She righted the stovepipe—without swearing—and built a brisk fire. Then she began to scrub.

She had worked an hour, when she heard a voice and footsteps, and a moment later "Dodd" and the young Weavers darkened the door.

"Good morning!" she exclaimed, pausing a moment in her work and brushing back her hair with her arm, as she raised her flushed face, which was covered with a dew of perspiration; "you had better put your dinner pail out by the well, and then you can play in the yard a while, till I get the house cleaned up a little," and again she turned to her scrubbing.

"Dodd" stood in the door and looked at the girl in amazement. This was a new phase of the school teacher, sure enough. He thought of Miss Stone and wondered bow she would look, down on her knees and scrubbing, as this girl was. He stood in the door for some minutes, till, finally, Amy arose and started to carry out a pail of dirty water and bring in a fresh one in its place. As she neared the boy he stepped to one side and let her pass, looking up into her face as she went by. She returned his glance and smiled, and "Dodd" answered back with something akin to a blush, though the expression was such a stranger to his face that the superficial observer might have failed correctly to classify it at first sight.

Amy threw the water out, far into the road, and went to the well, "Dodd" saw where she was going, and, running to the pump, he seized the handle and began pumping vigorously.

"Thank you," said Amy, when the bucket was filled; "I hardly think you can carry the pail so full," she added, as "Dodd" proceeded to grasp the pail with both hands to carry the water to the house. "Better let me help you," she continued, taking hold of one side. "There, so; now we'll carry it together," and, one on either side of the bucket, they went into the house again.

It may safely be said that the brief space of time occupied in going from the well to the school room, carrying half of that pail of water, was the proudest moment yet experienced by the hero of this story. For the first time in his life the spirit of chivalry arose in his bosom, and though the act he performed in response to its promptings was a very simple and menial one, yet it was enough to stir all the pulses of his boyish nature and to make of him, for the time being, such a little man as he had never before dreamed of being. It is William Shakspeare, I think, who has it—

"From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive, They are the books, the grounds, the academies, From which doth spring the true Promethean fire!"

or words to that effect. "Dodd," however, knew nothing of the great poet, but he did know that something in the kindly eyes of this honest Irish girl made him want to do everything he could for her, and help her in every possible way.

The most gallant knight could rise to no more sublime condition!

When the pail was set down and Amy was once more on her knees, "Dodd" began to look about to see what else he could do. The girl took note of this, and soon set him to work. She had him go through all the desks and clean out all the places where the books were kept. When this was done she gave him something else to do, and to all her biddings he was most obedient. He worked with a will, and carefully, doing just as he was told to do, and feeling that much of the success of the enterprise on foot depended on his own exertions. It is such work as this that counts here below, and transforms the unfixed elements of human nature into character as enduring as the everlasting bills. It is a little difficult to realize this fact, just at the time of its happening, but the after years show the truth of the statement. The evolution that took place in "Dodd's" soul that morning was a measurable quantity.

By noon the dirty, not to say nasty, school house was clean and in order, and after dinner Amy Kelly began to arrange her classes and prepare for school work. During the forenoon she had learned the names of many of her pupils from their conversations with each other, and had put herself on such terms with them that the work of organizing her classes was easily accomplished, without annoyance to herself or the children. By four o'clock she had her work laid out for the entire school, and the children went home happy, rejoicing in the newly found treasure of a school teacher in whom they delighted.

Amy knew little of many things that are well worth knowing in this world, but she did know how to manage children and how to teach school. She was a girl of resources. "Of such is the kingdom of heaven" among school teachers.



CHAPTER VIII.

It was no longer a task to keep "Dodd" in school. He went every day, rain or shine, and was always eager to go. Moreover, he studied well and learned rapidly. The multiplication table, that had been the bane of his school life, up to date, and which, under the stupid management of Amos Waughops and the over-wrought Grube methods of Miss Stone, had floored him in every tussle he had had with it, now grew tractable and docile, a creature subservient to his will and quick to do his bidding, unhesitatingly.

And what wonder, when Amy taught him this early work in numbers by use of his memory rather than his reason; using a faculty that is strong at this period of life, rather than one which has hardly begun to sprout?

Did you ever think of that, dear devotee at the shrine of Grube, or Brother Harris, or all the rest of the train who insist that a child's reason should "develop" largely before he has finished the first decade of his existence?

These wise ones lay down a law (take up almost any printed course of study, nowadays, and you will find it all spread out in the first and second years' work) that every number must be mastered, in all its possible arrangements and combinations, from the very first time it is taken up. Thus, one must be considered in all its possible correlations to all the universe, and the Almighty Himself, before two can be touched! So, as soon as the youth strikes a simple unit that ought to come to him like an old friend, he is straightway packed off to the ends of the earth with the digit and made to stand it up alongside of all manner of things, in the heavens above and, the earth beneath, and even in the waters under the earth. The little fellow tramps, and trudges, and compares, and contrasts, and divides, and combines, and eliminates, and expels, and extracts, and subtracts, and retracts, and contracts, and what not, until finally, he gets all mixed up and concludes that he never can know anything about it at all, and the dear old "one," that came to him at first as such a simple thing, is so tangled up with all creation that he gives it up as an entirely unknown and unknowable quantity, and begins to guess at it and when he comes to that point, look out! He has taken the first step in recklessness, and has begun his initial work as a liar!

You don't believe this? Then sit down to the following, which I clip from the "second year's work" in a "course of study" that lies before me:

"Learn to count to 100, forward and back, by 1's, 2's, 3's, 4's, 5's, 6's, 7's, 8's, and 9's, beginning to count from 0, and also from each digit, respectively, up to the one used continuously, in each case."

Just buckle down to this for a while and see how it goes. See how long it will take you to master even a tithe of this, so that you can do it, even passably well, and then compare your own powers of mind with those of the child that you would fain cram with this "course" and see if there is not a reason why the children do not take to this "method."

I know what you will say, at least to yourselves. "I have no time for such a pile of rubbish." You say well. Neither have the children time for it.

But Amy knew nothing of Grube, thank heaven, and gave none of it to "Dodd." He learned to read better than ever, learned to spell, and took pride in standing at the head of his class. He plucked flowers for his teacher as he went to school, and his cheeks flushed as she took them from his band and set them in the glass tumbler on the table. He even thought in his little heart, betimes, that, when he got grown up, he would marry Amy! Rather young for such ideas? Perhaps so; but these ideas begin to develop, often, when boys are very young. They don't say anything about it, out loud; but away down in the deep hiding-places of the heart—oh, well, we all know how it is, and what an influence such notions may have upon our lives.

But for all of these things "Dodd" Weaver was still "Dodd" Weaver, and there were times when he suffered a relapse from his high estate. One of these times came as follows:

It was a sultry forenoon in May, and "Dodd" was restless and uneasy. He fidgeted about in his seat, teased the boy in front of him, and tripped up a little fellow who passed him on the way to a class. His teacher watched him for some time, and, at the last offense, concluded that it was best to give the boy a bit of attention. She came down to his desk and said:

"It's a bad kind of a morning for boys, isn't it, 'Dodd'?"

The boy hung his head a little, and Amy proceeded:

"Come here to the door a minute; I want to show you something."

"Dodd" wondered what was wanted, but arose, as he was bidden, and went to the door,

"Do you see that tree, away down the road?" said Amy, pointing to a large maple that was more than a quarter of a mile away.

"Dodd" said that he saw the object pointed out.

"Well, now, I want you to start here and run to that tree just as fast as you can, and then turn right around and run back again, and I'll stand right here all the time and watch you, and see how long it takes you to go and come;" and she drew out her watch as she spoke.

"Dodd" looked at her for an instant, but the next moment he was off with a bound and ran his best, both going and coming. He returned presently, having made most excellent time. Amy told him how many minutes he had been gone, and bade him take his seat. The boy was a little in doubt as to just why he was called on to perform this feat; but, between pondering over the affair and being tired from his race, he was a good boy all the rest of the morning! The girl had simply given the child a chance to work off his superfluous animal spirits, and, with this quantity reduced to a safety limit, he was himself again.

What a pity there are not more teachers who appreciate the value of a safety-valve!

The incident is but one of a score that illustrate the resources of Amy Kelly in the management of "Dodd" Weaver. She was always taking the boy by surprise. He was wayward and wilful at times, but her genius was equal to the emergency. She won him by her divine power to do just that thing, as her class always does, and as none others can. She was born to teach, or with the teaching faculty—with a genius for that work; and her success was marked from the first. She did for "Dodd" Weaver in a single term more than all the former years had done; she made a record in his character that will never be effaced.

