious undertaking. The strange sights and sounds of the city streets did not merely frighten him—they positively crazed him for the time; and it took two strong men, one on either side of his head, to guide him in safety to the stable. Once securely fastened in the stall, he quieted down in time, but not one bite of food would he touch that day, nor the next, although Bert tried to tempt him with everything of which Brownie had been fond. This troubled Bert very much. He began to fear his new pony would starve to death. But his father reassured him.

"Don't be alarmed, my boy. The pony will find his appetite all right so soon as he gets used to his new quarters," said Mr. Lloyd.

And sure enough on the third morning, Bert, to his great relief, found the oat box licked clean, and the pony looking round wistfully for something more to eat. After that, the difficulty lay rather in satisfying than in tempting his appetite. He proved an insatiable eater. But then nobody thought of stinting him, especially as his bones were none too well covered.

It was with great difficulty that he could be persuaded to allow himself to be groomed. He would start at the touch of the curry-comb, as though it gave him an electric shock, and Michael, who combined in himself the offices of groom and gardener, declared that "of all the pesky, fidgety critters that ever stood on four legs, he never did see the like of this 'ere Sable Islander." Michael's opinion was not improved when he came to break the little Sable Islander in, for he led him such a dance day after day that his stout heart was well-nigh broken before the pony's will showed any signs of being broken. However, patience and kindness, combined with firmness, eventually won the day; and Michael, with considerable pride announced that "Sable," as it had been decided to call him, was ready for use.

Mr. Lloyd thought it best to ride Sable for a week or two before Bert should mount him, and to this arrangement Bert was nothing loath, for the pony's actions while in process of being broken in had rather subdued his eagerness to trust himself upon him. As it chanced, Mr. Lloyd came very near paying a severe penalty for his thoughtfulness. He had been out several mornings on Sable, and had got along very well. One morning while he was in the act of mounting, the gate suddenly slammed behind him with a loud bang. The pony at once started off at full gallop. Mr. Lloyd succeeded in throwing himself into the saddle, but could not get his feet into the stirrups, and when the frightened creature upon which he had so insecure a hold swerved sharply round at the end of the street, he was hurled from his seat like a stone from a catapult, and fell headlong, striking his right temple upon the hard ground.

A few minutes later Mrs. Lloyd was startled by a hasty rap at the door, and on opening it beheld her husband supported between two men, his face ghastly pale, and stained with blood from a wound on his forehead. She was a brave woman, and although her heart almost stood still with agonised apprehension, she did not lose control of herself for an instant. Directing Mr. Lloyd to be carried into the parlour and laid gently upon the sofa, Mrs. Lloyd bathed his head and face while Mary chafed his hands; and presently, to their unspeakable joy, he recovered consciousness. Fortunately, his injuries proved to be comparatively slight. Beyond a cut on his forehead, a bad headache, and a general shaking up, he had suffered no material injury, and he would not listen to Mrs. Lloyd's finding any fault with Sable for the accident.

"Tut! tut! Kate," said he; "the pony was not to blame at all. Any horse might have been frightened by a gate banging to at his heels. The fault was mine in not seeing that the gate was shut before I mounted. No; no, you must not blame poor, little Sable."

Curiously enough, Bert had a somewhat similar experience shortly after he began to ride Sable. At a little distance from the house was a hill up which the street led, and then down the other side out into the country. The ascent was pretty steep, the descent not so much so, and Bert liked to walk his pony up to the top, and then canter down the other side. One afternoon, just as he reached the summit, a little street boy, probably by way of expressing the envy he felt for those who could afford to ride, threw a stone at Sable, which struck him a stinging blow on the hindquarters. Like an arrow from the bow, the pony was off. Taking the bit in his teeth, and straightening his head out, he went at full speed down the hill, Bert holding on for dear life with his heart in his mouth, and his hat from his head.

In some way or other, he himself never knew exactly how, he got both his feet out of the stirrups, and it was well for him he did, for just at the bottom of the hill, when he was going like a greyhound, Sable stopped short, lowered his head, flung up his heels, and, without the slightest protest or delay, Bert went flying from the saddle, and landed in the middle of the dusty road in a sitting posture with his legs stretched out before him. The saucy pony paused just long enough to make sure that his rider was disposed of beyond a doubt, and then galloped away, apparently in high glee.

Bert was not hurt in the least. He had never sat down quite so unexpectedly before, but the thick dust of the road made an excellent cushion, and he was soon upon his feet, and in full cry after the runaway. Thanks to a gentleman on horseback who had witnessed the whole scene, and went immediately in chase of Sable, the latter was soon recaptured, and Bert, having thanked his friend in need, and brushed some of the dust from his clothes, remounted his mischievous steed, and rode him for the rest of the afternoon.

