Preface of Tom Playfair or Making a Start. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maria Therese, Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S.J. Preface. The vicissitudes of the Tom Playfair manuscript but alone make a story. How it was written over seven years ago for the sake of a college class and with no ulterior thought of publication. How portions of it gradually found their way into print. How the writer hesitated for years whether to consign the remaining parts to the book publisher or to the wastebasket. How the cordial reception of Percy Winn and the kind words concerning Tom Playfair from critics and from readers inspired him to make the venerable manuscript done at all manners of odd times in lead pencil and ink upon all sorts and conditions of paper from his trunk and subsequently devote no small part of his vacation days, July, August 1891, to his revival. How the valued advice and kind words of literary friends served him in the revision. Are not all these things indelibly impressed upon the author's memory? And now he ventures to offer the story to the boys and girls of the land and hope that it may afford them healthful pleasure. Advancing the figure learningly started hysterome proterian from sentences to volumes. He has published Percy Winn first, although Percy's adventures are subsequent to Tom's. The reason for this procedure may be gathered from what has been said of the Tom Playfair manuscript. St. Maurus is a pseudonym for a certain college in the West. Besides inventing incidents, the author to suit his purpose has on occasion taken liberties with the local surroundings, but in the main he has adhered to the prototype. It is almost needless to say that the real college never suffered from the effects of a thunderbolt. In fact, the cupula upon which turns a catastrophe recorded in these pages was erected not by an architect, but by a few strokes of the pen. Near this western college there is a village, a thriving happy community. This village, the author has eliminated from these stories. The village of St. Maurus, which takes its place, is a fiction. And drawing with certain necessary reserves upon his three years experience at this western college, the author has, perhaps, made too little of one striking feature, the manly piety of the students. In all his experiences there, he could count upon his fingers those who, while in attendance, had evidently changed for the worse, and they remarked exceptions. It is hard upon seven years since the writer last saw St. Maurus. Then it was just on this side of its pioneer days. Now it is a college with a history of which it may well be proud. The old church building, the little boys dormitory and washroom, the long load frame structure used as an infirmary are gone. New and nobler piles have arisen in their place, so the college of today, as Pagate remarked, I believe, of her nephew, Ham, has grown out of knowledge, and yet the sweep spirit of faith and prayer has abided unchanged amid all changes. The author has not seen these changes he has blessed in believing, nor can he doubt, aside from all testimony, that the same spirit pervades them all. The dial, a college paper conducted by the students, reaches him every month, and he can read it in the lines and between the lines. So the college of today and the college of seven years ago are one in that closest and most sacred of moral unions, a true devout Catholic spirit. Francis J. Thin S.J. October 19th, 1891. End of Preface, recording by Maria Therese. Chapter 1 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Thin S.J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese. Chapter 1, in which the hero of the story is represented in a doubtful light. Tommy, no answer. Tommy, do you hear me? Get up this moment, sir. Do you think the South is a hotel? Everyone's at breakfast except yourself. Miss Meadow, Tom Playfair's maternal aunt, stood without the door of Master Playfair's sleeping apartment. She paused for a moment partly to gain her breath, having come up three pairs of stairs to arouse Tom, and partly to await some reply from our sleeping hero. The silence, however, was simply emphasized by the ticking of the great clock in the hall. Tommy, she rejoomed at length in a hierarchy. Do you hear me? Her strained ears caught the dull sound as of someone turning lazily in his bed. Now you're awake, sir. Jump right up and dress for your breakfast. Shoo! Scat! came a yawning voice from the room.  The boy doesn't mind me in the least. What's the trouble, Jane? Great Mr. Playfair, who Justin issued from his room. I can't get that Tommy out of bed. He's growing worse every day, George. Last week he was late for school five times. I'll fix that, Jane, to Mr. Playfair. And he took one step toward Tom's sleeping room when the door of that apartment opened a few inches, discovering a young face peering anxiously from beneath a mass of tangled hair. Pa said the apparition, I'm dressing just as fast as I know how. I heard you, Auntie, and I'm coming right away. Then the door closed. Tom, it must be explained, had been composing himself for another nap when the whispered dialogue between his aunt and his father had brought him out of bed with most unwanted celerity. The wily lad deemed it best not to wait for an order from his father. Hence the apparition. If you are not at the breakfast table in two minutes, sir, you shall hear from me. And with these sternly delivered words Mr. Playfair conducted Miss Meadow to breakfast. A little more than a minute later, a stout, healthy dark complexion lad of ten immersed from his room, ready and eager for the labor and heat of the day. His rosy face and jet-black hair gave token to a hasty toilet. His shoes were partially buttoned. His dirty legs were encased in a pair of bright red stockings and rather tight knickerbockers. And his chubby cheeks wore an air of serenity which coupled with his naturally handsome features and the pleasing sight to all lovers of the genuine American boy. Hasteily descending the steps, which he did by taking from three to four steps at a bound, Tom very quickly presented himself in the dining room and ignoring the presence of the cat and the teasing of which he spent a considerable portion of his valuable time. He seated himself at table and fell, too, with great good will. But trouble was brewing. Besides Mr. Playfair and Miss Meadow, there was at table a young man, a brother to Tom's aunt and the bane of our hero's life. Mr. Charles Meadow was not a bad young man, but he had, despite his negative good quality, a large and constantly increasing stock of small faults, one of which was an inordinate delight in teasing and bra-beating Tom. It is fair to say, however, that in the indulgence of this fault Mr. Meadow did not always come off with flying colors. Tom contrived to gain a victory now and then, unless added a zest to the domestic war which would otherwise have been too one-sided to be interesting. Strangely enough, Mr. Playfair held himself, in general, strictly neutral and it was only when the campaign gave signs of unusual bitterness that he felt himself called upon to interfere. On the present occasion, young Mr. Meadow had been awaiting with a concealed anxiety Tom's appearance. Oh, so here you are at last, are you? he began as Tom seated himself at the table. In the tranquillity of a healthy appetite applied to its proper purpose, Tom ignored the enemy's hostile flag. Look here, young man, continued Mr. Meadow.  How could a fellow get in your old room when you had it locked, queried Tom, with a virtuous indignation? Never mind the how, but did you go into my room last night? Say, Aunt Jane, please put a little more sugar in this coffee. You never do give me enough. What I want to note, pursued the unrelenting uncle, is whether you went into my room last night. If you stayed at home and went to bed early, instead of running around the town nights, answered Tom, still desirous of shifting the battleground, you wouldn't be asking such questions. At this moment Mary, the cook, entered the dining room with a plate of pancakes. If Tom had a preference, it was for this dish. Woop! he cried and his eyes glistened. A smile of triumph passed over Mr. Meadow's countenance. Just as Tom was about to help himself liberally to the food of his preference, his persecutor took possession of the plate, and having helped Mr. Playfair and Miss Meadow to several cakes, he placed the rest upon his own plate. Tom waxed angry. Oh! you think you're funny, don't you? Maybe you don't use hair dye for that straw-colored mustache of yours. I spelled it on a big bottle. Mr. Playfair smiled. Miss Meadow tittered. Mr. Meadow blushed deeply. Recovering himself, he returned to the charge. Aha! he cried, directing his forefinger at Tom, so you have been in my room. It was Tom's turn to blush, but he was fairly caught. How did you get in, sir? continued Mr. Meadow, pursuing his advantage. Button-hook answered Tom with the following inflection. Exactly. That's just what I thought, and that's just the way you ruined the lock of the pantry last week. Mr. Playfair's face took on an air of concern. He glanced severely at the culprit. Well, drawed Tom. I guess it isn't fair to lock up ripe apples.  Tommy. An electric shock seemed to convulse our little pantry burglar as the lows turned tones of his father's voice. Tommy, have you been forcing locks with a button-hook again? The roses in Tom's cheeks grew out of all bounds till the roots of his hair were stirred.  This is getting too bad, Mr. Playfair continued. I don't like to say it, but such conduct is more fit for young thief than for a little boy whom his father wishes to make a gentleman. At the word thief there was a subdued boo-hoo followed by the sound of heavy breathing. You may well cry, sir, pursued the parent, for you have every reason to be ashamed of yourself. I just did it for fun, he sobbed. Oh, you're exceedingly funny, broken Mr. Meadow with infinite sarcasm. This last remark filled his cup of sorrow to overflowing, stifling in insipid sob and muttering that he didn't want no breakfast. He departed into the welcome solitude of the hall. The word thief still rang in his ears and sigh upon sigh bursting at short intervals from his passion-wracked bosom testified his appreciation of the term. Presently Mr. Meadow on his way downtown where he held the honorable position of assistant bookkeeper in a St. Louis hardware store issued from the dining room. At the sight of him, Tom's grief hardened into the sterner form of anger. You'll pay for this, Mr. Giveaway, he muttered, shaking a diminutive fist at Mr. Meadow. I'm going to see Miss Larkin today. I will, I will. And I'll just tell her all the mean things you say to me how your most ashes died. See if I don't. I'll spoil your chances there. Mr. Meadow, who had a soft spot in his heart, devoted almost exclusively to said Miss Larkin, was taken back not little at this threat. You young scampy-roy with more earnestness than dignity. If you go near the young lady with any of your wretched stories, I'll give you a cow-hiding. Ugg, you Giveaway, cried Tom with ineffable disgust. So, sir, that's the language you used to your uncle, said Mr. Playfair, who, as they opened the dining room door, had caught these words. Go up to your room, sir, and don't leave it till nine o'clock. Jane, he continued looking into the dining room, please tell Tommy when it is nine. Mr. Playfair left the house with a stern cast of countenance. Tom was scarcely five when his mother died. The boy was good, but the want of a mother's care and refining influence was very evident. Then, too, Mr. Playfair reflected, the child stood in great danger of having his disposition ruined. Petted by Miss Meadow, he was growing selfish. Teased by Mr. Meadow, he was becoming bold. Yes, he muttered, I shall have to take some decisive step, or the boy will be spoiled. CHAPTER II In which Tom, by a series of misadventures, brings down the wrath of his father in such a wise that the author, for fear of forfeiting Tom's chances of becoming a hero in the reader's eyes, discreetly veils what actually happened when justice was administered. The mournful wail that swept at dismal intervals through Mr. Playfair's house touched the sympathetic cord of compassion in the heartstrings of gentle Aunt Jane. Stealing softly up to Tom's room, she entered on tiptoe.  