And do not say that I have overdrawn this picture, either. Don't turn up your noses, my dears, because this girl came from a very humble and unpretentious Irish family. I tell you, genius has a way of its own, and there is no accounting for it. It was a good while ago that a conservative old Pharisee thought that he had forever silenced the followers of the greatest Genius the world ever saw by putting at them the conundrum, "Can any good come out of Nazareth?" But good did come out of that barren country in spite of the conundrum! And so it keeps on doing, constantly. It comes from other places, too, and that is all right. The point is that we want to open our eyes and see it, no matter where it comes from.

Amy Kelly was a godsend to "Dodd" Weaver. She came to him through the medium of a country school. She won the boy as such teachers always do win boys, and always will win them; and her reward ought to be great. It was only twenty-five dollars a month, reckoned on the order book of "deestrick four," but there is no telling what it will be on the "other side." But such as Amy can afford to wait for that.



CHAPTER IX.

"Dodd" went to school to Amy Kelly faithfully all that summer. He was neither tardy nor absent during the term, and when school was over it seemed to him as though something was gone out of his life; something that he would have liked to keep always.

But in the fall Elder Weaver was sufficiently rejuvenated to enter the field again, and after conference he once more set out on his peregrinations. For several years thereafter it was true of him as it is of so many of his kind—he was "just two years in a place, and then forever moving."

This gave "Dodd" a change of pedagogic administration on an average once a year; for each village would usually manage to change teachers on the off years, at least, when they didn't change preachers, and so keep up the principle of rotation in office, which is so dear to the average American heart. What a glorious thing the fickle will of the people is in some of its petty phases!

A change of teacher once a year, however, is not beyond the average of pupils in this country. I know of schools where the pupils, change teachers six times a day, every school day in the year, besides now and then an extra when a principal or a superintendent turns himself loose on them for an hour or two in a term! Dodd's quota of changes should not, therefore, be regarded as extravagant; that is, according to some of the "authorities."

In after years the memory of those four months with Amy Kelly remained with the boy, an oasis in the trackless Sahara of his school life. In this dreary expanse now and then a shadow of hope arose, as if to lure him on, as some new teacher came up over his horizon, but in the main these all proved delusions, mirages that glittered at phantom distances, but faded away into empty nothingness as he took a nearer view of them. This constant cheating of his vision, this deferring of his hope, in time made his heart sick, and he gradually relapsed into his old hatred of books and schools and school teachers and all that pertained thereto.

There was prim Miss Spinacher, thin as a lath and bony, with hands that you could almost see through and fingers that rattled against each other when she shook one threateningly at a boy or girl. She had a hobby of keeping her pupils perpetually front face, and of having them sit up straight all the time, with folded arms, so that her school room always had the appearance of a deal board stuck full of stiff pegs, all in rows, every one as tight in its place as a wedge and never to be moved on any account whatever.

Right opposite to the school house where this woman taught was a rich man's residence, in the front yard of which there stood a marble statue, a bronze deer, a cast-iron dog and a stone rabbit. "Dodd" used to look over to these when he was very tired from sitting up so straight so long, and wish that Miss Spinacher had a roomful of such for pupils. It would have been as well for her and "Dodd" and the rest of the school if she had. Perhaps it would have been better! Yet you all know Miss Spinacher, don't you, ladies and gentlemen?

Again, he fell into the hands of Mr. Sliman, whose sole end and aim in life as a school teacher was the extermination of whispering. For this purpose he had devised a set of rules, which he had printed in full and sent all over town to every patron of the school.

The "self-reporting" system was the hobby of this man. "Dodd" told the truth to him for a few evenings, at roll-call, acknowledging that he had whispered, as he and all the rest of the pupils had; but he soon observed that it was the custom of most of the boys and girls to falsify about their conduct, and that they got great glory thereby.

He took up this custom himself ere long. It troubled his conscience a good deal at first, but by dint of constant daily practice he got so that he could look his teacher squarely in the eye and answer "perfect" as well as any one, even if he had whispered the whole day through, and knew that the man who recorded his mark knew he had and set down a clean record for the sake of having a good score to show to visitors!

Oh, Mr. Sliman, you were very sharp, weren't you? You thought you did your little trick so cleverly that no one would find you out, but your kind always think that!

It did make a fine showing for visitors, this clean whispering record of yours, and it was a fine thing for you to talk about at teachers' meetings, where you boasted to your fellows of what you had done, and looked so honest, and made them all feel so envious, as you drew forth your record-book from next your shiny shirt-bosom, and showed how there was no denying your statement, for the testimony was all down in black and white! It was all very nice, but it was very, very bad, for all that.

You knew it was, too, and most of us who heard you brag knew it was; but that didn't make very much difference, because we were old and could stand it, and as for you—the less said the better.

But not so with "Dodd."

Here was where the harm came in, you wicked man. You evolved the lying element of this boy's nature. Heaven knows that he had enough of this naturally, as I have plainly stated in the early chapters of this story; but you forced a hot-bed growth out of the seeds of falsehood that were lying dormant in "Dodd's" young mind.

Amy Kelly had covered these up, under the foundation walls of truth, so deep that if you had built on what she started the germs would have died where they lay. But no, you threw down the square blocks that Amy had laid with so much care; you spread the dung of deception over the dying seeds, and by the help of the unnatural heat which this foulness generated, brooding down from above, you sprouted the germs of untruth in the boy's soul, and set a-growing plants whose roots run down into hell!

You taught "Dodd" Weaver to believe that a lie was better than the truth; that it would serve him better; bring him more glory; make him stand better in the eyes of his fellows, and that no one could find him out in all this trickery and deception.

"Dodd" learned in your school; O, yes; he learned that which it took him many years to forget, and you are to blame for it. Some day I hope you may be compelled to face that lying old record of yours and that lightning flashes of guilt may be made to blaze into your treacherous eyes from out those pages that looked so clean when you showed them off, while the thunder of outraged truth rolls about your head till your teeth chatter in your mouth and your bones shake in your deceitful skin.

You see things must be made even somehow, and somewhere, and such a sinner as you have been deserves all this and more too.

Then, there was Mr. Sharp, who kept green and growing the shoots that Mr. Sliman had sprouted. "Attendance" was Mr. Sharp's hobby. He kept a blackboard in the front hall of his school house, where it would be the first thing any one would see when he came into the building, and on this he scored the record of attendance every day.

There was no harm in that, I am sure; but then, this teacher used to keep the clock a little slower than town time, and besides, be had a way of ringing bells and bells at morning and at noon, and of not counting as tardy any one who got into the building any time before the ringing of the last bell, which really did not go off until some minutes after it should have done; and then there was the back way of written excuses, by which a fellow could sneak up in the rear and rub out a mark that really stood against him, and not have it count on the board down in the hall; and absences of a certain character were not counted either. So, take it all in all, "Dodd" saw clearly that the shown record and the real record were not the same things by a long way, but that it was the former on which Mr. Sharp relied for his power and glory with the patrons of the school, and before the board of education. So it was that Mr. Sharp watered what Mr. Sliman planted, and "Dodd" had to stand it all.

And then there was Miss Slack, and Miss Trotter, and Mr. Skimpole (a lineal descendant of the urbane Harold), and Mr. Looseley, and Mr. Rattler, and Striker, and Bluffer, and Smiley; all these took a hand at the mill that was rolling out the character of "Dodd" Weaver, and there are marks of their varied crankings upon him to this day.

One year he fell into the hands of old Mrs. Heighten. She was a widow who had been rich, but was now poor, and who had a place in the schools because she needed it. She was so much like all the rest of this sort that she need not be further described, and were it not for one characteristic she should remain in oblivion, so far as this record is concerned. But for this I must have her out.

She was poor and really a proud beggar of public charity, yet she was of such genteel and lofty birth and bearing that teaching was a bore to her. She really despised and hated her pupils, and they returned these sentiments with interest. There was always rebellion in her room, and to suppress it she resorted to all sorts of penalties and punishments. She used to make pupils stand on the floor and extend an arm on a level with the shoulder, and so hold a book till it seemed as if the arm would break off. She herself stood by with a pin in her hand, meanwhile, holding it at a slight distance below the extended arm and sticking it into the hand of the suffering one if the aching member were lowered an inch.

O Dante, you didn't begin to exhaust the possibilities of outrageous punishments in all you saw in the infernal regions. Old Mrs. Heighten could give you several points that you never dreamed of, and not tax her powers of ingenuity very much either.

Yet "Dodd" worked the genius of this respectable old beldame to the very verge of bankruptcy. She tried device after device upon the boy, till at last it got to be a kind of race between the two as to which should win. The old lady had no genuine interest in the welfare of her pupil. He annoyed her and she wanted to rid herself of the annoyance. That is a simple statement of the case from her side. As for "Dodd," he delighted in tormenting her as he would in teasing a snake. To be sure there was danger in the sport, but boys are fond of danger, especially if it promises fun.

So the days wore on, till at last the case became unbearable, and "Dodd" was "suspended." Oh! but that was hard on the boy! It hurt him terribly! The suspension came when the skating of the winter was the very best, and "Dodd" skated the vacation away, and felt, Oh, so badly about being out of school!