After those two somewhat unpromising performances, Sable settled down into very good habits, and during all the rest of the time that he was in Bert's possession did not again disgrace himself by running away or pitching anyone off his back. He never became the pet that Brownie had been, but he was, upon the whole, a more useful animal, so that Bert came to feel himself well compensated for his loss.

About this time Bert made the acquaintance of a pony of a very different sort. How, indeed, it came to have this name does not seem to be very clear, for what natural connection can be established between a diminutive horse, and a discreditable method of reducing the difficulties of a lesson in Latin or Greek? It would appear to be a very unjust slur upon a very worthy little animal, to say the least.

Bert's first knowledge of the other kind of pony was when in the course of his study of Latin he came to read Sallust. Caesar he had found comparatively easy, and with no other aid than the grammar and lexicon he could, in the course of an hour or so, get out a fair translation of the passage to be mastered. But Sallust gave him no end of trouble. There was something in the involved obscure style of this old historian that puzzled him greatly, and he was constantly being humiliated by finding that when, after much labour, he had succeeded in making some sort of sense out of a sentence, Dr. Johnston would pronounce his translation altogether wrong, and proceed to read it in quite another way.

As it happened, just when Bert was in the middle of those difficulties, Mr. Lloyd was called away from home on important business which entailed an absence for many weeks, and consequently Bert was deprived of his assistance, which was always so willingly given.

He had been struggling with Sallust for some time, and was making but very unsatisfactory headway, when one day, chancing to express to Regie Selwyn his envy of the seeming ease with which the latter got along, Regie looked at him with a knowing smile, and asked:

"Don't you know how I get my translation so pat?"

"No," replied Bert; "tell me, won't you?"

"Why, I use a pony, of course," responded Regie.

"A pony!" exclaimed Bert, in a tone of surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come now," said Regie, with an incredulous smile. "Do you mean to say that you don't know what a pony is?"

"I do, really," returned Bert. "Please tell me, like a good fellow."

"Come along home with me after school, and I'll show you," said Regie.

"All right," assented Bert; "I will."

Accordingly, that afternoon when school had been dismissed, Bert accompanied Regie home, and there the latter took him to his room, and produced a book which contained the whole of Sallust turned into clear, simple English.

"There," said he, placing the volume in Bert's hands; "that's what I mean by a pony."

Bert opened the book, glanced at a page or two, took in the character of its contents, and then, with a feeling as though he had touched a serpent, laid it down again, saying:

"But do you think it's right to use this book in getting up your Sallust, Regie?"

Regie laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Where's the harm, my boy. If you can't translate old Sallust by yourself, you can't, that's all, and you've got to wait for Dr. Johnston to do it for you. Now, mightn't you just as well get it out of this book at once, and save all the trouble," he argued, glibly.

This was very fallacious reasoning, but somehow or other it impressed Bert as having a good deal of force in it. The simple truth was that he was willing to be convinced. But he did not feel quite satisfied yet.

"Then, of course, you never look at it until you have done your best to get the lesson out without it?" he asked.

"That depends. Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't," answered Regie, in a tone that implied very plainly that the latter "sometimes" occurred much more frequently than the former.

Bert took up the book again and fingered it thoughtfully.

"Could I get one if I wanted to?" he asked, presently.

"Why, of course," answered Regie. "There are many more at Gossip's where I got this, I guess."

Bert said no more; and the two boys soon began talking about something else.

For some days thereafter Bert was in a very perplexed state of mind. It seemed as though "the stars in their courses" were fighting not against, but in favour of his getting a "pony" for himself. His father's absence was indefinitely prolonged, the Sallust grew more and more difficult, and demanded so much time, that Bert's chance of winning one of the prizes for general proficiency was seriously jeopardised.

Instead of dismissing the subject from his mind altogether, he fell to reasoning about it, and then his danger really began, for the more he reasoned, the weaker his defences grew. There seemed so much to be said in favour of the pony; and, after all, if he did not resort to it until he had done his best to work out the translation unaided, what would be the harm?

Clearly Bert was in a perilous position. Right and wrong were strongly contending for the victory, and much would depend upon the issue of the conflict.



CHAPTER XXVI.

VICTORY WON FROM DEFEAT.