The sight of her compassionate face opened a new flood of tears. Don't cry, Tommy, she said softly. I wish I was dead, cried that young gentleman. Now, now, Tommy, exclaimed the horrified and too credulous Aunt. Don't talk that way, it is sinful, and I'm sure you don't mean it. I'll bet I do, he howled, and I wish I was b-b-buried, too, under the ground, and I'll tell you what, Aunt Jane, I'll run away. Oh, Tommy, how can you say such wicked things?  Don't want any breakfast. I'll run away and sell newspapers and have a jolly time. Dear, dear, where did you get all these notions queried Miss Meadow, whose confiding spirit received these exaggerated expressions of grief as too much gospel truth? Tommy, what do you say to some buttered toast and a bit of cake? In spite of himself, Tom could not help showing at this stage some interest in sub-luminary affairs. No, he said sitting up in bed, but I'd like to have some pancakes. They're all gone, Tommy, and it's so much trouble to make them. Well, then, I don't want any breakfast, he said, throwing himself back on the bed and relapsing into sobs. This last exhibition of tactics won the victory. Miss Meadow descended to the kitchen and put herself to the elaborate work of making pancakes for the world-worn youth of ten. Upon her departure, Tom smiled in a manner not entirely devoid of guile, and the smile went running counter to his tears, formed a sort of facial rainbow. Presently, Aunt Jane appeared with the pancakes and other delicacies, and very shortly, indeed, Tom fell to it in a manner most encouraging to behold.  He intended this for a magnificent compliment, but Aunt Jane did not look particularly gratified. To a miss of thirty, deficits old and grandmother were rather suggestive. Perceiving that he had made some mistake, Tom added, I'll tell you what, Auntie, I won't bother your pantry or scare the cook for, well, for a week. He spoke as if he felt how handsome his offer was. That sounds better, said Miss Meadow, so you'll be a good boy now, won't you? On a bright Aunt Jane, and Miss Meadow, with this consultatory assurance gladdening her heart, departed to attend to her domestic affairs, having first given him his liberty. Availing himself of this, he was presently engaged in the backyard in constructing a chicken coop. Hello? Said a voice directly behind him. Hello yourself? Is that you, Jeff? He made answer at the boy of about his own age with the dullish face and clad in soft garments met his view. Got any chickens yet, asked Jeff, ignoring Tom's question as being so perfilous? Not yet, but I guess I'll trade off my baseball with Tom White for one. A master Tom picked up a pine board which he proceeded to split into smaller sections. In the midst of this interesting operation, a chip flew off, striking Jeff rather sharply upon the lobe of his left ear.  You needn't curse, said Tom resentfully. That ain't cursin', retorted Jeff in a sharper key. Well, it's vulgar all the same, insisted Tom, unwilling to give in entirely. It isn't. It is. I tell you it isn't. I tell you it is. I guess my paw uses it. My paw doesn't, and he ought to know. Their voices took a higher range. See here, Jeff Thompson. Do you mean to say that your paw knows more than mine? Yes, I do. Tom seemed to think that the conversation had reached the point where argument should be advanced by other means than mere verbal expression. For he suddenly struck out straight from the shoulder, and before his astonished opponent could hold up his hands to ward off the blow, a sturdy little fist came into forceful contact with Jeff's nose. As stars gladiatorial flashed before Jeff's eyes, his yell of anguish, I'm killed, he shrieked, as the blood gushed from his injured member. The fast flowing stream frightened Tom exceedingly. Oh, Jeff, he cried, clasping his hands. I didn't mean to hurt you so much. Cross my heart, I didn't. And he rubbed his thumb so as to form an invisible cross upon the right side of his sailor jacket, supposing in his ignorance that he had precisely located his heart. Go away, don't talk to me, said Jeff, suspending a howl to deliver this important communication. I'll never speak to you again. Oh, Jeff, don't stand bleeding, implored Tom. Come along to the pump, and I'll help you wash yourself. I won't go to the pump, roar, Jeff. I'll just stand here and bleed to death, and you'll be hung for a murderer. This threat, coupled with the sight of a flowing blood, filled Tom's soul with horror.  Do you think so, inquired Jeff, paling a little, for he was not so very anxious for death? Yes, Jeff, I, I'm afraid you're gone, and you'll be cold and stiff, and the policeman will come and grab me, and a judge will hang me in a black cap. Oh, gracious, and at this dismal prospect, Tom blubbered. I guess I'll go to the pump, said Jeff, and two mournful little lads sought together the cooling waters. Despite the wholesome application of the water, the bleeding still continued. Their looks of this may deepened.  Oh, Jeff, I've got it.  Forthwith, Jeff's right arm reached madly towards the sky. To the intense gratification of both parties, bleeding soon began to subside. I say, Jeff, hold up both arms. That ought to make it stop twice as fast. With equal facility, Jeff struck the new attitude. The bleeding was now almost imperceptible. And Jeff, what's the matter with your leg? How? Suppose you hold that up, too. There was a returning twinkle in Tom's eye, which Jeff failed to notice. How'll I do it? Lean up against the pump, and I'll fix the rest. Jeff obeyed, and Tom, catching hold of the patient's right leg, lifted it up, up, up till Jeff shrieked with pain. Drop it, you goose! You didn't even get excited. I didn't mean to hurt you, said Tom apologetically, and he lowered Jeff's leg a few inches. It was a funny sight. Jeff leaning against the pump with his two arms raised perpendicularly, and his leg supported at a right angle to the rest of his body by his sympathetic friend. The bleeding soon ceased, and Tom showed a sense of humor of the situation by giving the leg such a twist that Jeff shrieked louder than ever.  You ought to sass a boy in his own yard, said Tom, argumentatively. Who's going to stay in your old yard? And Jeff in high dungeon made his way into the alley. Tom now devoted himself for the next five minutes to the construction of the chicken coop. Presently wearying of this lonely occupation, he clambered over the fence into the alley in search of some companion. To his great disappointment, not a single boy was to be seen except Jeff Thompson, who was pouring interestingly over a knife. Loneliness which had come upon Tom cost his heart to soften. I say, Jeff, got a string for that kite? You needed mine about this kite, answered Jeff, without raising his eyes. Because if you haven't went on Tom in gentle tones, I'll lend you mine. Jeff's countenance softened somewhat. Tom, seeing his advantage, followed it up. Oh, Jeff, you ought to see my new flint. Where did you get it? This was awakened interest. Bunkered it off, said he, Roberts, come on up and I'll show it to you. This ended all hostilities, and within five minutes Jeff and Tom had entered into a solemn contract to be partners, then forward, and forever. An hour or so after this binding contract, Aunt Jane called up at Tom's room to ascertain what was keeping that young gentleman so quiet. His turn quality was easily explained, neither Tom nor Jeff was there. Miss Meadow made a careful examination of the house, paying special attention to Mr. Meadow's room and the pantry. Finding not even a trace of her graceless charge in these places, she hurried into the yard. Her eyes swept anxiously over the limit of view. The yard was deserted. Tom, she cried, yes, and, quite gracious, where in the world are you? Up here. Miss Meadow raised her eyes, then gave a streak of horror. On the slanting roof of the house, Tom was busily attending to a dove-cut with one hand while the other was held by Jeff. He was standing on the top rung of a ladder, his little nose tip-tilted like the petal of a flower, just appearing over the opening in the skylight. Tommy, get down out of that this very instant.  I want to put some feet in for my doves. I don't care about falling and killing myself, came the tranquil answer. Tommy, I want you to get down from that dangerous position instantly. Oh, Auntie, just one minute. I'm all right. Miss Meadow was ready to cry with anxiety. Tommy, if you don't obey me this very— Miss Meadow paused, unseeing the look of animation that suddenly appeared upon Tom's features. Did you hear it, Jeff? What? It's the fire bell. Hurrah! And with a quick spring through the trapdoor, Master Tom disappeared. Now he's thinking he's going off to the fire. It's a little quiet, Miss Meadow, but out of this house he shall not stir one step. And she hastened in, constraining her mind to the proper degree of firmness. But alas, as she passed through the kitchen and dining room into the hall, four started little legs to wrinkle down the front doorsteps and two troubled voices raised through their highest yelling key completely drawn her command to come back. Miss Meadow sank into a chair and wiped her eyes. It was mortifying to confess even to herself, but she had to admit that Tom was fast-slipping beyond her control. The mild, timid little lady was no match for the wild, impetuous, and thoughtless boy. If Tom could have understood the pain and anxiety his contact had wrought in her gentle bosom, he would have thought twice before taking so abrupt a departure. But her tears, so far as he was concerned, were as due upon the naked rock, and, shouting with excitement, he hurried away through the streets to the scene of the fire. The dinner hour came, but no Tom, and the poor lady with aching eyes peered long through the parlor window, hoping to catch some glimpse of the returning adventurer. As the quarters passed on, Miss Meadow became more grieved. I must give up, she said to herself. The boy loves me, I am sure, but I cannot take the place of his poor, dead mother. He does just what he likes.  