When the week of suspension was over he came back, fuller of the devil than ever, and during a single forenoon did more mischief than he had before been capable of perpetrating in a month. He was fourteen now, a stout chunk of a boy, awkward, defiant, and reckless. He stayed in school two days this time, and was again suspended. He came back once more after that and was then expelled. He left school with a whoop and was on the streets most of the time thereafter. It was then that his reputation as a bad boy began to grow rapidly. He frequented the depot of the town and was on speaking terms with the railroad employes of the line. He chewed tobacco in great mouthfuls, swore a great deal, and spent his days in loafing. He had plans for going on the road as a brakeman when he became a year or two older. Every day he sunk lower and people shook their heads and said, "How his mother's heart must ache!"

But old Mrs. Heighten drew her $55 a month just the same, right along; and her daughter Amanda, who never did an honest day's work in all her life, but lived in idleness, supported by the aforesaid $55—she was the pride of the town. She went to church every Sunday and sang in the choir, and at charity fairs she always stood behind the prettiest table, dressed in the prettiest clothes, and smiled and blushed and seemed so innocent and coy. And there were rich young men who hung about her, and Amanda smiled on them, too, and people said, "What a lovely girl!" And her mother hoped that her daughter might marry one of these rich young men; it didn't make much difference which, so long as he was rich and could keep Amanda in idleness, while she could go and live on his bounty and quit the school room that she hated and have a rosewood coffin and plenty of carriages at her funeral.

But until all these things were accomplished the old lady "had to have a place," and Amanda lolled about in idleness.

Meantime "Dodd" "waxed worse and worse."

Do you see any relation between "Dodd" and Amanda, good folks? If you do, remember that this boy was only one of scores of pupils that had to suffer, substantially as he did, that the poor and proud Mrs. Heighten and her lazy daughter Amanda might continue to keep up appearances, and still have a chance to sponge a living off some man at the expense of a legal relation which it is sacrilege to call marriage.

Out upon such proud and lazy frauds, every one of them, whose worthless lives are sustained by the destruction of the characters of children like "Dodd" Weaver, and all the rest who fall under such tuition!



CHAPTER X.

So it was that "Dodd" got into the street and achieved the reputation of being a boy that no teacher could do anything with. In the year or two that followed he made several starts at school, but his reputation always preceded him, and the old story was told over again—one or two suspensions, then "expelled."

So time went on till "Dodd" was nearly seventeen. He was almost a man grown now—a swaggering, profane, vulgar fellow, who ate his meals at home and slept there, usually, but further than that lived apart from his parents, who every day regretted that ever he had been born.

You all know this boy, don't you, beloved? He is in every town that I know of, and there are duplicates and triplicates, not to say centiplicates, of him in some of our larger cities. I wonder if it is worth while to try to do anything with these boys, or for them? The machine has dropped them, or thrown them out. They will not run through the great educational mill known as the "graded system." They seem destined to go to the bad, and it seems to me the tendency of the machine, and some of its managers, is to let them go. Yet they ought not to go. As there is a God in heaven, they ought not to.

But the machine does not care so very much for these things, either for the boys or for the Personage just mentioned, whose name the managers revere enough to teach the children that it should always be written with a capital letter, but further than that do not trouble themselves much about it. The machine is built on the theory that the pupils are made for the schools, rather than the schools for the pupils, and that the order of the grades must be maintained, no matter what becomes of the graded. What is it to this great mill if the pupils do fall out of the hopper? So long as the mill grinds and the grinders can hold their places at the crank; so long as they can draw their pay, escape public censure, dodge behind a stack of examination papers when individual complaints appear, shield themselves from responsibilities by records and marks, keep the promotions in order, graduate a class a year in good clothes and with pretty speeches, see each of those who have been ground through go out into the great world armed with a diploma tied up with a blue ribbon, and so following—so long as the machine can do all this, what is the use of paying any attention to "Dodd" Weaver and such incorrigibles as he, who refuse to go into the mill and be ground? What, indeed?

However, you know the story of "the ninety-and-nine." At least you ought to know it. It has an application in these premises.

But Elder Weaver shifted his base of operations once more, and "Dodd" had another chance.

He had now got so far down on the ladder of his descent that he was counted almost dangerous. His father feared him, and he was even the terror of his brothers and sisters. In a word, he was a hard case.

It was the town of Emburg in which the parson was stationed this time—one of those towns so common all through the West, places that start out with a boom and the prospect of being municipalities of at least 500,000 inhabitants in a few years; whose founders lay out into town lots all the land that joins them and sell these at fabulous prices to those who are credulous enough to buy; and which finally settles down to a quiet village of about 2,500 souls, with a depot, stores, seven churches, and a school requiring about ten teachers to take care of its pupils.

Mr. Charles Bright was principal of the Emburg schools the fall that Parson Weaver came to take charge of the Methodist Episcopal church at that place. He was 30 years of age, a nervous, sensitive man, both of which characteristics had been intensified by severe work in the school room. He was less than the average height and thin in flesh, the scale beam tipping at 120 when he stood on the platform to balance the weight. His face was thin and his beard scattered, but his large black eyes were as keen as a lance, and they always seemed to see everything that came within the range of vision. He was fairly educated, but in no sense a great scholar. His patrons called him "Professor," but he made no claim to the title, and it was offensive in his ears when applied to himself. He was characterized with excellent common sense, and, best of all, was a man of resources. He was an excellent classroom worker, managed his school well, and was held in high esteem by his fellow-teachers and his pupils. Above all, he was a man whose personality impressed itself upon those with whom he associated, and whose character was strong and wholesome, making itself felt upon his pupils continuously.

To this man came Parson Weaver on a memorable morning, when the following dialogue ensued, after the two had made themselves known to each other:

"I have a son," said the parson, "whom I should like to send to school to you."

"Certainly," replied Mr. Bright, "send him along, and we will endeavor to take care of him, amongst us."

"Yes," said the Elder, "but I am grieved to be obliged to say that my boy is very wayward. He has been expelled from school so often, and has had so much trouble with his teachers that I doubt if you can do anything with him. I thought, however, that I would come and speak to you about him, and if you were willing to try him, at least for a little while, I should be under great obligations. For, really, it is a terrible thing, sir, for one to feel that he must give up a first-born son and see him go down to destruction. And yet I am compelled to say frankly to you that I fear our boy is almost beyond hope."

This was said in an agonized tone that told how deeply the sorrow had taken hold of the father's heart. There is a sentence somewhere that reads, "If thou canst, have mercy on us and save our son, for he is grievously tormented." The world is much the same now as it was a good many years ago, isn't it?

"How old is your boy?" asked Mr. Bright in a quiet, measured tone.

"Nearly seventeen," replied the parson, "but he is greatly behind in his school work. As I said, he has been turned out of school till he hates it, and, to tell the truth, he has done little but roam the streets for the last few years. I feel that I ought to be ashamed, being his father, to make such a confession, but it is the truth, and I felt that you ought to know about it."

"Yes," said Mr. Bright thoughtfully.

"If you could take charge of him yourself," continued the father almost imploringly. "I know it is asking a great deal, and that perhaps it will be impossible for you to grant what I ask, for I am aware that my boy is not advanced in his studies as far as the average of the pupils that recite to you, and I have long since learned, by sad experience, the inexorableness of the present graded school system, which forces pupils into their places strictly according to their examination records, regardless of all other contingencies. I beg your pardon, if I seem to speak harshly," he quickly added, fearing that he might have reflected too severely upon the gentleman to whom he was speaking.

"You need offer no apology," returned Mr. Bright. "I regret as much as you can the too rigorous ways that have fallen upon our schools."

"Well, will you give the boy a trial?" asked the parson, bringing the issue to a point.

"Most certainly," returned Mr. Bright, and then the gentlemen wished each other "good-morning," the parson going home and the teacher turning to his desk again.

It was not until the following Monday morning that "Dodd" Weaver made his appearance in the school room. His father had urged him to go sooner, but he cared little for the wishes of his sire, and took his time in this, as he did in all else.

"Dodd" came late to school when he did come, and evidently counted on making a sensation on his first appearance. He was very shabbily dressed, and had purposely added to his generally slouching appearance by deliberately "making up" for his debut. His hair was long, and he had tangled and frowzed it all over his head till it looked like an ungainly pile of corn silk. His face was grimy, a big quid of tobacco bulged one cheek out, while stains of tobacco juice made the corners of his mouth filthy. He wore no collar, one coat sleeve was half gone, his vest was on wrong side outwards, his pantaloons were ragged, he had a shoe on one foot and a boot on the other, the former unlaced, and the latter smeared to the top of the boot-leg with yellow clay; a leg of his pantaloons bagged down over this, being held up on the inside of his leg by hanging it over the boot-strap!