Bert had reached an age and stage of development when the raising of a decided issue between right and wrong was a matter of vital consequence. Although he had little more than rounded out a dozen years of life, his natural bent of mind and the influences surrounding him had been such as to make him seem at least two years older when compared with his contemporaries. He thought much, and, considering his age, deeply. His parents had always admitted him into full fellowship with themselves, and he had thus acquired their way of thinking upon many subjects. Then his religious training had been more than ordinarily thorough. The influences and inspiration of a Christian home had been supplemented and strengthened by the teaching at Sunday school of one who possessed a rare gift in the management of boys. Mr. Silver not only understood his boys: he was in hearty and complete sympathy with them; and the truth came from him with peculiar force, as he met them Sunday after Sunday.

Bert therefore would appear to have everything in his favour when set upon by the tempter, and it might seem strange that in this case he should dally so long with the danger. But the fact is there were unusual elements in this temptation, such as have been already set forth, and Bert's course of action from the time when he first saw the translation of Sallust in Regie Selwyn's room, until when at length after days of indecision, of halting between two opinions, of now listening to, and again spurning the suggestions of the tempter, he had a copy of the same book hidden away in his own room, was but another illustration of the familiar experience, that he who stops to argue with the tempter, has as good as lost his case.

He tried hard to persuade himself that it was all right, and that it would be all right, but nevertheless it was with none too easy a conscience that he slipped into Gossip's one afternoon, and timidly inquired for the Sallust translation. The clerk did not understand at first, and when he asked Bert to repeat his question a cold shiver went down the boy's back, for he felt sure the man must have divined his purpose in procuring the book. But, of course, it was only an unnecessary alarm, and soon with the volume under his arm, and breathing much more freely, he was hastening homeward.

At first he kept very faithfully to the programme he had laid down of not resorting to the "pony" until he had done his best without it. Then little by little he fell into the way of referring to it whenever he was at a loss regarding a word, until at last he came to depend upon it altogether, and the fluent translations that won Dr. Johnston's approbation day after day were really nothing better than stolen matter.

Yet all this time he was far from having peace of mind. That troublesome conscience of his acted as though it would never become reconciled to this method of studying the classics. On the contrary, it seemed to grow increasingly sensitive upon the point. Finally the matter was brought to a head in a very unsuspected manner.

No mention has been made in these pages of one who occupied a very large place in Bert's affection and admiration—namely, the Rev. Dr. Chrystal, the pastor of Calvary Church. Dr. Chrystal was a man of middle age and medium height, with a countenance so winning and manners so attractive, that Mr. Lloyd was wont to call him St. John, the beloved disciple, because his name was John, and everybody who knew him loved him. It was not merely by the elders of his congregation, who could fully appreciate the breadth and soundness of his scholarship, the richness of his rhetoric, and the warmth of his eloquence, but by the younger members also, who loved his sunny smile, and hearty laugh, that Dr. Chrystal was little short of worshipped.

Bert had been his warm admirer ever since the time when on his pastoral visits he would take the little fellow up on his knee, and draw him out about his own amusements and ambitions, giving such interested attention to his childish prattle that Bert could not fail to feel he had in him a real friend. As he grew older, his liking for the minister deepened. He never had that foolish fear of "the cloth" which is so apt to be found in boys of his age. Dr. Chrystal was a frequent visitor at Bert's home. Mr. Lloyd was one of the main supporters of his church, and the two men had much to consult about. Besides that, the preacher loved to discuss the subjects of the day with the keen-witted, far-seeing lawyer, who helped him to many a telling point for the sermon in preparation.

This, of course, was quite beyond Bert, but what he could and did fully appreciate was the skill and strength with which Dr. Chrystal, having laid aside his clerical coat, would handle a pair of sculls when he went out boating with them, in the fine summer evenings.

"I tell you what it is, Frank," said he, enthusiastically to his friend one day. "There's nothing soft about our minister. He can pull just as well as any man in the harbour. That's the sort of minister I like. Don't you?"

One Sunday evening, after Bert had been using his "pony" some little time—for although his father had returned, he had come so to depend upon it, that he continued to resort to it in secret—Dr. Chrystal preached a sermon of more than usual power from the text, "Provide things honest in the sight of all men." It was a frank, faithful address, in which he sought to speak the truth in tenderness, and yet with direct application to his hearers. If any among them were disbelievers in the doctrine that honesty is the best policy, and acted accordingly, they could hardly hope to dodge the arrows of argument and appeal shot forth from the pulpit that evening.

Bert was one of the first to be transfixed. When the text was announced he wriggled a bit, as though it pricked him somewhere; but when, further on, Dr. Chrystal spoke in plain terms of the dishonesty of false pretences, of claiming to be what you really are not, of seeking credit for what is not actually your own work, Bert's head sank lower and lower, his cheeks burned with shame, and, feeling that the speaker must in some mysterious way have divined his guilty secret, and be preaching directly at him, he sank back in his seat, and wished with wild longing that he could run away from those flashing eyes that seemed to be looking right through him, and from the sound of that clear, strong voice, whose every tone went straight to his heart.