Thank God tomorrow's a class day, but even at school he is not under the proper charge. Miss Harvey teaches well, but in Tommy's hands she is powerless. At length, weird with waiting, in vexed with a disagreeable train of thought, Tom's recent escapades had occasioned, he endeavored with poor success, however, to eat a little dinner. As she was about to leave the table, a light but slow tread was heard without. The tread drew near. The door opened, and Tom, his stockings bespattered with mud, his shirt collar crushed out of all shapeliness, his hat gone, and an expression of shame upon his dirt-smeared features entered the room. Well, sir, began his aunt, who, in spite of the joy she felt at his reappearance, was determined to be severe. How are you going to account for yourself? Tom, hung his head, fell into a close consideration of his feet, and, having no hat to twirl, began pulling his fingers. Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Tom appeared to consider this a difficult question. Do you hear? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Listen, this is a subdued tone, and after due reflection. Now, sir, you needn't think to escape a flogging. Let's hear your story, and then I'll tend to you in your room, where you may remain fasting till supper. Healthy boys, as a role, are not pleased with the prospect of losing their dinner, nor is the number great of those boys who entertain no prejudices against flogging. Tom saw that matters had come to a crisis, and that nothing but a masterly stroke would win the day. The young general had planned out his campaign. Advancing to his aunt's side in all humility, he suddenly caught her hand and said, Auntie Jane, I'm sorry. And before Miss Meadow could become aware of his intention, he threw his arms round her neck and kissed her. Under the warmth of this greeting, her icy sternness melted away and flowed off in a gentle stream of kindness. Poor boy, you must be tired and hungry, too. Indeed, you don't deserve any dinner. But sit down. I haven't the heart to see you go to your room in hunger. Tom was not slow to avail himself of this permission, and while Miss Meadow, her bosom agitated by a conflict between duty and affection, helped him to the various dishes, Tom plied knife and fork with no small earnestness. For the rest of the afternoon, he distinguished himself by his conduct. In fact, he was trembling on account of the wrath to come. His unusual excursion would be reported to his father, and then it would require more than Tom's dress to avoid serious consequences. Nor were his forebodings without foundation. When Mr. Playfair heard from Miss Meadow's lips the account of his son's doings, he compressed his lips tightly, knitted his brow, and then, after some serious reflection, called for the culprit. Sir, said his father sternly, you have gone the limit of your tether. Tom did not know what going the limit of one's tether meant, but entertaining the idea that it was something very horrid indeed, he set up a dismal wail. Sir, you need to learn obedience and respect to your elders. Next September, just five months from now, you start for St. Mara's boarding school. I remember this. If you give any trouble there, I'll not allow you to make your first communion for another year. Now, sir. But as Tom Playfair is to be the hero of this voracious story, I cannot bring myself to put on record what his father said further. Still thus have I the heart to chronicle what Mr. Playfair did. Tom was very noisy on the occasion. Up to this hour, he had known the force of his father's hand, only from the friendly clasp. Put over that occasion, which Tom never forgot, and over the ensuing five months, you and I, dear reader, drop a veil which shall not be withdrawn. End of Chapter 2 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 3 Of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S.J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 3 In which Tom leaves for St. Mara's and finds on the road the dirt that fun sometimes comes expensive. This interval of five months taught Tom several years, as it were. The prospect of preparing for his first communion and of going to a school where he would be thrown upon his own resources put a touch of earnestness, hitherto lacking, into his life, and such wise that there came a change so perceptible as even to attract Mr. Meadows' notice. During the vacation, strange to say, Tom gave so little trouble that Aunt Jane entertained serious fears for his health. About thirty minutes past seven on a Monday evening in September, Master Tom enveloped in a linen duster which reached nearly to his heels, looking rather solemn and accompanied by his uncle, aunt, and father, stood silent in the union depot of St. Louis. Bells were ringing, engines were puffing, hissing and shrieking, tracks were rumbling and quivering, cars were moving in and out, newsboys, hack men, and depot officials were shouting, porters were hurrying in every direction, throwing trunks and other baggage, now here, now there, in a manner most confusing to the inexperienced eye. Women and children were standing near the ticket offices or sitting restlessly in the waiting rooms, some indulging in a hasty lunch. Many looking hopelessly lost, while the multitude in this electric lights flared and sputtered over the whole scene. As train after train moved away for its long journey, and Tom realized that he too would soon be on his way to another part of the world, his heart grew heavy. I say, Pa, he suggested. I guess I don't want to go. Pa smiled. Mr. Don't Want is not a member of our family, volunteered Mr. Meadows very smartly. Tom shot an indignant glance at the speaker of these cruel words. Keep up your courage, Tommy, whispered Aunt Jane, quietly pressing a silver dollar into his hands. It's for your own good, dear, and in ten short months you'll come back a little man. The prospect of ten short months and the resultant of a little man afforded him small consolation, while the silver dollar had a reassuring effect. Absenting himself from the family group, he immediately expended one quarter of his aunt's gift on a paper of caramel and a cream cake, and he was thinking very seriously of laying out twenty-five cents more in the purchase of a toy pistol when a crowd of boys of all ages and sizes came pouring into the depot. Tom gazed at them in amazement. I say, he said, addressing one of the boys about his own age, what's broken loose? Instead of answering this question, the boy stopped and considered Tom attentively. Don't you belong to our crowd? he at length said. What crowd? asked Tom. The St. Maurer's fellows. What? cried Tom in amazement.  That's what they say. Why, then, things aren't so bad as I thought they would be. I say, let's be partners. My name is Tom Playfair. What's yours? Harry quip. Here, take some candy, said Tom, opening his package. Harry embraced both offers. Henceforth, he and Tom were partners. While the two were thus exchanging small boy courtesies, a clean-shaven gentleman, someone beyond middle age, an attire and a clerical suit walked up to them. Harry raised his hat and endeavored to compose his features. Well, Harry, said the newcomer, who is this little friend of yours. Tom, perceiving that the eyes of the gentleman were fixed upon him, became nervous and in endeavoring to bolt a caramel which he'd recently placed in his mouth nearly choked himself. This is Tommy Playfair, said Harry. Oh, indeed, so this is the boy that runs after fire engines, is it? Only did it four or five times in my life, father, and get himself on top of slippery roofs. Tom only remarked, Please, father, I won't do it again. Upon this, the reverend gentleman, who had charged of the boys, laughed cheerfully, shook his new acquaintance's hand and cautioning both to take their places in a car, which he pointed out hurried away to see to the safety of the luggage. What's his name, inquired Tom? That's Father Tiemann. He's perfect of discipline at the college. Discipline, echoed Tom, with a vague idea of a cattle nine tails running through his head. What does that mean? It means that he does the whipping. Phew, but he does look so savage. He doesn't have to, but just wait till he catches you cutting up. Help the rash you so as you will prefer standing to any other position for a week after. Tom was appalled. His companion, could he only know it, was exaggerating grossly for the sake of enjoying the newcomer's surprise and terror. Falsy thrash a fellow often was Tom's next question. Well, I should say so. Last year I got whipped nearly twice a day, and there was scarcely a week that I didn't go to the infirmary to lay up for repairs. Gracious, ejaculated Tom. I won't stand it. Harry, you and I are partners. I'll tell you what let's do. Nobody's watching us. Let's slip out. I've got a dollar, and we can support ourselves on that. And when we get broke, we'll sell newspapers. Harry had no idea of encouraging Tom to run away. In his schoolboy idea of a good joke, he merely wished to put him in a state of dismal suspense. So he said, Oh, you need to get scared. There's lots of fun out there. I don't see any fun in getting strapped once or twice a day. You won't get a strapping at all, maybe. I was such a dreadful hard case, you see. That's why I got it. Notwithstanding this avow, it is but just to remark that Harry Cook's features in a normal state were a very mild expression. Still, Harry's explanation did not succeed in disarming Tom's fears. If there were to be any wild boys at St. Mars, Tom, like Ebubin ebbed him, had substantial reason for believing that his name would lead all the rest. He was about to press his proposition of running away with still greater earnestness when he heard his name called. Coming directly, sir, I say, Harry, you keep a seat for me next to you on the car, and Tom pattered off to bid adieu to his father. Well, my boy, said Mr. Playfair, catching Tom's hand, I'm about to put you into good hands, but you must be careful. You will now be thrown among all kinds of boys, bad, good, and indifferent. Remember that on your choice of company depends, in great part, your piety. Teachers may instruct, and if your company be bad, you will be no better. And don't forget that every day you are preparing for your first communion.  If you make a good first communion, you're sure to get on well. So look out for your company and try to be as good a boy as you can. Now, my dear child, be watchful on these points. As to the rest, I hold no fear. Here's something to keep your courage up, but don't spend it all at once. Tom took the advice in good part, and the five-dollar bill with a fusive enthusiasm. Then, kissing his father, he turned to Aunt Jane. The kind lady could not repress a few sobs.  Be sure and write every week, and I'll pray for you every morning and every night as long as you're away. And she handed him a basket laden with his favorite delicacies. Tom's eyes filled at these exhibitions of his aunt's kindness.  