You who have not taught school, and are not familiar with boyhood at this stage of its evolution, may insist that I have made "Dodd" up like a crazy creature for his grand entry into Mr. Bright's school room. Perhaps I have. But I have presented him to you as he presented himself to the school, for all of that. I am myself inclined to think that his mental state, at this time, bordered close upon insanity! The Book remarks about a young man at this stage of his existence, that he had to "come to himself" before his reformation, as though he had been away from himself during his lawless and outrageous career. I am inclined to think that boys are often a good deal nearer insane than they get credit for being, at this period of their lives.

There is a psychological condition just here that it is worth while for teachers seriously to consider.

So, tricked out in this disgusting fashion, "Dodd" slouched into Mr. Bright's school room about ten o'clock in the forenoon, and flung himself into a seat. The pupils looked up as he entered, and their first impulse was to laugh—-a result which, would have suited "Dodd" exactly. But a glance at the school from Mr. Bright's quick eye checked the risibilities of his pupils, and, this emotion dying out, there came instantly in its place a disgust and almost a horror of the loathsome person who had dared to disgrace the school room with such a figure as "Dodd" presented. A silence like death fell upon the room, and all held their breath for an instant after the boy was seated.

Under this silence "Dodd" became embarrassed. It was exactly the reverse of what he had counted on. He meant to disturb the school. Instead of this, he found the school disturbing him. He shuffled uneasily in his seat, glanced furtively out from under the shaggy hair that was matted over his forehead, cleared his throat in a restless and seemingly defiant manner, but finally blushed to the roots of his hair as he felt the eyes of three-score decent people, all bent upon him at once. He stretched his neck up out of his collar-band a little, turned his head about as though something were choking him, then dropped his chin upon his breast, shrugged up his shoulders, and half hid his face from the eyes whose looks he fain would shun.

All this really took place in much less time than it takes for me to tell it.

Mr. Bright was hearing a class in geometry when the boy entered, and a handsome, intelligent girl was in the midst of a demonstration when the door opened and the interruption caused thereby took place. The pupil paused in her recitation, the end of her pointer resting upon the board at the angle under consideration, and she stood thus during the brief interval remarked above. As "Dodd's" head dropped Mr. Bright turned his glance to the girl again, and said:

"If the angle at A—"

Upon which she took up the demonstration where she had broken off, and finished it as though nothing had happened. After that, other pupils recited, the lesson ended, the class was dismissed, other classes were called, and the regular routine of the day's work went on without change, as though teacher and pupils were entirely unconscious of the presence of a stranger among them.

When recess came, Mr. Bright went down to the desk where the boy was seated, accosted him in a civil manner, and told him that if he would remain a few minutes after school was dismissed at noon he would talk with him about his work and assign him to his place in the school. Then he left him, and devoted himself to the other pupils during the brief intermission.

"Dodd" did not leave his seat during this recess. He sat as he had finally settled himself, except that he now and then raised his head and gazed defiantly over the school room. The pupils paid no attention to him whatever, and he really felt himself as much alone as though he had been in solitary confinement in a dungeon.

The recess ended, the school was in order again; the recitations went on as usual, an hour and a quarter went by, noon came, the session closed for dinner, the pupils left the room in groups, till all were gone, and for the first time "Dodd" Weaver and Mr. Charles Bright were alone, face to face.



CHAPTER XI.

Mr. Bright took a small piece of blank paper from his table, a rectangular slip about four inches long by two inches wide, cut expressly for the purpose for which he proceeded to use it, and went down to the desk where "Dodd" sat sulking and defiant.

"Please write your name and age on this slip of paper," he said to the boy.

"I can't write!" grumbled "Dodd," with a surly sneer and a wag of his head.

"I see! You have no pencil," returned Mr. Bright. "You can use mine," and he slipped that article into "Dodd's" hand as he spoke.

As soon as he had done this, he went to the rear part of the room and began looking over some work upon the blackboard. He did not look toward the boy to see if he obeyed, but his ears were on the alert.

For a little while "Dodd" sat unmoved, and made no sign that he intended to write at all, but as Mr. Bright kept working at the board, the boy gradually relaxed his unyielding mood, and after a few minutes wrote his name in a very neat hand. He even added a little flourish in one corner of the paper.

Mr. Bright heard the pencil moving on the desk and his blood ran quicker in his veins, though he showed no outward sign of the fact. He felt that in the first crossing of swords he had won. That was all. He heard the pencil drop upon the floor, where "Dodd" let it lie. But he still devoted himself to his work on the board. He knew that the name was written. It was all he had asked.

As for "Dodd," he almost wondered how he happened to write at all. He had made up his mind to be as mean and outrageous as possible when he came to school, and here he had done the very first thing he had been asked to do! When he replied to Mr. Bright that he could not write, he fully intended to have a knock-down with the gentleman rather than put pencil to paper. He even thought over hastily, how quickly he could "put a head on the light weight" who had brought him the bit of paper. For "Dodd" was strong now and prided himself on his skill with his fists.

But the pencil was in his hand, and, before he was aware, his fingers clasped it. His hand instinctively took the position for writing, and somehow or other, there came to his mind, just at that instant, the memory of Amy Kelly, and of how she had held her soft, plump hand over his, as she taught him to hold a pen.

If he had observed closely, he would have seen that this was where the first break came in his rebellion. It was the sunshine of Amy's character shining down through the dark clouds that had closed in about "Dodd" Weaver's soul, that first tempted his timid, shrinking, almost forgotten real self out into the light again. Habit completed what memory began, and his hand moved, though almost against his will, as if guided by an impulse beyond himself. Perhaps it was so guided!

He wrote the name; but he did no more. When the pencil dropped to the floor he would not touch it again. Nothing could have induced him to do so. He would have fought a duel sooner than have picked it up. His real self, so weak and so nearly dead, shrank back, exhausted by its single effort, and his bad nature took control of him again.

But Mr. Bright finished the work at the board, and then went up the aisle. He stooped and picked up the pencil, took the slip from the desk, with a courteous "Thank you," and moved on to his own table. He had tallied one point.

I wonder if he did this all by himself, or if there was another hand behind it all. Certain it is this man did not plan all this campaign that ended so successfully. He had not counted on the boy's refusing to write his name. It was like a flash, that it came to him to answer "Dodd's" refusal as he did. Nor did he really intend to put the pencil into the boy's hand when he offered it to him. But, somehow, he did just that, and it was the saving fact in the case. Had he laid the pencil on the table, "Dodd" would never have picked it up. Much less would he have reached for it, or taken it from Mr. Bright's hand. But, with the pencil in his hand, he wrote.

We say Mr. Bright did as he did "instinctively." That may be a good word for it. But I wonder if such "instinct" as this doesn't reach away over to the other side, even into the realm of inspiration, whose fountain head is the spirit of the great "I AM."

Be this as it may, though, Mr. Bright had won. He was thankful for his victory—thankful, but not proud. Perhaps this is another thing that goes to show that there was help from without that made for him in the fight.

"Dodd" was disappointed that Mr. Bright did not compliment him on his writing, for he had written very well and knew that he had. But this, Mr. Bright took as a matter of course, and gave no word of commendation for it. It was not time for that yet. "Dodd's" starved real self, if fed with what might once have been wholesome food for it, would have been choked, perhaps to death, by a bit of praise, just then, and a wholesome sense of merit would have been changed into a detestable conceit.

A teacher has to be so careful about these things.

Mr. Bright seated himself at the table, transferred the name to his register, then took another bit of paper and began writing on it, remarking as he did so:

"You will please occupy the seat in front of you this afternoon, and hereafter. I have written a list of the books you will need," he added, picking up the strip he had just been writing on, "and you will please procure them this afternoon. You will recite with the entering class in this room, according to the programme that is on the board behind my desk."

But "Dodd" did not move a muscle while Mr. Bright spoke. He did not look up, even when reference was made to the programme. He made no response when assigned his seat, or to his place in school. He sulked and frowned and stood out against everything, and was sullen and malicious to the last degree.

To all this, however, Mr. Bright paid no heed. He stepped down to the boy's desk again, put the list of books upon it, then turned and left the room abruptly, without a word.

The act was so sudden, so unlike what "Dodd" had expected, that it left him, for a moment, utterly nonplussed.

He was vexed that he had not been able to get into a fight with a man who had left him alone; and yet, as he raised his eyes cautiously, to make sure that Mr. Bright was really gone, he smiled in spite of himself, at the absurdity of the situation! He felt his cheeks wrinkle up, good-naturedly, as the smile crept over his face from above (I think smiles do come from above), and was angrier than ever. He checked his rising good nature with an oath, and raising his arm, he struck the desk a tremendous blow, that made the cover bound again, and the room echo with the thud. Then he rose, grinding his teeth as he got up, and slowly and noisily banged his way out of the room.

