Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute

“But you eat it!”

Wilkins had already swallowed his third spoonful.

“I don’t want to starve,” answered Wilkins, significantly. “You’ll get used to it in time.”

Hector tried to dispose of a second spoonful, but he had to give it up. At home he was accustomed to a luxurious table, and this meal seemed to be a mere mockery. Yet he felt hungry. So he took up the piece of bread at the side of his plate, and, though it was dry, he succeeded in eating it.

By this time his left-hand neighbor, a boy named Colburn, had finished his soup. He looked longingly at Hector’s almost untasted plate.

“Ain’t you going to eat your soup?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper

“No.”

“Give it to me?”

“Yes.”

In a trice, Colburn had appropriated Hector’s plate and put his own empty one in its place. Just after this transfer had been made, Mr. Smith looked over to where Hector was sitting. He observed the empty plate, and said to himself: “That new boy has been gorging himself. He must have a terrible appetite. Well, that’s one good thing, he ain’t dainty. Some boys turn up their noses at plain, wholesome diet. I didn’t know but he might.”

Presently the hand bell rang again, and the soup plates were removed. In their places were set dinner plates, containing a small section each of corned beef, with a consumptive-looking potato, very probably “soggy.” At any rate, this was the case with Hector’s. He succeeded in eating the meat, but not the potato.

“Give me your potato?” asked his left-hand neighbor.

“Yes.”

It was quickly appropriated. Hector looked with some curiosity at the boy who did so much justice to boarding-school fare. He was a thin, pale boy, who looked as if he had been growing rapidly, as, indeed, he had. This, perhaps, it was that stimulated his appetite. Afterward Hector asked him if he really liked his meals.

“No,” he said; “they’re nasty.”

He was an English boy, which accounted for his use of the last word.

“You eat them as if you liked them,” remarked Hector.

“I’m so hungry,” apologized Colburn, mournfully. “I’m always hungry. I eat to fill up, not ‘cause I like it. I could eat anything.”

“I believe he could,” said Wilkins, who overheard this conversation. “Could you eat fried cat, now?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Colburn, honestly. “There would be something hearty and filling about fried cat. I ain’t half full now.”

It was just after dinner.

Hector might have said the same thing at the end of his first dinner. There was, indeed, another course. It consisted of some pale, flabby apple pie, about half baked. The slices given were about half the size of those that are ordinarily supplied at private tables and restaurants. Hector managed to eat the apple, but the crust he was obliged to leave. He noticed, however, that his fellow pupils were not so fastidious.

When the last fragment of pie had disappeared, Mr. Smith again rang the hand bell.

“Boys,” he said, “we have now satisfied our appetites.”

“I haven’t,” thought Hector.

“We have once more experienced the bountiful goodness of Providence in supplying our material wants. As we sit down to our plain but wholesome diet, I wonder how many of us are sensible of our good fortune. I wonder how many of us think of the thousands of poor children, scattered about the world, who know not where to get their daily bread. You have been refreshed, and have reinforced your strength; you will soon be ready to resume your studies, and thus, also, take in a supply of mental food, for, as you are all aware, or ought to be aware, the mind needs to be fed as well as the body. There will first be a short season for games and out-of-door amusements. Mr. Crabb, will you accompany the boys to the playground and superintend their sports?”

Mr. Crabb also had participated in the rich feast, and rose with the same unsatisfied but resigned look which characterized the rest. He led the way to the playground, and the boys trooped after him.

“Really, Wilkins,” said Hector, in a low tone, “this is getting serious. Isn’t there any place outside where one can get something to eat?”

“There’s a baker’s half a mile away, but you can’t go till after afternoon session.”

“Show me the way there, then, and I’ll buy something for both of us.”

“All right,” said Wilkins, brightening up.

“By the way, I didn’t see Jim Smith at the table.”

“No; he eats with his uncle and aunt afterward. You noticed that old Sock didn’t eat just now.”

“Yes, I wondered at it.”

“He has something a good deal better afterward. He wouldn’t like our dinner any better than we did; but he is better off, for he needn’t eat it.”

“So Jim fares better than the rest of us, does he?”

“Yes, he’s one of the family, you know.”

Just then pleasant fumes were wafted to the boys’ nostrils, and they saw through the open window, with feelings that cannot well be described, a pair of roast chickens carried from the kitchen to the dining-room.

“See what old Sock and Ma’am Sock are going to have for dinner?” said Wilkins, enviously.

“I don’t like to look at it. It is too tantalizing,” said Hector.

CHAPTER XI. HECTOR RECEIVES A SUMMONS

It so happened that Hector was well provided with money. During the life of Mr. Roscoe, whom he regarded as his father, he had a liberal allowance—liberal beyond his needs—and out of it had put by somewhat over a hundred dollars. The greater part of this was deposited for safe-keeping in a savings bank, but he had twenty-five dollars in his possession.

At the time he was saving his money, he regarded himself as the heir and future possessor of the estate, and had no expectation of ever needing it. It had been in his mind that it would give him an opportunity of helping, out of his private funds, any deserving poor person who might apply to him. When the unexpected revelation had been made to him that he had no claim to the estate, he was glad that he was not quite penniless. He did not care to apply for money to Allan Roscoe. It would have been a confession of dependence, and very humiliating to him.

No sooner was school out, than he asked Wilkins to accompany him to the baker’s, that he might make up for the deficiencies of Mr. Smith’s meager table.

“I suppose, if I guide you, you’ll stand treat, Roscoe?” said Wilkins.

“Of course.”

“Then let us go,” said his schoolfellow, with alacrity. “I’d like to get the taste of that beastly dinner out of my mouth.”

They found the baker’s, but close beside it was a restaurant, where more substantial fare could be obtained.

“Wilkins,” said Hector, “I think I would rather have a plate of meat.”

“All right! I’m with you.”