And when I come back, I hope I'll be better, on or bright. Even Mr. Meadow, yielding to the solemn influence of a parting scene, had purchased his nephew a red-covered book concerning an impossible boy who met with all kinds of impossible adventures in an impossible country. Chicago and Alton Railroad, all aboard for Kansas City, shout out a voice. That's for you, Tommy, Mr. Playfair said. They all moved towards the cars, indicated. A negro in the official garments of the road met them halfway. Is he a college boy, sir? Step just this way, sir. I have the hot honor of taking charge of all of them. Come on, young gentlemen. Now up you go. And without giving our hero an opportunity of making a farewell speech, he quickly raised Tom upon the platform quite gentle, yet effective, pushed him into the reclining chair-car. Here you are, Tom, shouted Master Quip, who faithful to his promise had kept his friend a seat beside him. Tom hastened to occupy the vacant chair and seated himself as the train began to move out from the depot, while the boys gave three vigorous cheers. Ah, I'd like this, said Tom, throwing himself back in his seat and yielding to the luxury of the hour. Jolly, isn't it? Harry observed. Take a smoke. And he offered Tom a cigarette. Well, no, said Tom, with some hesitation. Why not? Well, I'll tell you, answered Tom, in a burst of confidence.  And if I was to smoke now, it would only be to look big. You see, I've got no liking for it. I've smoked once or twice up in Papa's halo. But it's always made me feel bad. So, you see, I don't like it. And I'd be a humbug if I pretended I did. This was one of the longest speeches Tom had ever made, and it produced its impression. Well, you've got true grit, Tom, and I like you the better for what you've said. I like to smoke myself once in a while, but I'm pretty sure that half of the little chaps who smoke do it to look big. I'd rather be little than big, said Tom. Why? Oh, Pasha, a man's got to shave, and he has to dress stylish and can't play nor eat candy in the streets and lots of things. That's so. Yes, and then half of them get stuck up, and they wear stiff hats and are afraid to run and don't play any games at all. Yes, a Senate Harry, and then when chaps grow up they've such a lot of worry about bringing out their mustaches. Both consider the subject pretty well exhausted. I say, continue Tom, there are all boys in this car. Yes, it's been chartered for our crowd. Do you know all of them? I know some of the old boys. Who's that fellow with his coat collar turned soles to hide his ears and his hair sticking up like bristles, trying to smoke a cigar as if he was used to it? That's Johnny Shoe Strings. Who? Johnny Shoe Strings. That's his nickname, you know. He's such a slouch. I can't think of his right name.  That's Crazy Green. Crazy Green? That's what everybody calls him. He hasn't got any sense and doesn't know how to behave decent. In fact, I think he's a real bad boy. Do all the fellows have nicknames as Tom? All the old boys have except one. Who's that? His real name is Black and it fits his color so well we thought we'd let him keep it. Why are those five fellows down there who look like each other's sisters? They're also timid and pretty. No comers, answered Harry. Tom's eyes were fascinated by this group and not being satisfied with the information Harry had watched safe. He went to the other end of the car where he could interview them personally. Having first satisfied himself by taking a deliberate survey of the five, much to their uneasiness and manifest discomforture, he opened the conversation thus. I say, helloa. The largest of the group, a boy of 14, answered timidly. How do you do, sir? I need a sir. My name's Tom Playfair. What's your name? Alexander Jones. Phew, five Joneses. Are any of you twins? Harry and Willie are twins, sir. There ain't any triplets among you. Are there? No, sir, not this time. Answered Alexander Jones, who in his timidity was accidentally facetious. Well, goodbye. Take care of yourselves. And bestowing a genuine grin upon the Jones brothers he returned to his seat. The train, having now crossed the great bridge that spans the Mississippi and passed out of the city of Alton, was speeding along through the open country. Without it was pitch dark and the sable solemnity of the night was enhanced by an occasional light that flashed before the eyes of the passengers at the windows, and then as quickly disappeared. I say, what kind of place is it? asked Tom, resuming his conversation with Harry. What place? The gravy station? Is that what you call it? Yes, they feed us on cornbread and gravy. And don't you get any meat? Oh, yes. They give us meat on Christmas and at New Year's everyone gets a small piece of pie. Gracious, cried Tom, absently placing his hand upon his stomach, but I suppose you have lots of holidays. Not so many, I can just tell you.  They're not going to treat me that way. When no one is looking, I'll slip out every chance I get. If you do, it's a master quip who was bent on scaring Tom to the utmost. You'll get collared by a prefect and then post it. What do you mean by post it? Why?  Tom groaned. I guess my fun is all over. He muttered in a faltering voice. Oh, we have fun sometimes, you know. How is that? asked Tom anxiously.  Then we walk six miles or so. That is, we keep on walking until most of the little tads aren't able to stand any longer. We sit down then and rest for five minutes before we start to walk back again. And while we are sitting down to rest, we are allowed to talk, you know. Why can't you talk while you're walking? Not much, said Harry emphatically. And do you mean to say, quite Tom excitedly, that after resting five minutes, they're all able to walk back again? I didn't say any such thing. Are they left behind then? No, indeed. They always have a big hay wagon along, and when a fellow can't walk, they tumble him in. But it's got to be mighty tired before that happens. So, said Tom, after a moment's reflection, that's what you call fun? Certainly, it's a jolly kind of fun. I suppose you fellows consider a funeral a good joke. Tom did not know that he was sarcastic. You're talking now, said Harry. Whenever a boy dies, we get off night studies. Does a boy die often out there? Harry ignored the literal meaning of this question as he answered. Well, no. Not as many as we would like. Only two or three a month. What do they die of? They don't die at all.  Tom jumped up from his seat. Take it back, he said with considerable fierceness. Take what back? inquired his astonished friend, rising from his reclining position.  Take it back, will you? Or you and I aren't partners anymore? Well, I'm willing to take it back. I only did it for fun. You needn't get mad about it. Whether the conversation would have drifted is impossible to say, whereas the train stopped just then at the station Harry and Tom, with that natural curiosity to see and know all things, which is the proud prerogative of the American boy, dashed out upon the platform. So satisfied were they with this new position that they resolved to keep it for a time indefinite, and accordingly squatted down on the side steps. They were not long there, however, and the men ordered them inside. Harry suggested to Tom when they had gained their proper positions. Let's have a little fun. What are you thinking of now? asked Harry. Let's play a conductor. Harry glanced around the car dubiously. It was now after ten o'clock, and most of the boys weiried with the excitement of the day were asleep. What's the use, he said? Nobody's awake. All the better. Did you see that lantern on the platform of the car? Yes. Well, that's the idea. Come on. Accompanied by Harry, Tom sallied forth, obtained possession of the lantern, and again walked into the car. Stealing up to a boy who was locked in slumber, he thrust the lantern into his face and in as deep a voice as he could assume, said, Circuits, please. I haven't got it, cried the boy jumping up and rubbing his eyes. I gave mine to father. He broke off when he perceived the grinning face of an unknown boy behind the lantern, and in great rage he leveled a blow at the joker. Tom very naturally held up his hands to protect himself, not taking into account that a lantern was in one of them. Crash, out in the light, downcluttered the glass in a hundred fragments. He had guarded himself very well, but the lantern was the worst for it. The useful conductor stood aghast. Let's put the old thing back, said Tom. Yes, and we'd better hurry, counsel Harry, but before they could carry out their purpose, the porter came hurrying in. Young German, who done took my lantern from the platform? None of these spoke. He glanced sternly at the disconfident corporates. I did, said Tom. Here's the old thing. Looks like it exploded, don't it? Oh, muffins, cried the porter. It's ruined it. I'll be discharged. You young bantams, what did you go and spoil my lantern for? Tom, remembering the words of scripture that a soft answer turned at the way wrath, put his hand into his pocket, came out with it filled and said, Hero of fellow, take some candy. Saw, I don't want none of your candy. Unless I can get a lantern at the next station, I'm rolling. Can't you pay for it? Cause if you don't, I'll report you to the company. How much do you want? asked Tom sadly. Four dollars, said the negro smiling and mothering that he knowed they was German. I'll give you fifty cents, said Tom. Cause you want to ruin a poor man? How does a dollar suit you? Can't afford it, sir, for less than two dollars. I'll give you a dollar and a half, and we'll call it square. Seeing you as such a perfect German, I'll take it, sir. And the negro went his way, rejoicing in a neat bit of profit. Boids, said father teaming, coming upon them from behind. Suppose you go to sleep, or at least give the others a chance to rest. I don't want any more fun tonight, said Tom roofily. Near do I, said Harry, and the two innocents falling back in their chairs soon slept the sleep of the jest. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 4 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn, S.J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 4 Tom arrives at St. Mars and makes the acquaintance of John Green under circumstances not entirely grateful to that interesting character. Look out, Tom! That's Pony Creek. Tom thrust his head out of the window and saw a small, picturesque stone bridge passing over the ghost of a stream of water. He had hardly time to catch one glimpse of it when his hat blew off, dropping straight down into the water. That hat blew off, dropping straight down into the bed of Pony Creek. He drew in his head mournfully. I guess traveling is pretty expensive, he growled. There's twenty-five cents for carmels, one dollar and ten cents for railroad candy that made me sick, eighty-five cents for oranges, a dollar and a half to that nigger for his old lantern, and a new hat to Pony Creek.  