Not till three days after this did he appear again in the school room. During this time he loafed about the town and took particular pains to be where Mr. Bright could see him and have a chance to reprove him. But though his teacher met him several times, he gave "Dodd" no other word than such greeting as true politeness dictated. This was worse than ever, for the boy, who was really "spoiling for a row" by this time. The machine, or the machine man, would have had a row with him. Mr. Bright was not a machine man.

Did you ever hook a big fish, when angling with a light rod and line? If you ever did, and have succeeded in landing your game, then you know something about the situation which I am now noting. You see, when the odds are so much against you, you have to do as you can, and not as you would like to, with the wily fellow at the other end of your weak tackle. That is, if you accomplish what you ought to wish to accomplish, if you fish at all!

Of course, there is a quick way of deciding who shall win, you or the fish, and that is to pull away, with might and main, straight for shore, and undertake to drag your captive to you by sheer muscle, brutally matching your strength against his. But if you try this, you know that the chances are a thousand to one that you will part your line and lose the best end of it, and your game along with it.

You can do this, if you choose, of course—this is a free country; but if that is your way of fishing, you had better give up any little pet idea that may be lurking about you, that heaven made you for a fisherman. Perhaps you might make a fair superintendent of school machines, but you ought not to fish!

Or, you may despise the fish, if you choose, and when he has left you, you may gloat over the fact that "anyhow you have stuck something into his gullet that will stay there, and that he can't get away from." You may hope that the trailing line will tangle to a bush and hang the creature. All this you may do, and yet, of what avail is it all? It benefits neither you nor the fish!

But if you know your business you can give your game his own way, suiting your motion to his, till you wear him out, and then he is yours. That is good fishing, and the good thing about it is that it gets the game!

"Dodd" was hooked. His staying away from school was the first tug that he gave the line that caught him. Mr. Bright let him run. He ran for three days, and then gave up on that tack. The fisher reeled in the line and watched for the next break.



CHAPTER XII.

But on Thursday morning "Dodd" came to school again. This time he went to the other extreme in the matter of clothes, and came into the room dressed like a dandy. He had failed to make a sensation, so far, and he had not been used to that sort of thing recently. For years he had been the cause of something unusual, every few hours, and in ways about as he chose. As it was now, he seemed to have lost his knack at this art, and to have fallen into the condition of an ordinary individual, concerning whom no one cared particularly.

This annoyed him greatly. He had come to think he was of some great consequence in the world, by reason of his being so frequently talked to, and prayed over, and reasoned with, and pampered in a thousand ways by those who were really afraid of him; and now, to be set aside without a word or a look, except such as all other pupils got, this was a sore stroke to his vanity.

You see, everybody grows proud of his own attainments, in course of time, no matter what they are, and is anxious to have his fellows appreciate them to their fullest extent, and to acknowledge their excellence in his particular case. So when he fails to secure a recognition of his supposed talents, then he is cut to the very quick.

"Dodd" felt that his eccentricity had not yet been fully acknowledged in the Emburg school, and he reached still further for the object of his desire by playing the fop rather than the tramp, on his second entry to the school room.

But it was not a success. The pupils had evidently "sized him up" pretty accurately, on his previous entry, and his second appearance was a more signal failure than the first.

He did little with his books during the day. He had not come to school to learn. That was the last thing he thought of doing. He was there to make a fuss if possible,—a row, trouble, a sensation; these were what he was after. He went mechanically to his classes, but paid no attention to what was said or done in them. He hoped, though, that Mr. Bright would put a question to him about some of the lessons. He was aching for a chance to snub Mr. Bright, or defy him, by telling him that he didn't know. But he got no questions from his teacher that day, nor for some days after. There are many ways, so many ways, of tiring out a fish, before landing him!

So the day wore on, the first whole day in school for "Dodd" Weaver, for several years. At recesses he unbent a little, but he was only accosted by some of the youngest pupils of the room, and he felt uneasy and out of place among the larger and more advanced members of the school.

It was nearing four o'clock, and the closing work of the day was pressing. Mr. Bright was more than busy with his class, and the room was quiet, the pupils devoting themselves to their work assiduously. "Dodd" sat listless for some time, but he finally straightened himself up quietly, his face lighted with interest, and it would have been evident to any one watching him (no one was watching him just at this time) that he was about to do something. He was.

His desk was in the row of seats next the wall, and there was only a narrow aisle between him and the blackboard. He could reach across this easily. He reached across.

He picked up a piece of crayon and began drawing lines on the board. He moved his chalk carefully, and it made no sound. Yet his movements attracted attention, shortly, and one pupil, and another, and another, turned to watch him.

When "Dodd" found that he had finally succeeded in securing an audience he felt that his point was gained. He winked to a few of the boys about him, and even half smiled at a somewhat coquettish girl whose eye he happened to catch. He was winning his way, and he hastened to make the most of his opportunity.

He had not made a half-dozen strokes with the crayon till every one saw that his sketch was a caricature of Mr. Bright.

This gentleman was not handsome. His features were angular and somewhat irregular, and upon every one of these individualities the graceless artist enlarged at will. He turned up the nose, and set the stray bits of whiskers, and dotted the cheeks, at war one with another. He even went further, and with a few clever strokes sketched a dwarfed body for the life-sized head. He worked rapidly and turned now and then to view his subject.

And all this time Mr. Bright was unconscious of what was going on. He sat with his face more than half turned away from "Dodd," and was devoting all his energies to the elucidation of a problem that was particularly troublesome to the advanced class in algebra. He had no thought of the "order" of his school room. He was too busy trying to help the boys and girls who sat before him, to have time to trouble himself with the rest of the pupils, who were well able to care for themselves between recitations. This was his way of "maintaining order."

But presently he became aware, by soul or ear, that something was wrong about him, somewhere. For an instant he could not make out what it was, so deeply was he engrossed in his work. Then, like a flash, it came to him that it was "Dodd"! He turned his eyes quickly to where the boy sat, and had the good fortune to catch that young gentleman in the very act of adding the finishing touches to his sketch, with much flourish and circumstance.

So much elated was "Dodd," that for an instant he forgot where he was, and for more than a minute after Mr. Bright caught sight of what he was doing, he continued to put in new lines, every one of which added to the grotesqueness of the picture.

Meanwhile the school saw the situation and began to enjoy it hugely, though now at "Dodd's" expense.

Presently the young man looked up from his work and, glancing quickly to the teacher, saw that he was fairly caught. Like lightning he swept the brush, which he held in his left hand, over the picture, and it was gone. Then he squared himself in his seat.

But it was too late. He had overshot the mark. He heard a sneer of disgust from the pupils instead of the laugh he had counted on. He was down again. He was vexed at the result, and his face drew on an air of injured vexation, after the manner of his kind.

Then Mr. Bright said, stepping down to "Dodd's" desk, and speaking in a low tone, to the boy only:

"The picture was very good; very much better than I could have made. I see you have a good deal of ability with the chalk; I am glad to know it. If you care to try your hand on the board, you are welcome to do so at any time; only please do not try to take the attention of the pupils from their studies by your pictures, as you did just now," and without another word he resumed the point under consideration when the interruption took place.

"Dodd" tried to look defiant, but to little purpose. There was nothing left to defy.

I have seen men strike so hard at nothing at all that they have fallen headlong themselves, dragged down by the force of the blow they had intended for another. "Dodd" was down, and it was his own hand that had put him there.

And it is so much better that way!

Yet two points had been gained by this encounter. Mr. Bright had discovered that "Dodd" had a genius for one thing at least, for the sketch was really a remarkably strong one—so strong that the subject of it would have been glad to have preserved it; and "Dodd" was fully convinced that he had no ordinary man to deal with in the person of Mr. Charles Bright. With these two new points developed, the party at the reel end of the line began slowly to "wind up," yet again, and the party of the second part let him wind.



CHAPTER XIII.

Rome was not built in a day nor is a character formed in one round of the sun. A man never reaches a great height at a single stride, and many times he slips and falls back, even after he has been climbing a great while. This is a thing that is common to the race.

"Dodd" Weaver possessed this trait. I say that he did, and shall proceed to prove it, in two ways, which I plainly state for the benefit of the two classes of people who can only see the same set of facts from opposite points of vision.

For the practical people, those who believe only what they see,—the unimaginative and severely scientific, if you will,—I present in proof of the proposition stated above, the record of the boy's life up to this point—the bare facts that have transpired. For those who bow down at the shrine of pure logic, who accept no conclusion but such as has been hoisted into place by a lever of syllogism, with a major premise for a fulcrum, and a minor premise on the long end of the bar,—for these, I submit the familiar form:

A—All men slip and fall back into old ways, more or less (chiefly more), when striving to change a course of life that has become fixed by habit.

B—"Dodd" Weaver (Socrates) was a man (or near enough so to come within the range of the first term above).