But, of course, there was no escape, and he had to listen to the sermon to the end, although, had it been possible, he would gladly have thrust his fingers in his ears that he might hear no more. He felt immensely relieved when the service was over, and he could go out into the cool, dark evening air. He was very silent as he walked home with his parents, and so soon as prayers were over went off to his room, saying that he was tired.

For the next few days there was not a more miserable boy in Halifax than Cuthbert Lloyd. He was a prey to contending feelings that gave him not one moment's peace. His better nature said, "Be manly, and confess." The tempter whispered, "Be wise, and keep it to yourself." As for the cause of all this trouble, it lay untouched in the bottom drawer of his bureau. He could not bear to look at it, and he worked out his Sallust as best he could, causing Dr. Johnston much surprise by the unexpected mistakes he made in translating. He became so quiet and sober that his mother grew quite concerned, and asked him more than once if he felt ill, to which, with a pretence of a laugh, he replied:

"Not a bit of it. I'm all right."

But he wasn't all right, by any means, as his father's keen eyes soon discovered. Mr. Lloyd, like his wife, thought at first that Bert's queer ways must be due to ill health; but after watching him awhile he came to the conclusion that the boy's trouble was mental, rather than physical, and he determined to take the first opportunity of probing the matter. The opportunity soon came. Mrs. Lloyd and Mary were out for the evening, leaving Bert and his father at home. Bert was studying his lessons at the table, while his father sat in the arm-chair near by, reading the paper. Every now and then, as he bent over his books, Bert gave a deep sigh that seemed to well up from the very bottom of his heart. Mr. Lloyd noted this, and presently, laying his paper down, said, pleasantly:

"Bert, dear, put your lessons aside for a few minutes, and come over here. I want to have a talk with you."

Bert started and flushed slightly, but obeyed at once, drawing his chair close up beside his father's. Laying his hand upon Bert's knee, and looking him full in the face, Mr. Lloyd asked:

"Now, Bert, tell me what's the matter with you? There's something on your mind, I know; and it has not been your way to keep any secrets from me. Won't you tell me what is troubling you?"

Bert fidgeted in his chair, the flush deepened in his face, his eyes dropped before his father's searching gaze, and his hands worked nervously. At last, with an apparent effort, he replied, in a low tone:

"There's nothing the matter with me, father."

Mr. Lloyd sighed, and looked troubled.

"Yes, there is, Bert. You know there is. Now, don't conceal it from me, but speak right out. Remember your motto, Bert: 'Quit you like men.'"

The working of Bert's countenance showed clearly the struggle that was going on within, and there was silence for a moment, while Mr. Lloyd awaited his answer, praying earnestly the while that his boy might be helped to do the right. Then, suddenly, Bert sprang up, darted toward the door, and heeding not his father's surprised exclamation of—"Bert, Bert, aren't you going to answer me?" ran up the stairs to his own room. An instant more and he returned, bearing a volume which he placed in Mr. Lloyd's hands; and then, throwing himself on the sofa, he buried his head in the cushions, and burst into a passion of tears.

Bewildered by this unexpected action, Mr. Lloyd's first impulse was to take his boy in his arms and try to soothe him. Then he bethought himself of the book lying in his lap, and turned to it for an explanation of the mystery. It was an innocent-enough looking volume, and seemed at first glance to make matters no clearer, but as he held it in his hands there came back to him the recollection of his own schoolboy days, and like a flash the thing was plain to him. Bert had been using a "pony," and in some way had come to realise the extent of his wrong-doing.

With feelings divided between sorrow that his boy should fall a victim to this temptation, and gladness that he should have the courage to confess it, Mr. Lloyd went over to the sofa, lifted Bert up gently, and placed him on the chair beside him.

"Come, now, Bert, dear," said he, in his tenderest tones, "don't be afraid, but just tell me all about it."

In a voice much broken by sobs, Bert then told the whole story, beginning with the first conversation with Regie Selwyn, and leaving out nothing. His father listened intently, and it was clear the recital moved him deeply. When it ended, he silently lifted up his heart in praise to God that his darling boy had been delivered from so great a danger, and he determined that Dr. Chrystal should not fail to hear how effective his faithful preaching had been.

"I need not tell you, Bert, how sad this makes my heart, but I will not add my reproaches to the remorse you already feel," said he, gravely. "You have done very, very wrong, dear, and it is now your duty to make that wrong right again, so far as is in your power. What do you think yourself you ought to do?"

