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

“I’ll show him!” he said to himself. “Tomorrow he’ll be singing a different tune, or I am mistaken.”

This was the way Jim had been accustomed to break in refractory new arrivals. The logic of his fist usually proved a convincing argument, and thus far his supremacy had never been successfully resisted. He was confident that he would not be interfered with. Secretly, his Uncle Socrates sympathized with him, and relished the thought that his nephew, who so strongly resembled him in mind and person, should be the undisputed boss—to use a word common in political circles—of the school. He discreetly ignored the conflicts which he knew took place, and if any luckless boy, the victim of Jim’s brutality, ventured to appeal to him, the boy soon found that he himself was arraigned, and not the one who had abused him.

“Where’s that new boy?” asked Jim, as he left the schoolroom.

He had not seen our hero’s departure—but his ready tool, Bates, had.

“I saw him sneaking off with Wilkins,” said Bates.

“Where did they go?”

“To the Village, I guess.”

“They seemed to be in a hurry,” said Jim, with a sneer.

“They wanted to get out of your way—that is, the new boy did,” suggested Bates.

Jim nodded.

“Likely he did,” he answered. “So he went to the village, did he?”

“Yes; I saw him.”

“Well, he’s put it off a little. That boy’s cranky. I’m goin’ to give him a lesson he won’t forget very soon.”

“So you will, so you will, Jim,” chuckled Bates.

“That’s the way I generally take down these boys that put on airs,” said Jim, complacently. “This Roscoe’s the worst case I’ve had yet. So Wilkins went off with him, did he?”

“Yes; I saw them go off together.”

“I’ll have to give Wilkins a little reminder, then. It won’t be safe to take up with them that defy me. I’ll just give him a kick to help his memory.”

“He won’t like that much, oh, my!” chuckled Bates.

“When you see them coming, Bates, go and tell Roscoe I want to see him,” said Jim, with the air of an autocrat.

“All right, Jim,” said Bates, obediently.

So he went on his errand, and we know what success he met with.

CHAPTER XII. THE IMPENDING CONFLICT

Jim Smith stood leaning indolently against a post, when his emissary, Bates, returned from his errand. He was experiencing “that stern joy” which bullies feel just before an encounter with a foeman inferior in strength, whom they expect easily to master. Several of the boys were near by—sycophantic followers of Jim, who were enjoying in advance the rumpus they expected. I am afraid schoolboys do not always sympathize with the weaker side. In the present instance, there was hardly a boy who had not at some time or other felt the weight of Jim’s fist, and, as there is an old saying that “misery loves company,” it was not, perhaps, a matter of wonder that they looked forward with interest to seeing another suffer the same ill-treatment which they had on former occasions received!

Presently Bates came back.

Jim looked over his head for the boy whom he expected to see in his company.

“Where’s the new boy?” he demanded, with a frown.

“He won’t come.”

“Won’t come?” repeated Jim, with an ominous frown. “Did you tell him I wanted him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what did he say?”

“That if you wanted to see him, you could come to him.”

All the boys regarded each other with looks of surprise. Was it possible that any boy in Smith Institute could have the boldness to send such a message to Jim! Most of all, Jim was moved by such a bold defiance of his authority. For the moment, he could not think of any adequate terms in which to express his feelings.

“Did the new boy say that?” he asked, hoarsely.

“Yes, he did.”

Jim nodded his head vigorously two or three times.

“You fellows,” he said, appealing to the boys around him, “did you ever hear such impudence?”

“No!” “Never!” exclaimed the boys in concert, Bates being the loudest and most emphatic.

“I have never been so insulted since I was at the institute,” said Jim, again looking about him for a confirmation of his statement.

“It’s because he’s a new boy. He don’t understand,” suggested one.

“That’s no excuse,” said Jim, sternly. “He needn’t think I’ll let him off on that account.”

“Of course not,” answered Bates.

“What would you advise me to do, boys?” asked Jim, with the air of a monarch asking the opinion of his counselors.

“Thrash him till he can’t stand!” said the subservient Bates. He was always ready to go farther than anyone else in supporting and defending the authority of the tyrant of the playground.

“Bates, you are right. I shall follow your advice,” said Jim. “Where is the young reprobate?”

“He is over in Carver’s field.”

“Is anyone with him?”

“Yes, Wilkins.”

“Ha! Wilkins and I will have an account to settle. If he is going to side with this young rascal he must take the consequences. So, he’s over in the field, is he? What’s he doing?”

“I think he was going to walk down to the brook.”

Carver’s field was a tract, several acres in extent, of pasture land, sloping down to one corner, where a brook trickled along quietly. Here three large trees were located, under whose spreading branches the boys, in the intervals of study, used often to stretch themselves for a chat or engage in some schoolboy games, such as nimble peg or quoits. The owner of the field was an easy-going man, who did not appear to be troubled by the visits of the boys, as long as they did not maltreat the peaceful cows who gathered their subsistence from the scanty grass that grew there.