C—Therefore; "Dodd" Weaver (Soc.) slipped and fell back into old ways, more or less (chiefly more), when striving to change a course of life that had become fixed by habit. The form will bear study.

I am glad to record just here, too, though it may be counted a digression, that for once the facts in the case and the logical conclusion reached concerning the same tally exactly. What a blessed thing it would have been for the martyrs, all through the ages, if there had always been such happy coincidence between logical sequence and actual facts! But what were the world without martyrs?

I have heard it said that pure logic has a mission to perform in this world. The record of its doings so far shows that, chiefly, it has been engaged in reaching conclusions that did not tally with actualities, and in leading its devotees to persecute those who accepted facts rather than its ultimatum. It is this that has fostered more persecution in the past than all other forms of bigotry combined. Even religion herself has often fallen a prey to this false god, and the most relentless of religious wars have been waged with a logical difference as a basis.

Nevertheless, pure logic has its use. I have used it to prove that "Dodd" Weaver did not spring from groveling to grace without some set-backs, I have done obeisance to logic. I can now move on peaceably, I trust.

Mr. Bright made a point with "Dodd" by his quick discovery of the boy's genius with the chalk. In a few days he scored another, when he found how well he could read. Indeed, it was here the teacher and pupil first felt their souls flow together freely, for an instant.

It was the old "Sam Weller's Valentine" selection that the class was laboring with. The boys and girls tugged at the dialogue, but in the main got little from it.

It came "Dodd's" turn to read. He had taken in the whole scene and was full of the spirit of the piece. His place of beginning was at the words with which "Sam" begins his letter, and, commencing there, he read, assuming a high-pitched voice:

"Lovely creeter!"

The school broke out into a laugh, as did also Mr. Bright. "Dodd" raised his eyes for an instant to catch the cause of their mirth, only to meet the approving smile of the teacher, and the slightest nod of admiration from him. He flushed with a glow of wholesome pride, and the next instant shouted, in the deep, husky guttural of "Old Tony":

"Stop! A glass o' the inwariable, my dear!" and so he continued with the dialogue.

It was a revelation to the school, this reading of "Dodd's." After the first floating breath of laughter had passed over the room, every pupil was full of attention, and was listening to the reading of this proverbially bad boy.

"Dodd" read to the end of the letter and then sat down.

Mr. Bright said, "Very well!" and marked him 9 1/2! The two walked home to dinner together, at noon!

For many weeks after this "Dodd" continued as he had begun, and grew in favor with the pupils in general and with Mr. Bright in particular. He came regularly to school, studied fairly, and advanced quite rapidly in his work. This was very satisfactory to his parents, who saw their son, whom they had mourned as worse than dead, once more "clothed and in his right mind." The Elder was happy and felt that at last the personal influence of one good man had done for "Dodd" what a half dozen revival conversions had failed to do for him. Perhaps he did not say it just that way, even to himself; but we often hear voices within us saying things that we dare not say ourselves, even to ourselves. It was a voice within that said this to the parson. I merely record the fact without further comment. Why should anyone comment on such a fact?

But there came a day—there are always days a-coming. There came, too, a deed, and there are always deeds a-coming. It was in this wise.

School had just begun, after dinner, when suddenly "Dodd" Weaver arose to leave the room. There was nothing remarkable in this, for it was not unlawful for pupils to leave Mr. Bright's room without special permission. They were permitted to come and go at pleasure, subject, always, to the direction of the teacher in each or every case.

Mr. Bright did not notice the young man till he had nearly reached the door; then, suddenly, it occurred to him that there was no good reason for his going out.

"Why are you leaving the room, 'Dodd'?" he inquired, a trifle abruptly.

"To get a drink of water," returned the boy.

"You need not go," remarked Mr. Bright. "A young man of your years should attend to that at the proper time. You may take your seat!"

It was a little thing, but it was so sudden that it "riled" "Dodd" to the very depths. Quick as a flash he returned:

"I'll go out whenever I —— please for all of you, you —— —— —— ——," and here followed a string of blasphemous words which good taste says I must not write, though the truth is, "Dodd" said them, very loudly, before a whole school full of young ladies and gentlemen, who had to hear them. But then, good taste has some rights which I am bound to respect, and I put dashes where "Dodd" put most shameful oaths.

If a thunderbolt had fallen into that still school-room it would not have produced greater consternation among the pupils than did these words of "Dodd's." He turned pale with anger, and glared at Mr. Bright, as he, "Dodd," stood with his hand on the doorknob.

"All right;" returned Mr. Bright, "do just as the 'Other-Fellow' says about it," and he turned to his class again.

"Dodd" stood with his hand on the doorknob for a full minute, then turned, and slowly walking to his seat, sat down! But Mr. Bright did not even look that way.

And this was all there ever was of this episode. Mr. Bright never once mentioned the occurrence to "Dodd" afterwards. He did not even reprimand him before the school nor did he speak to any pupil of what had happened. He had won, and yet the odds were so nearly against him that be felt it best to be silent. This might not have been your way, beloved, but it was Mr. Bright's way, and he was able to manage it.

Some months thereafter, he had occasion one day to reprove a rough pupil for profanity on the play-ground, and the pupil came back at him with: "You'd better talk to 'Dodd' Weaver about swearing if you are so anxious about it. He cursed you to your face and you didn't say a word." But Mr. Bright only replied: "That is my affair, but you must not swear on the play-ground. Do you understand?"

The young man concluded that he understood, and said so.

And that is how this teacher was perhaps logically inconsistent, but nevertheless just, and able to take care of his school according to the individual needs of his pupils. Happy is that teacher who can do so much!

But the machine cannot do so much, nor can the men who run the machine. The machine is logically correct and consistent, according to the laws of the Medes and Persians. It "treats all pupils alike." Allah be praised! Yet a single man like Mr. Bright is worth whole battalions of machines. Thank God!

I must take space, just here, too, to explain a phrase quoted by Mr. Bright, just above, namely, the "Other-Fellow."

The quotation marks are there in deference to Dr. Holmes, who is responsible for the idea that Mr. Bright had made familiar in his school. That idea was as follows, when elaborated by this teacher, and was presented to his pupils on a Monday morning, a few weeks after "Dodd" had entered school. I give this as Mr. Bright paraphrased it, rather than in the words of the "Old Master" in the "Poet at the Breakfast Table," where he first came across it.

"Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes says," Mr. Bright remarked to the school, "that in every one of us there are two persons. First, there is yourself, and then there is the Other-Fellow! Now one of these is all the time doing things, and the other sits inside and tells what he thinks about the performance. Thus, I do so-and-so, act so-and-so, seem to the world so-and-so; but the Other-Fellow sits in judgment on me all the time.

"I may tell a lie, and do it so cleverly that the people may think I have done or said a great and good thing; and they may shout my praises, far and wide. But the Other-Fellow sits inside, and says, 'You lie! you lie! you're a sneak, and you know it!' I tell him to shut up, to hear what the people say about me; but he only continues to repeat, over and over again, 'You lie! you lie! you're a sneak, and you know it!'

"Or, again, I may do a really noble deed, but perhaps be misunderstood by the public, who may persecute me and say all manner of evil against me, falsely; but the Other-Fellow will sit inside, and say, 'Never mind, old boy! It's all right! stand by!'

"And I would rather hear," he used to add, "the 'well done' of the 'Other-Fellow' than the shouts of praise of the whole world; while I would a thousand times rather that the people should shout and hiss themselves hoarse with rage and envy, than that the 'Other-Fellow' should sit inside and say, 'You lie! you lie! you're a sneak, and you know it!'"

This was what Mr. Bright said to his pupils on a Monday morning, and it made a wonderful impression upon them. The same thought always will make an impression upon people if only it can be got to them.

After this, he let the "Other-Fellow" manage his school. You can see how effective it was, my dear, by observing what it did for "Dodd," as I have just related. It was even more powerful, if possible, with the other pupils.

I commend this "Other-Fellow" to your notice, ladies and gentlemen, and especially to yours, beloved, who are teachers of young men and women. You can't use him to so good an advantage among the younger pupils, but if you can once get him to take control of your larger boys and girls, you have put them into most excellent hands.

For, see; he will ply the lash when it is deserved, and lay on heavily where you would hardly dare to lift a finger. Does Mary whisper too much? Quietly ask her to settle the score with the "Other-Fellow." Is John doing something that he should not do? Hand him over to the same authority. And if you can do this, and can succeed in making this personage the Absolute Monarch of your school, whose assistant you are, then be happy, and teach school just as long as you can afford to. You are a god-send to any company of young people among whom your lot is cast.

But if you are a stranger to the "Other-Fellow" yourself, don't try to introduce him to any one else. It is not well for strangers to attempt familiarities, yet I have known such attempts, even in the school room, and by those high in authority, even among the machines.