It's only a short walk from the college. Now, keep your eyes up in one minute, continued Harry. See? He added a few minutes later. See that road leading along by the hedge? Many is the time I've taken a walk on it. Hello! There's the good old white fence. Now we are passing the college grounds. Tom is scarcely time to take a fair look at the fence when the train came to a standstill in front of a large four-story brick building with the words college crowning its brow. Fronting the building was a spacious garden, diversified by several winding and shady walks. Fronting the garden was a high white fence, and fronting the high white fence were some hundred and odd boys with a few professors, awaiting the old scholars and new from the train. But Tom took no notice of all these things. His eyes, ears, feelings. His whole being seemed to be concentrated on the professor standing nearest him. The long black cast-hawk and censure were something new to him, and so great was his astonishment. The loud cheers of the boys, the fierce whistling of the locomotive, the sharp cry of all aboard, followed by the departure of the train might as far as he was concerned have happened at the other end of the world. Harry, who had left him to shake hands with some of his friends, found him a few minutes later standing in exactly the same position. Pick up, Tom, he cried, slapping his friend on the back. This touch snapped the charm. I say, Harry, he at length burst out. For goodness' sake, look at that fellow with the gown on. Isn't he a sight?  Said Harry with an easy air of superiority. That's not a gown, it's a cast-hawk, and the man in it is your boss. He's the prefect of the small boys. Tom's face grasps about two closely-written pages of astonishment. Does he always wear that, that thing? Yes, come on up and I'll introduce you. But does he really wear it all the time? That's what I said. Gracious, I'm glad of that. I'd like to see him catch me if I want to run. Pasha, he looks for all the world like an old lady. You'll find out pretty soon whether he can run or not retort at Harry a little sharply. In as to being an old lady, you'll change your mind mighty soon if you try any of your tricks on him. Mr. Middleton, he continued addressing himself to the subject of these remarks. Here's another St. Louis boy, my friend Tommy Playfair. The prefect, with a smile and a word of welcome, cordially shook Tom's hand. At the same time he's still in such a clear penetrating look upon the chubby upturned face that, as Tom afterwards declared, Mr. Middleton seemed to see clear through his sailor's shirt way back to his shirt collar on the other side. You are wild cold, I suppose. Not so very wild, sir, said Tom in his gentlest tones. Is he lively as you, Harry? asked the prefect. I'm not going to be wild any more, Mr. Middleton returned Harry in all meekness. Indeed, the subdued air that came came over Harry now that he stood in the presence of his prefect was something wonderful. When you'd, Mr. Middleton, you may take care of your new friend yourself for the present. I see some newcomers over there who appear to be very timid and ill at ease. They are quite lost, and he hastened the way to do the honors to the five Jones boys. Tom and Harry left to themselves sauntered leisurely up the garden walk. The former all eyes for his new surroundings. What's that long, low frame shanty to our right? asked Tom. When you get sick, you go there and lay out for repairs. It looks kind of snug. Yes, but when a fellow is getting just well enough to enjoy the jam and buttered toast, they turn him out. This large four-story brick building in front of us is the house where the fathers and prefects have their rooms. The lower floor of it on the east side, though, is the refectory for us little boys. You know, there are two yards, two refectories, two study halls, so as to keep little boys and big boys apart. The large room just above the refectory is our study hall. Now come on over to our washroom and we'll wash and brush up before dinner. They turn to the right on reaching the railed steps leading up to the brick building and pass between the infirmary on one side and on the other a substantial three-story structure of stone, which, as Harry informed Tom, was a classroom building. Continuing straight on, they pass the gate, genuinely a jar, by the way, and found themselves in an open playground about 400 feet long by 200 wide. This is the small boys' yard, volunteered Harry. Yes, query Tom plaintively, does the fellow have to stay around here all the time? All the time if he doesn't behave himself. But come on, let's hurry in before the rush. Beside the gate at their right and next to the classroom building stood a two-story frame house with a door of which was a dormitory and the lower a washroom. On entering, a novel scene presented itself to Tom's eyes. With the exception of one plane and two shovel board tables and a few benches, the main body of the room was the void of all furniture or other obstruction. But lining the four walls all around was a series of small boxes and hinged doors. Each box divided into an upper and lower partition used for the keeping of soap, but articles, and the like. And above the boxes were scattered towels, soap, and tin basins in all manner of ungraceful confusion. The towels, for the most part, dangled from a water pipe or in a minute with here and there a faucet. At the time that our two friends entered, there were a few boys in the room engaged at their ablutions while a prefect, no book in hand was giving each boy on his entrance one of the many boxes. How do Mr. Felin, said Harry, having his hat and shaking hands with his superior? Why, Harry, so here you are again. Yes, Mr. Felin, I'm like a bad penny. In one sense, yes, said Mr. Felin, but you're too modest. I'm delighted to see you again. I see you have a new friend. Who is this? This is Tom Playfair, Mr. Felin, and I say, can't I have my old box again, same as last year? It was near that window, you know, and can't Tom Playfair have the one next to me? I'm the only boy here that he knows. Mr. Felin, who had, in the meantime, taken Tom's hand with a smile of welcome and sent it to Mr. Harry's requests. Thank you, sir, said Harry effusively, and he conducted Tom to box number 29 near the window he had pointed out in the making of his petition. This is number 29, my box, Tom, and here is yours next to my number 30. But Tom was not satisfied. That little bit of a box for me, he exclaimed. Why, of course, Harry responded. You don't want the earth, do you? Without making any answer to this important question, Tom walked over to the prefect. I say, Mr. Felin, can't I have another box besides the one you've given me? Why? What have you to say against the box I gave you? Oh, that's all right, but I want two boxes. Indeed, what do you want two boxes for? Well, you see, I've got one for my books, you know. Oh, said the prefect, breaking into a smile, you'll get a desk in the study hall for them. Oh, that's it, is it, said Tom, satisfied with this information, rejoined here equipped, who, with his eyes bulging out of his head, had been watching Tom's proceedings in utmost astonishment. In the meantime, the washroom had been rapidly filling. Every other moment witnessed the appearance of new faces. Among those that entered, were their own boys, were timid beyond description. Others, like Tom, were quite tranquil and self-possessed. Others, again, were rather bold and undoubtedly noisy. This latter class aroused Tom's curiosity. I say, Harry, he inquired, who are those fellows in here that talk so loud and lift up their shoulders when they walk around and go on as if they own the whole place? Shh, don't talk so loud, Tom, said Harry, with unaffected seriousness. Do you have the old boys? You see, they're perfectly at home. They're apt to be pretty hard on newcomers. Are all the old boys that way, was Tom's next question? Well, not all, but a great many are. These questions and answers afford considerable insight into the economy of boarding school life. We hear and read a great deal about the easy confidence, nableness of old servants, old clerks, and the like. But what are they all compared to? As a newcomer, he may be the most timid, the most make-of-mortals. The first few weeks of his changed life he may rarely speak above a whisper, but with the ruling months as he picks up a friend or so, evidences of ease and natural bearing insinuate themselves into his address. At the end of the term he departs and may be a quite gentlemanly boy. But vacationed over, though, he returns as one of the owners of Earth and Sky with all the assurance and arrogance by the American press to a plumber in midwinter. Every look, every tone, every gesture proclaims in terms unmistakable that he is an old boy, that he knows more about life in any phase than a newcomer, that he is up to every conceivable turn of schoolboy fortune, that a new boy, how naturally gifted so ever, is but an inferior sort of creature. And that, in fine, there is nothing humanly speaking in the heavens above or the Earth beneath or in the waters under the Earth that can compare with that supremist of mortals, the old boy. It would be an injustice, however, to let the reader suppose that all old boys belong to this class. Not so. Quite a goodly number are as polite, unpretending, gentlemanly and sensible as the most refined newcomer. Johnny Green was an old boy of the former class. For the last five or six minutes he had been making himself very conspicuous in the washroom by talking in a raised voice whenever the prefect was out of hearing of the way he had got ahead of the old man, as the irreverently termed his father of the great and disgusting number of new kids that had already appeared in the washroom and of their uncommonly disagreeable appearance, which Master Green put down as being rather green. Having completed his target which consisted chiefly and indeed almost exclusively in so arranging his hair as to conceal almost entirely his freckled forehead, John Green stationed himself at the narrow door of the washroom where he amused himself at such odd times as the attending prefect's preoccupying duties allowed by tripping up various little newcomers as a chance to leave or enter. Tom and Harry were now going out and Green was anxiously awaiting his new victim. Harry advanced first and being an old boy was allowed to pass on molested. Then came Tom, who by the way had been watching Master Green's little practical joke for fully five minutes. As Tom was verging upon the threshold, Green put out his foot. Suddenly a howl rose from the bully's mouth. Why, good gracious, exclaimed Tom, turning on his steps. Did I walk on your foot?   