"I must ask God to forgive me, father," answered Bert, almost in a whisper.

"But is that all? Is there no one else of whom you should ask forgiveness?"

"Yes, of you."

"I have forgiven you already, Bert, for I know that you are sincerely sorry. But I think there is some one else still. Ought you not to ask Dr. Johnston's forgiveness?"

"Why, father," exclaimed Bert, looking up with an expression of surprise, "Dr. Johnston does not know anything about it."

"Ah, yes, Bert, true enough; but remember that ever since you've been using the translation you've been getting credit from him for work you had not really done. Was that providing things honest in the sight of all men, do you think?"

Bert flushed and looked down again. He was silent for a little while, and then said:

"But, father, I could never tell Dr. Johnston. He is so stern and severe."

"Do you think God will ever fully forgive you while you are concealing from Dr. Johnston what you ought in common honesty to tell him?"

This question evidently staggered him, and Mr. Lloyd, seeing what a struggle was going on within him, put his hand upon his shoulder, and said, with tender emphasis:

"Remember, Bert: 'Quit you like men, be strong.'"

For a moment longer Bert seemed irresolute. Then suddenly his countenance brightened, his features settled into an expression of firm determination, and rising to his feet, with hands clenched and eyes flashing, he stood before his father, and almost shouted:

"Yes, father, I will; I'll tell him. I don't care what he does to me."

"God bless you, my brave boy!" exclaimed Mr. Lloyd, as, almost over-mastered by his emotions, he threw his arms around his neck, and hugged him to his heart, the big tears pouring down his happy face.

Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Lloyd and Mary entered. Great was their surprise at the scene they witnessed. But they soon understood it all, and when the whole story was known to them they were no less thankful than Mr. Lloyd that Bert had come off conqueror in this sharp struggle with the enemy of souls.

It was a hard task that lay before Bert, and he would have been something more than mortal if his resolution did not falter as he thought about it. But he strengthened himself by repeating the words "Quit you like men, be strong," laying much emphasis on the latter clause. His father thought it best for him to go very early the next morning, taking the book with him, and to seek an interview with Dr. Johnston before he went into the school.

Accordingly, in the morning, with throbbing heart and feverish pulse, Bert knocked at the doctor's private entrance. On asking for the master he was at once shown into the study, where the dread doctor was glancing over the morning paper before he took up the work of the day.

"Well, Lloyd, what brings you here so early?" he asked, in some surprise.

With much difficulty, and in broken sentences, Bert explained the object of his visit, the doctor listening with an impassive countenance that gave no hint of how the story affected him. When he had ended, Dr. Johnston remained silent a moment as if lost in reflection, then placing his hand upon the boy's shoulder, and looking at him with an expression of deep tenderness such as Bert had never seen in his countenance before, he said, in tones whose kindness there could be no mistaking:

"You have done well, Lloyd, to tell me this. I honour you for your confession, and I feel confident that never so long as you are a pupil in this school will you fall into like wrong-doing. You may tell your father what I have said. Good-morning." And he turned away, perhaps to hide something that made his eyes moist.

Feeling much as Christian must have felt when the burden broke from his back and rolled into the sepulchre gaping to receive it, Bert went to his seat in the schoolroom. The ordeal was over, and his penance complete.

His frank penitence was destined to exert a far wider influence than he ever imagined, and that immediately. The volume he placed in Dr. Johnston's hands set the master thinking. "If," he reasoned, "Bert Lloyd, one of the best boys in my school, has fallen into this wrong-doing, it must be more common than I supposed. Perhaps were I to tell the school what Lloyd has just told me, it might do good. The experiment is worth trying, at all events."

Acting upon this thought, Dr. Johnston, shortly after the school had settled down for the day's work, rapped upon his desk as a signal that he had something to say to the scholars, and then, when the attention of all had been secured, he proceeded to tell, in clear, concise language, the incident of the morning. Many eyes were turned upon Bert while the doctor was speaking, but he kept his fixed closely upon his desk, for he knew that his cheeks were burning, and he wondered what the other boys were thinking of him. In concluding, Dr. Johnston made the following appeal, which was indeed his chief purpose in mentioning the matter at all:

"Now, scholars," said he, in tones of mingled kindliness and firmness, "I feel very sure that Lloyd is not the only boy in this school who has been using a translation to assist him in his classical work, and my object in telling you what he told me is that it may perhaps inspire those who have been doing as he did to confess it in the manly, honest way that he has done, and for which we must all honour him. Boys, I appeal to your honour," he continued, raising his voice until it rang through the room, startling his hearers by its unaccustomed volume. "Who among you, like Bert Lloyd, will confess that you have been using a translation?"