But Mr. Bright had succeeded in putting this personage into his school as head master, and he had wrought wonders, even in so hard a case as that of "Dodd" Weaver. His presence in any school will always work as it did in this case. It takes a man or a woman of character to use this power, though!



CHAPTER XIV.

I most heartily wish that I could go on with this tale without recording any further lapses on the part of its alleged hero, but I can't. The facts in the case will not warrant such a continuation.

Nor do I admit that it was "Dodd's" Methodist blood that occasioned these fallings from grace. I have known men, women and boys, and whole herds of other people besides, even those who were firm believers in the tenet "Once in grace, always in grace," who yet had their "infirmities" about them, and whose feet still clung to the miry clay, though they did think their heads were in heavenly places!

On the whole, after observing human nature pretty closely for some time, even till gray hairs are with me to stay, I am inclined to believe, with Mr. Emerson, that "Virtue itself is apt to be occasional, spotty, and not always the same clear through the piece." This may be another case where facts do not tally with logical conclusions based upon dogmatic theological reasoning. Yet if the fact is thus, my dear reader, you need not be alarmed, so far as you are concerned. Ask yourself if it isn't true, in your case, at least, that you have slipped down from the lofty places of your desire and aspiration many a time, even when you have done your best to keep in your high estate. Human nature! That is the key to this condition. How to handle this unstable quantity so as to keep it up continually, this is a problem for the ages.

So "Dodd" slipped again, just as such boys are continually apt to do, and Mr. Bright bore with him patiently, and "worked him," as a wise teacher can and will.

The machine cannot and will not bear with boys and "work them." It "suspends" them and "expels" them.

The "Other-Fellow" held "Dodd" to his work for days and weeks, but, finally, even this power lost its grip, for a time.

It happened—as such things usually do, when the teacher is doubly busy—that "Dodd" began whittling a stick at his desk and covering the floor all about with the litter, in a most shameful and slovenly manner. Mr. Bright discovered the fact just as he was in the midst of a class exercise in which twenty pupils were taking part, all being at the board at the same time and working together under pressure of his rapid dictation. He had no time to stop then and there to put a pupil into order. He was flushed and excited with his class work, holding his boys and girls up to the vigorous drill he was giving them, and he scarcely paused to say to "Dodd":

"Put up that knife and go to work!"

He did not wait to see it he was obeyed. He had not time.

The next act of "Dodd's" that he was conscious of was his opening the door to leave the room. He saw at once that this move was made simply to kill time, and to get rid of study, and as "Dodd" was in the very act of closing the door behind him, Mr. Bright called out to him:

"Come back and take your seat!"

But "Dodd's" only answer was to slam the door as hard as he could and dash down stairs, three steps at a jump.

Mr. Bright rushed out after him at the top of his speed. In his haste to make time, and catch the fugitive, if possible, he revived a custom of his youth and slid down the banister, making the time of an arrow in his descent.

Then he ran out of the hall, in still further pursuit.

But he was too late. He ran around the house, but at the corner he lost the trail, and though he circled the building three times, and listened, and dodged back and forth, to surprise "Dodd" if possible, he could get no clue to his whereabouts. He went into the cellar and looked all about, peering into the furnace-room and coal-bin, but nowhere could he find the crafty object of his search. Finally he gave up and returned to the school room. He came in out of breath and perspiring, and met the inquiring eyes of his pupils as he went back to his desk.

"I could not find him," he said to the school, wiping his dripping face with his handkerchief. Then he turned to the class on duty and resumed the exercise he had broken off so abruptly.

I do not know what would have happened if Mr. Bright and "Dodd" had met in the heat of this encounter. It is useless to speculate on what would have occurred. Some of the boys, waiting in the room they had just left, offered to bet two to one on the master if it came to business. And, indeed, there were no takers at that, for Mr. Bright had a prowess which would have stood him well in stead if he had had occasion to use it. But he did not. I am glad that he did not.

Because, it is at such times as this that men get beside themselves, and are apt to do desperate things. I have known men who had to go behind bars and stay there for many years because they did meet the man they were after, under much such circumstances as I have just detailed. I remarked a few paragraphs above something about virtue being "occasional," and we have all need to pray, "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

But Fate, or Foreordination, or Good Fortune, or Destiny, or Providence, or Luck, whichever one of these presided on this occasion,—suit yourselves as to this, O infidel or orthodox! capitalize them all, since some of you will have it so—elected that these two people should not meet till they had both cooled off a little. I hope these same powers may be as kind to you if you ever have a like need of their good offices. Many a man has been made or broken by the smile or frown of one of these deities which are so entirely beyond our control, and which still make so important a part of our lives. I state facts again, without further moralizing. Indeed, I could not moralize on this theme if I tried. I don't know any one who can, though the world is full of people who constantly try to. They all fail. The mystery is as great now as it was in the days when Eve happened to walk up to the tree where the serpent and the apples happened to be together. One should take off his hat when he speaks seriously of these things. They are stupendous!

Nor should you blame Mr. Bright too much for doing as he did. Hear the story out before you pass judgment. He was only a man. You are under the same condemnation, my self-contained critic!

I will admit without argument, however, that the machine would never have slid down a banister in pursuit of a fleeing pupil. Never! It never concerns itself enough about the doings of any individual pupil to follow him an inch for any cause whatever. The machine would have sat still and let the boy run. Then it would have suspended him the next morning and expelled him a few days later. The machine always has regular ways of doing things. It has all the rules for its movements set down in a book.

But Mr. Bright was very anxious about "Dodd" Weaver. When he came to reflect, he was glad that he had not met him while in pursuit of him. Yet the question remained, what should be done when they did meet? He thought about this, deep down in his soul, all the rest of the morning. When noon came he was as much as ever at a loss how to proceed. One of the worst features of the case, as he thought about it, was this: "Dodd" had been going to school to him now a year and a half, and he had begun to think that he had a permanent hold upon the boy. But here it was again, back in the same old notch, and as bad as ever. It does take so long to make anything permanent in the way of character! You have found it so yourself, haven't you, beloved? In your own case, I mean.

But on his way home to dinner Mr. Bright saw Mrs. Weaver out in the yard, and remembering how much a mother may sometimes do for her son, he went over and took her into counsel on the case. The machine would not have done this either.

It is a rule of the mill not to consult with parents. If parents wish consultation, let them talk to a stack of examination papers, or a record-book. This will soon cure them of their desire to consult.

Mrs. Weaver heard Mr. Bright's statement with tear-filled eyes. She had seen "Dodd" improve in every line of his life, for some months, and had begun to form bright plans for the future of her redeemed first-born. But, alas! here seemed to be the end of all her hopes. However, she tried to apologize for her son, and, in any event, she begged Mr. Bright not to give "Dodd" up yet. But the master shook his head gravely.

"And another thing," pursued Mrs. Weaver, "I think it will be best not to let 'Dodd's' father know anything about this. He is such a passionate man that I am sure he would fly into a rage and attempt to beat the boy if he should find it out. And he and 'Dodd' are so much alike! If they should get into a quarrel, I fear that one might kill the other before they could be parted."

Yet these persons were father and son, and one of them was a successful minister and a devout man—most of the time,

"You see," Mrs. Weaver continued, "that my husband has such a high opinion of you as a man, and he knows that you have done so much for 'Dodd,' that if he should find out how abominably the boy has treated you, he would be ten times more angry than ever. So let us keep the matter to ourselves, if possible. I will see 'Dodd' as soon as he comes home, and will try what I can do. And if prayer, or—"

"There, there," broke in Mr. Bright, quietly, as the brimming eyes of the woman before him began to overflow, "do what you can with the boy, and I will not give him up till I have to;" and so saying, he went on to dinner.

But in a country town news travels fast. As soon as school was out at noon, three-score tongues were busy retailing the mild scandal to attentive listeners, whenever met.

Parson Weaver sat in the postoffice, reading a "daily" that had just arrived, when a boy came in, and not noticing the Elder, began to tell the tale to the knot of men who stood about. They heard the story through, with many "I-told-you-so" nods, and then, one by one, slipped out of the office. Last of all Parson Weaver went also.

He went straight to Mr. Bright's house and pulled the door bell impetuously.

The teacher admitted him, and began immediately to try to soothe the infuriated feelings of the parson, who was really very angry.

"I hope the matter may come out all right," said the teacher, "for I trust that 'Dodd' will see things as they are, when he comes to himself."

"Tell me just what happened," said the parson, with a kind of desperation.

Mr. Bright carefully went over the particulars. When he had finished, he added:

"I shall be very grateful to you for anything you can do to help us all out of this dilemma and get 'Dodd' on his feet again. For what we must do, in any event, is to save the boy."

"I shall do all in my power," returned Mr. Weaver, "but I thought he was doing so well with you, and now he is all at sea again," and with a groan he left the house.

Mr. Bright sat down to dinner and ate a few hurried mouthfuls.