You've stepped on at least five of my corns. That's too bad, Tom made answer to its most serious expression. But all the farmers say there's going to be a large corn crop this year. With this consolatory reflection, he passed on arm and arm with Harry Quip, who was struggling but with sorry success to keep a straight face, leaving the disconfident Master Green to continue or conclude his dance as he pleased. Adjoining the end of the washroom there was, and is yet doubtless, a small shed under whose protecting cover were a turning pool, and a pair of parallel bars, a few other articles of gymnastics, and a line of benches. Upon one of these latter, our two friends seated themselves, calmly awaiting the welcome sound of the dinner bell. But the calm, how history repeats itself, appeared to be the forerunner of a storm. Scarcely had they composed themselves in their seats when John Green, who was worried of dancing and was anxious to meet Tom in a place beyond sight of all prefects, turned the corner. Standing his head on his left arm, his left arm on one of the parallel bars, and placing his right hand on his hip, he had made a special study of the special attitude during vacation. He fastened the stern gaze upon Tom. Notwithstanding, our hero seemed to be oblivious of Green's presence. I say, began the bully, when he realized that both pose and gaze had shot wide of the mark. Are there any more like you at home? I don't know, I'm sure. The bully glared at them ferociously, whereupon their faces fell into length again, and a faraway look the symptom of homesickness came into their eyes. Harry had laughed, too, but his laugh met with no rebuke. He was an old boy, and in consequence was entitled to the privilege. Encouraged by the power of his eye, Mashed to his left arm, the bully glared at them ferociously, whereupon their faces fell into length again, and a faraway look the symptom of homesickness came into their eyes. Encouraged by the power of his eye, Mashed to Green turned it in full force upon Tom, and again addressed himself to that unterrified youth. What's your name, Sonny? Tom's face assumed a troubled expression. He passed his hand over his forehead, and through his hair, then, after a pause, made answer, Can't remember it just now. My memory's dead when the weather's warm. It's an awful long name. It took the priest over five minutes to get it in the day I was baptized. Another titter from the listeners, and a loud laugh from Harry. But Green was too astonished to the coldness of the newcomer to check this outburst. I suppose, continued Green, with excessive irony, you think you're funny. I guess I do, answered Tom blandly. All the families say I am, and when I was home they never let me go to funerals, for fear I'd make him laugh in the solemn parts. A prolonged giggle and a louder laugh. You're terribly smart, exclaimed the withering Green, who, forgetting his pose, was not quite stiff and bold upright. Smart, echoed Tom, why now you're hitting the nail right on the head. The fellows at the school I attended last year said they wouldn't come back if I did because I always carried off all the premiums, and that's why I came here.   In this quick rejoinder there was to the spectators gazing upon Green's clenched fist a certain obviousness of point. Consequently it aroused Marth and all the listeners enraged in the heart of the bully.  That's what you say, said Tom. And a sneak. That's what you say. And a mule-thief. I never stole you. This was too much for Green. He made a spring at Tom, but Harry caught his arm. Hold on, Green, said Harry, just take a boy of your size. Harry and Tom, it shall be remarked, we're each a year or two younger than Green. Let go of me, will you, shallot the bully? No, I won't. Suddenly John Green became very quiet, jumped upon the parallel bars and began swinging up and down. Mr. Middleton had just turned the corner. Harry broke into a whistle while Tom maintained his blindness to the end. Before hostilities could be renewed the bell rang for dinner. You took him up in great shape, Tom, observed Harry on the way to the refectory. Where did you get that cool way of saying things? I had a great many rows with my uncle and he got me so as I couldn't get excited. All the same, you'd better keep your eyes open. Green will pay you back for your talk before long. Anyhow, if I'm around or any decent old fellow you'll be all right. He's a coward and a mean boy, and if he caught you alone he'd be sure to take it out on you, but he won't tackle us together. They were now at the door of the refectory. As each student entered, one of the ten tables, each of these being laid for twelve. To their regret, Harry and Tom replaced the different tables. Dinner passed off quietly. Before thanks had been returned, Mr. Middleton announced that each boy should immediately on leaving the refectory go to the room of the prefect of studies where he would learn his class and obtain a list of the books which he should procure from the procurator or, being translated, the buyer. They were required to have their interview with the prefect of studies at the same time where both assigned to the class of rudiments. A class where the student is prepared to enter upon the study of Latin. They managed to get their books about the same time, too, and so to their undisguised delight Mr. Middleton appointed them seats next to each other in the hall of studies. Tom, this is just glorious, exclaimed Harry as they emerged from the study room. We're in the same class here while you were getting your books and I was outside waiting for you. I heard something. You know the first thing Green's going to do to you? No, what? While the first chance he gets today is going to pin a paper on your back with, kick me, I am a foal on it. He's waiting his chance now in the yard, I think. Tom stood still and gave himself up for a few seconds to reflection. Then he resumed his walk and observed. We'll fix him if he tries it, Harry. I'll tell you what. We'll let him go pretty far with his joke. I won't notice him.   What'll you do? You'll see. He won't enjoy the joke very much anyhow. No sooner had the boys entered the yard than they noticed that John Green was eyeing them closely. He's waiting his chance, whispered Harry. Just so, answered Tom, say let's go down by the handbow alley. Harry acquiesced and both made their way to the further end of the yard. Harry, with his hands in his pockets, leaned against the body of the alley so as to take in the whole playground. While Tom, also hands in pockets, stood facing Harry, commanding a view of nothing, say what was included in the two walls of the alley. Green, in the meantime, was following in their wake with stealthy steps. Even Tom could divine this from the expression on Harry's countenance. At length, Green is secured a suitable position for pinning on the placard. He stooped. Fourth whipped, Harry drew out his handkerchief. Talking of jumping, exclaimed Tom at once, how was this? And he gave a sharp backward kick with his right foot. Green received the full force of this on his shins, the tenderest part of him, perhaps by the law of compensation, and was within a little of being actually impregnable, both as to blows and as to ideas. On the moment, Green testified his presence by a prolonged howl. Good gracious, Tom exclaimed, turning around and addressing Green, who with both hands was holding one knee and hopping enthusiastically with the only foot he had at liberty. Why, how in the world did you come to be behind me? You're terribly unlucky, ain't you? A crowd of boys who have been watching attempt to fasten on the placard were now shouting and laughing as they hurried down the yard to take in, in fuller detail, the victims' lively and novel dance. Does it hurt? As Tom compassionately as he picked up the placard which Green had allowed to fall to the ground. Does it hurt? Bald Green, suspending his dance, give full effect to his answer. Oh, no, it doesn't hurt at all.  And with this burst of eloquence, I say, what's this? inquired Tom, holding the placard at arm's length and scanning it critically. Is this your paper? Yes, and I wish you and that paper were in Halifax. The intense devotion of this sentiment was beyond doubt. But, pursued Tom, you've got kick me written on it, so you've got what you want.  This question so angered Green that he lost sight of his pain. Releasing his injured leg, he made a savage rush at Tom. But this time, too, his intentions were frustrated. George Keenan, a boy who had attended St. Mars for several years, and who, judging by his modesty, didn't seem to know it, caught the aggressor's arm with a grip which elicited another how. Let him alone, Green, he served you right.  And look here, you better not touch around. And George walked away. The bully was too crestfallen to face his fellow students. Gowling and shamefaced, he hobbled off to the infirmary to get his leg, painted with iodine. George Keenan, who as here entered upon the scene, merits a few words. He was a model boy, not the kind of a model boy that figures in many tales for the young, but such a model as you may expect to meet with occasionally. Nay, God be thanked for it, at baseball, running, handball, football, and all manners of athletic games. No one was more skilled than George. He was small, undergrung for his years, and slightly made. Still, his strength was unquestioned. Yet no one had ever known George to exert his strength for mean or low purposes. No one had ever known him to use his influence for ought save what was a nobling. He was everybody's friend. With him the bad were, for the nonce, good, and the good were better. With all he was cheerful, jocos, and a bit of a wag. He made his way through life with the brightness and wholesomeness of a sunbeam. Nor is George among the generon of boarding school students an isolated character. In every well-conducted boarding school there are hearts as warm and minds as noble. These boys are themselves the least self-conscious of mortals. Though they know it not, they are doing work and good work, for the Lord and Savior whom in the nobility of their hearts they love with manly tenderness. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 5 Of Tom Playfair or Making a Start This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 5 in which Tom is first waited to go to sleep. No doubt many of my readers have been watching themselves. What manner of hero is Tom Playfair? Couldn't the author have selected a better or at least a more refined character? This Tom is bold, given to slang, rather forward, self-willed, and but stay, reader, let us get in a word. We throw up our hands and grant the full force and truth of all these naughty adjectives. Indeed, there are faults and great faults to be found in Tom. There are many flaws in the crystal, but what then? These little flaws, after all, are not irremediable. Tom may be a real gem, even if it be that the gem is in the rough. Some of his flaws, indeed, are simply untrimmed virtues. His boldness is an exaggerated manliness. Certainly it has nothing of the boldly in its ring. His slang is that an effectual struggle for humor, so noticeable in many young people. And in them, at least, we speak not for mature centers in this line pardonable. His forwardness is the exaggeration of what we all love and hold fast to, American independence. But enough on the score of excuses. Let us hope that the edges may be rounded, that the gem in the rough may sparkle unto the admiration of many, that the exaggeration of American virtues may be subdued to that golden mean which we all admire so much and practice so little. Tom's dialogue with the shin worried green while drawing our hero into prominent notice gained him a host of admirers and a few friends. As he and Harry were taking a stroll about the yard, shortly after Green's departure in quest of that boarding school boy Panacea, Iodine, he was accosted by a little lad in Nicarbockers, his expression of mixture of timidity and wistfulness. Well, my son, said Tom, it was about half an inch taller than the stranger. What can I do for you? I am so glad you didn't let that green get ahead of you. He's mean.   He's home sick, got it bad, whispered Harry in a kindly tone. Here, said Tom, take some candy. The youngster accepted the candy and tried to cheer up. He seized crying, though he gave two rolls to deep sighs. Come and sit down here, continued Tom. Now what's your name? Joe White. My pa is a doctor in hot springs and he's got lots of money and rides around in a horse and buggy. Must be fun riding around in a horse, observed Harry. Does he do that often? Joe relented into a smile. Haven't you any friends here, pursued Tom? No, and I want to go home, sobbed Joe and little relapsed. The boys are all mean here and nothing is good. Oh, you don't know him well enough yet, said Tom, and he added with ingenuous modesty. Harry and myself are good fellas.    Don't get so excited, puttin' Harry. He isn't going to die now. I don't want him to die at all, blubbered the wretched victim of homesickness. I want to go home right now and see him and mama and Sissy and little Jane and all of them. I tell you what, said Tom, let's be friends and then you won't be lonesome. What do you say, Joe? With one hand rubbing his eye, Joe extended the other first hand to Tom, then to Harry. Each of these young gentlemen shook it warmly. Master Joe's case is a fair specimen of the malady which attacks almost invariably the new boy, homesickness. Like measles, whooping cough, or seasickness, few escape it, and still, true to the likeness, it seizes upon its victims with various degrees of malignity.  Like the qualities of mercy, homesickness is the mightiest and the mightiest. The large boy when afflicted with it is a piteous sight indeed. After five o'clock suffer, the students took recreation till six, when a bell summoned them to the hall of studies. Here they were at liberty to sort and examine their books and write their parents' assurance of their safe arrival. Tom, on entering, noticed that the older boys, instead of seating themselves at once, were all standing in silence. Following their implicit guidance, he, too, stood beside his desk and fixed an inquiring look upon Mr. Middleton, who, from a raised platform, commanded a view of the entire study hall. Whilst Tom was still wondering why the old boys were so slow about sitting down, the prefect made the sign of the cross and recited the veiny sanctae spheritus. This beautiful prayer concluded, all addressed themselves to their work. Instead of beginning to study, Tom sat for some time curiously watching the movements of those about him. The old boys, with scarce an exception, were inscribing their respective names in their new books. The newcomers were rummaging in their desks in a vain attempt at appearing easy and self-possessed. Mr. Middleton seemed to have his eye on every one. Presently, a professor entered the study hall and Mr. Middleton retired. This professor was the regular study-keeper. Tom gazed at the new official for some moments and then turned to Harry. I say, what's the name of that man? Shhh! said Harry. During a look of disgust at his monitor, Tom turned to Joe White, who sat at his left and repeated the question, I don't know, returned Joe. Say, what are you going to do this hour? I'm going to write home and ask them to take me away from this place. Oh, don't be in a hurry about that! whispered Tom. After a few days, we begin to know the fellow's better and... Just then a hand was laid upon his arm and Tom, on lifting his eyes, saw the study-keeper before him, looking rather stern than otherwise. Keep silence in here, play fair, he said. No talking! Take out your books and paper and go to work. Say, mister, how did you come to know my name? The study-keeper bit his lip to restrain a smile in the heart of the hall. The secret of his knowing Tom's name was very simple. A map is made of each boy's place in the study hall, washroom, refactory, dormitory, and chapel. One glance of the map will inform the presiding officer whether each boy be at his post. And, in consequence of this system, a boy cannot absence himself from college for any period beyond an hour at the most without being missed. Thus, admonished, Tom opened his desk, and, after great effort, much blotting of paper, soiling of fingers, and intellectual travail delivered himself of the following letter. St. Mars College, September 5th, 18 My dear Aunt Jane, I take my pen in hand to let you know that I am well, hoping this leaves you the same. St. Mars is a pretty jolly sort of a place, and I am not one bit homesick. Lots of new kids are. Tell Jeff Thomas I will write to him soon. Who is taking care of my pigeons? Tau Papa, my love. Is my rooster with the long tail all right? My money is nearly all gone.  Goodbye, I am going to study right hard. Your lovely nephew, Thomas Playfair. While he was addressing the envelope destined to carry away this choice bit of literature, he felt someone poking him in the back. On turning, he perceived a hand extended from under the desk behind him holding a bit of paper. Tom received a note. It read as follows. Mr. Playfair, say you will fight me at recess behind the old church building. Your is John Green.   How is your knee? Does it hurt much? You don't spell well. F.I.T.E. is wrong. It ought to be F.I.G.H.T. You are bigger than I am and older.   When you write home, give my love to your papa and mama. Yours, Thomas Playfair. After passing this note, he took a leisurely survey of the study hall, searched his arms, then concluded to go out. Taking up his cap, which, by the way, he had borrowed from Harry Quip, on losing his own, he walked toward the door. Just as he was opening it, his progress was arrested by the studykeeper's voice. Playfair, go back to your seat. This is in a very imperative tone. I am going out, sir, so Tom, pausing with his hand on the doorknob to impart this information. Go back to your seat. With a look at the patient's unmerited persecution, Tom returned to his place, casting wrathful glances on the way at several who were grinning at his mistake.  This ever they recited at night prayers in common and retired to their dormitories for the night. The novel cited of a hundred boys undressing as one, struck Thomas being rather funny than otherwise. Indeed, he was so absorbed in a humorous survey of the spectacle that he stood stock still grinning broadly and incessantly for some minutes. A hand upon his arm called him down from his humorous heights. It was Mr. Middleton. Playfair, he whispered, have you anything on hand just now? No, sir, answered Tom, wondering what would come next. Well, then you would better undress and get to bed. And Mr. Middleton resumed the saying of his beads as he continued his route up and down the passage formed between the beds. Basha, growled Tom, a fellow can't look cross-eyed here when he gets hauled up for it. I don't see any harm in looking around. And safely he proceeded to pull off his sailor's shirt. He had just succeeded in getting this garment free of one arm when he perceived Harry clip some ten or eleven beds further off. Harry caught his glance and smiled. The smile brought sunshine back into Tom's heart, suspending further operations on the sailor's shirt. He playfully put the thumb of his hand to his nose and made the popular signal with his fingers. Instead of taking this friendly Angel Coast demonstration in the spirit in which it was given, Harry's face lengthened into this may, while his eyes glanced apprehensively in the direction of Mr. Middleton. Tom, following the movement of Harry's eyes, turned and yes, there it was again, saw Mr. Middleton bearing down upon him. Well, I'm switched, he thought, as he slipped out of his shoes with marvelous speed. If he isn't making for me again, and leaping into bed he buried his face in the pillow. Young man whispered Mr. Middleton bending down over him. We want no levity in this dormitory. No what, sir? No levity. What's that, sir? Shh, don't talk so loud. I mean you mustn't talk, whisper, laugh, or make signs. Do you understand me? Yes, but that'll do. Go to sleep now, and if you have any objections to Mac, I'll hear you in the morning. He's a nice one, grumble Tom to his pillow. He won't give a fellow any chance to explain. Two minutes later he was sleeping a dreamless sleep. End of Chapter 5 Recording by Maria Therese. Chapter 6 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S.J. This Libberbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese. Chapter 6 In which Green and Tom run a race which proves disastrous to both. Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang. Hello! What's the matter? cried Tom in the midst of this clatter as he jumped out of bed and rubbed his eyes. The cause of the din was a large iron-tongued bell which Mr. Middleton was ringing right away. Tom looked about him. All the students, with the exception of course, of several of the old boys who were quite accustomed to this unerrificed sound, were up in dressing. It's a little too early for me, thought Tom, and satisfied that the horrid bell had become silent he turned in again. He was peacefully dozing off when a hand was laid upon him. Playfair, did you hear the bell? Did I? I should think I did. I was right, Mr. Middleton, but I guess I don't care about getting up just now. The sentence was barely out of his mouth when, as it appeared to him, there was a mild form of earthquake in the vicinity, and before he could realize that anything had happened at all he was sprawling on the floor with his mattress on top. I say, what did you do that for? he sputtered, but Mr. Middleton was already halfway down the aisle. If that's the way they treat a fellow the first day, what will they do next, he murmured? I don't think this school is much account anyhow. On rising the boys were allowed half an hour for washing and dressing then came mass, followed by studies and breakfast. At nine o'clock on this particular day they had what is technically term luckily obrevis, that is the teachers of the respective classes gave their boys a short talk and appointed lessons for the next day. Tom was mildly surprised and a trifle just made however that his teacher for the year was none other than Mr. Middleton. But after listening in silence for some minutes to his professor's opening speech he concluded that perhaps things might not be so bad. Alexio brevis was compressed into an hour and the students had the rest of the day free. Shortly after dinner he re-quipped accompanied by a strange boy approached Tom. Tom, here's a particular friend of mine Willie Rothers, and I'm sure he's one of yours. Willie and Tom shook hands while Will murmured cheaply happy to see you. Won't you take some candy? inquired Tom. The candy was gratefully received and the friendship of the two