He had just risen from his slight repast, when a twin Weaver burst into the room and shouted out:

"Pap wants you to come over to the house as quick as you kin," and having thus said, he turned and ran.

Mr. Bright remembered the words of "Dodd's" mother, and he feared that father and son had closed in deadly conflict. He hurried down the street, and made all haste toward the parsonage.



CHAPTER XV.

When Parson Weaver left Mr. Bright's house he went directly home. "Dodd" was there before him, and when the elder arrived he found the boy and his mother together, both apparently indignant and excited.

"To think that he should have struck you over the head with a stick," exclaimed Mrs. Weaver, "and then should have the face to come here and trump up a story about your running away! I always did more than half suspect that man of lying, and I have found him out now!"

"Why, what is this?" inquired the parson, with a puzzled look.

"Mr. Bright has been striking 'Dodd' over the head with a stick," explained Mrs. Weaver; "just see where he hit him!" She pushed the hair back off her son's forehead as she spoke, and revealed a long red streak, made, apparently, by a blow from some solid substance.

Elder Weaver was dumbfounded. "Tell me all about this affair," he demanded of "Dodd," as he led the way to another room, leaving Mrs. Weaver to go on with her housework.

"All there is of it," answered "Dodd," "Old Bright gave me some of his lip because I couldn't do an example, and when I tried to explain he got mad and hit me over the head with a club, and so I got up and left."

"Is that the actual truth of the matter?" asked the elder, anxiously.

"You don't think I'd lie about a thing like that, do you?" said "Dodd." "You can see where he hit me," he proceeded, himself revealing the welt on his forehead.

This mark was too much for the good parson. He might have doubted "Dodd's" word, but there was no disputing the mark.

Now a welt raised by a teacher on the body of a child will drive that child's parents to madness quicker than anything that I know of. The elder grew very angry, and resolved to see the end of this as soon as possible. Calling a younger member of the household to him he whispered in his ear:

"Run up to Prof. Bright's as fast as you can, and tell him to come down here as quick as possible." He would bring "Dodd" and his teacher face to face, and then see.

It was this messenger that had brought the teacher to the parsonage on the double-quick.

"Dodd" saw his little brother shoot out of the door, and he was in a worse dilemma than ever. Whether to run, or to stay and face it out; to lie some more, or to confess the lie he had already told; these were the things he grew more and more anxious about every minute. But presently he caught sight of his teacher hurrying down the street, and almost before he knew it he said:

"It's all a lie I've been giving you, old man! Bright never hit me a lick!"

"But the mark!" almost shrieked the parson.

"I done it myself," explained "Dodd," laconically, "to give you and the old woman a stand off with!"

It was just as "Dodd" said this that Mr. Bright opened the door and entered the room. "Dodd" was seated near one corner, and his father, having just heard from the boy's own lips a full confession of his wholesale lying, began raving like a maniac. He swung his arms wildly, weeping and shouting as he strode about the room:

"My son! my son! Would to God that you had filled an early grave, or that I had died for thee! O, my son! my son!" and uttering such lamentations he continued to rave.

"Why, what is this?" exclaimed Mr. Bright, rather at a loss to know just what to say or do.

"O professor," almost yelled the parson, "my boy has lied to me! lied to me!! lied to me!!!" and again he paced the room and tore his hair.

Coming around again to where Mr. Bright stood, he went on: "He told me that you struck him with a club, and showed me a mark on his head where he said you had hit him, and then, when I sent for you, and he saw you coming, he confessed that it was all a lie! a lie!! a lie!!! O, my God, my boy! my lost, my ruined boy! A liar!" he shrieked again. "In hell they shall lift up their eyes in torm—"

"Stop!" commanded Mr. Bright, confronting the almost lunatic parson; "stop raving and sit down, and let us talk about this business like sensible people," and he led Mr. Weaver to a chair as he spoke.

"Now 'Dodd,'" said Mr. Bright, speaking to the boy for the first time since he had called him back in the school room, "tell me about this."

"Dodd" hesitated a minute, eyeing his teacher defiantly, and finally grumbled:

"I have not got anything to tell."

At this the parson came very near going off into another paroxysm, but a look from Mr. Bright checked him, and be sank back into his chair, almost in collapse.

Then Mr. Bright spoke, directing all his attention to "Dodd."

"My boy," he said, "it is useless for either of us to go over what has been said and done in the last hour or two. I need not tell, nor need I ask you to tell, how thoroughly outrageous your conduct has been. But I want to say this to you right here: I want you to steady yourself right down as soon as you can and get to thinking reasonably about this matter. There is only one thing that I am afraid of in this affair, and that is that it will result in great loss to you, if you are not careful. You have insulted your fellow students, you have defied the reasonable authority of the school, and you have lied to your parents. I don't care anything about what you have done to me, or said about me—let that go; but I do care about the other things, and I am anxious to have you make them right as soon as possible, before it is too late."

You know, good people, that when a bone is broken, the thing that needs to be done is to set it as soon as possible; if it is left out of place very long, it is ten times as hard to put it right again as it would have been at first, and, even if set at last, it is apt to grow together imperfectly, or perhaps make a crooked limb ever after. The sooner a fault is redressed, the better for all parties to it.

"So now I have this to say to you," Mr. Bright went on:

"I don't want you to drop out of school on account of this occurrence. This is what you are in danger of doing, and it is the very thing you ought not to do. You have been doing well in your work for a good while now, and you can't afford to let this affair break you off."

"Well, I guess it won't hurt anybody but myself, and that is my own business," said "Dodd" sulkily.

Off, away off as yet. Drawn, but unwilling to come. Seeing, knowing what he should do, but, ruled by some rebellious devil, persistently turning away and doing the other thing. It is the way of perverse human nature. Call it "total depravity," "original sin," "infirmity," "the natural man," I don't care what, only this—recognize the condition and deal with it, when you come squarely up against it, so that it will not ruin its victim.

"The very thing I am fearing," returned Mr. Bright. "In one sense it is nobody's business but your own what becomes of you; in another sense, it is the business of a great many. Young man, I tell you again to get out of your present defiant mood as soon as you can. I know that your life for the past few months has had more of genuine enjoyment for you than you have experienced for years previous to this time. I don't say this boastfully, I say it thankfully. And what I am anxious for is to have you keep going in the same way. Just think it over, and see what there is before you. On the one hand, a return to your place in school, and with that a continuation of all that you have so much cared for; on the other hand—but I leave that for you to think out. There are two ways right here, and you must choose which one you will take."

"Well, what have I got to do if I go back?" asked "Dodd," yielding ever so little.

"You must apologize to the school for your conduct and pledge to your fellow students your word of honor that hereafter you will behave like a gentleman."

"Dodd" gave his head an angry toss and was about to speak when the parson sprang to his feet, and, rushing across the room, shouted:

"He shall do it, or I will disown him, and he shall never enter my house again, but shall be—"

"Sit down, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Bright, almost forcing the distracted parson into his chair. Mr. Weaver sat down and was silent.

Mr. Bright proceeded:

"So now, my boy, here it is for you to choose, and you must use your own judgment about it." But "Dodd" looked down and said nothing.

It was a critical moment. A soul was at stake, and fiends and angels were striving together for it. Mr. Bright was the captain of the heavenly host, and devoutly he stood, waiting the issue.

There are no rules laid down in the machine guide books that lead up to this high estate, nor does the machine manager care so much for marshaling angelic forces as he does about controlling the election of a member of the board from the —th ward.

As Mr. Bright spoke his last words a silence fell upon the group. The father sat with his hands over his face, "Dodd" gazed at the carpet, and the school teacher bowed his head reverently. For nearly a minute this impressive calm brooded over all. Then Mr. Bright felt in his soul that the tide was turned in his favor. He advanced towards "Dodd" and extended his hand.

"Come!" he said.

The boy did not raise his eyes, but he did lift his hand, just a little—only a little—and Mr. Bright grasped it with all the fervor of his thankful soul. He drew "Dodd" towards him, and he arose, hesitatingly. They walked out of the room hand in hand, nor did they break their clasp till they reached the school-room. When people are too weak or too timid to go alone they musk be led; yes, sometimes they must be carried! But, led or carried, the point always to keep in mind is this, that the nearly dead are to be made alive again, the lost are to be found.

And this is the test that must be set over against all systems and institutions that have to deal with unformed characters. The everlasting question must be put again and again, does this, that or the other save, find, restore, or benefit the individuals that come under its influence? Whatever does this, is good; whatever fails to do this is not good. It is fair to ask what the machine does in this regard!



CHAPTER XVI.

It was a trying time for both "Dodd" and Mr. Bright as they walked together, hand in hand, towards the school-house. The trouble was that neither of them could say anything. Mr. Bright felt that words might only mar the matter, and "Dodd" was too busy thinking of what was just before him, to say a word. The master realized the situation, and counted their steps, almost, as they walked along.