was firmly based. Have you been out walking yet? asked Willie. No, and that's a fact. Harry, we ought to go and get that hat of mine at Pawnee Creek. Obtaining permission from the prefect and in course of time discovered the hat partially embedded in the mud. When on their return they became clear to the college, Harry proposed that they should pass through the bluegrass. The bluegrass is a favorite resort of the boys. It lies just beyond the college yard and is well shaded with large graceful pine trees. It chanced on this particular day that the only occupants of the bluegrass were John Green and three lads of similar taste. Green caught sight of our trio from afar. Oh, I say boys, he exclaimed. Here comes the funny man. Come on here, you young sneak. He added addressing himself to Tom and will settle our account. Tom, whispered Harry honestly. Let's run. Those fellows with him won't let me or Willie help you and Green has been acting like a bully since he's come back from vacation. I'm not going to run unless I've got to, answered Tom and he walked straight on and tended to pass by Green and his following. But Green put himself squarely in the trio's path. Where are you going, funny man, he inquired. I'm going to St. Mars this year. How is your shin? You've got to fight me, you sneak, pursued Green, reddening with anger at the retort. But I don't want to fight, you see. I don't care a cent what you want. Put up your hands. I'll teach you to sass me. You can't get out of it. Can't I, though? Catch me. And as Tom spoke, he dashed away in the Pony Creek. It took some seconds for Green to realize this sudden and utterly unexpected change of front. Then with a shout of wrath he gave chase. Before leaving home, it may be explained, Tom had made a solemn promise to his aunt Meadow not to engage at Fisticuffs under any circumstances. He was a good runner for his age, but he lacked the speed of his older and longer leg pursuer. Although he had obtained a start of some twenty-five or thirty feet, he perceived presently that he was losing ground rapidly. For all that, the serenity habitual to his chubby face did not diminish one wit. And as he turned his head from time to time to make a reconnaissance, his expression was as tranquil as though he were racing for amusement. The scene was an interesting one. Tom was followed by Harry and Willie, while Green was cheered on by his three cronies, who were also hot in pursuit. Before Tom had got clear of the bluegrass trees, he saw that he was sure of being captured, unless he could introduce some new feature into his flight. His invention did not fail him. Suddenly, he wheeled sharply, and assisted by a tree which he caught hold of, turned at a right angle to his former line of retreat. In nimbleness, Green could not compare with Tom, and so, before he could adjust himself to the change, our hero obtained a new lease of flight. All were now speeding towards the line of low bluffs which fronted and divided it off from the prairie land beyond. But it seemed quite evident that Tom could not hold out long enough to gain the bluffs. Nira and Nira panted Green.  Well, Nira and Nira came the pursuer. The interval between the two was scarcely twelve feet. You're gone, Tom, cried Harry. It's no use, added really, Rothers, as he ceased running. You can't get away. Tom was now within twenty yards of the bluff, while his pursuer was but six or seven feet behind. Suddenly Tom came to a full stop, turned, as pursuer shot on, whisked aside, and put out his foot. Green took the foot, offered him, and went right on, not as a runner, but more after the manner of a flying horse. He came down all fours on a soft bank of earth, and a no-wise injured picked himself up. But before he was well on his feet, Harry quit to come to the rescue with a suggestion. Tom, Tom, he cried, running, as he spoke at an angle towards the bluff. Run this way for all your worth. We're near Kenan's cave, and if we can make it, we'll bore them out. Long before Harry had ceased speaking, Tom was making for this prospective sanctuary. The cave was surrounded by rough, clumsy wooden structure, and general appearance not unlike a storm door. Tom's eyes grew brighter. He felt sure of himself now. Once within the cave, Harry, Willie, and himself might bid defiance to all outside. Nearer and nearer loomed the cave, one hundred and fifty feet more, and all was well. Green was far behind, and was not running as at first. But alas, as Tom, with his eyes fixed on the refuge, was making on, he struck his foot against the stone and fell violently to the ground.  But Green did not pause to make any inquiries.   The pain was intense, more than enough to bear without the savage attacks of Green. Give up, will you? Roared the young savage. Give up what? groaned Tom, who dizzying weak and suffering as he was could not take his tormentor seriously. The bully continued his brutal work. Tom's condition was becoming serious. Harry and Willie, who had attempted to come to his assistance, were forcibly held back by pitch in his companions. Now, will you give up? asked Green, again pausing. Tom felt that he was fainting, lights flicker before his eyes, strange noises rang in his ears. For all that he had no idea of giving up. Summoning all his strength, he said almost in his natural tones. I think you asked me that before. Well, I'll punch you so as you won't know yourself next time. Green never finished his speech.  George Keenan stood over him. But even when released, Tom made no move. He had fainted. He cried Keenan, run over to our cave and get some water. Quick! Look at that, you low-lived bully! He continued to dress in green. You see what you've done. And as George spoke, he sees the terrified boy by the collar, and shook him with the energy of boiling indignation. He wouldn't give up, howd Green. Ugg, growled George, casting an anxious look at the pallet face of Tom.  That's it, Harry, he continued, as quiffed with a jug of water bent over Tom. Throw it over his face. He'll be all right in a moment. George seemed to be quite absent-minded. With his eyes fixed anxiously on Tom, his hands and arms were working to and fro with such energy that it was impossible to say where Green's head was at any given moment. He made no pause even when, a second later, Tom's face twitched. Hurrah! He's coming too! cried Willie Rothers, who had just thrown up in Tom's collar. Willie was right. Tom opened his eyes, then with an effort, raised himself on his arm.  He rightened it once, put his hand in his pocket, and said, Here, Harry, take some candy. And Tom rose feeble but smiling. Green said George, before I let you go, you must beg this boy's pardon. How not? You won't, and George annotated this remark with a shake. Oh, stop. Yes, I beg your pardon. Much obliged, said Tom seriously. Now, continued George, I want you to promise me not to interfere with smaller boys. Do you hear? We want no bullies this year. Oh, yes, cried Green, now shaken into a ball. I promise upon my word. Oh, George, please let me go. George receded to this earner's request, and Green hastened the way to rejoin his friends, who, at the first part of danger, had fled. Morally speaking, Tom had won the fight. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 7 of Tom Playfair or Making a Start by Francis J. Finn S. J. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Maria Therese Chapter 7 In which Tom usurped minor orders with startling results One Sunday morning, toward the end of September, the president preached a sermon to the students, taking for his subject our Lord's casting out of the devils. He proceeded to show how the church has established certain forms of prayer called exorcism for the casting out of unclean spirits, and he dwelt at some length on the pitiful condition of a soul possessed by the evil one. Then, turning to the allegorical side of the subject, he declared that perhaps there were in that very student chapel some who were in the toils of Satan, some who were profane, impure, unjust, some who had blackened their souls with mortal sin, and driven out the Holy Spirit from his proper temple. So engaging was the style, so impressive the manner of the speaker that all listened with eager attention. But no one was more interested than Tom Playfair. That young gentleman, it must be confessed, had scarcely ever heard a sermon during the decade of years that summed up his life. What little knowledge he had over his religion had been gleamed from an occasional flash of attention to his aunt's exhortations. Hence, it is not surprising that Tom did not fully take in the speaker's remarks. It is not surprising that he confound it fact with fancy, the literal with the figurative. Mass over, Tom remained in the chapel and proceeded to make a careful examination of all the prayer-books scattered about on the benches. At length, the gratified expression which came upon his countenance invents that he had found what he desired. Gravely seating himself, he read and pondered, pondered and read. Finally, seeming to be satisfied with his researches, he closed the book and hurried away to the yard where he at once sought out his three confidants, Harry, Willie, and Joe. I say, began Tom, take some candy. Candy was Tom's pipe of peace. All accepted the peace offering, whereupon the young chief unfolded his ideas in the following conversation. I say, did you fellows mind what the president said at mass? Yes, what about it? inquired Harry. Why, just this. One of the boys in this yard is possessed by the devil. What? exclaimed all in a breath. That is just what? returned Tom into the sighted manner. Didn't he say that anyone who curses and acts while is possessed by the devil? That so? exclaimed Willie. Now, boys, I ask you, what fellow in the yard is it who curses and talks while? John Green, puttin' Harry. John Green, echoed Willie. Just so, added Joe. Well now, resumed Tom. I've been looking this thing up and guess we must. What's that word the president used? Exercise, suggested Willie. That's just it. We must exercise him. Chase him round the yard or something of that sort, said Joe, imparting to his voice a tone half of suggestion and half of inquiry. Tom reworded this remark with a glance which was almost severe. Joe, he said reproachfully, exercise is something religious, so exercise means to drive the devil out and that's what we're going to do for Green. But seems to me, observed Harry, the best theologian of these use, glad to get the priest to do it. I thought of that, answered Tom with an impressiveness which carried confidence, but you see, here's the trouble. No fellow likes to give another fellow away. And if we told a priest, we'd have to say all the bad things we know about Green. Anyhow, one of our praying doesn't do good, we can get a priest at it. Strangely enough, these three boys began to look upon Tom's proposition in the serious light. Our hero had a boyish eloquence which persuaded where it did not prove. Had any other student of the yard made this proposal, Harry Quip would have laughed him into silence. But Tom was a born leader. Well, how are we to go about it? inquired Willie. I'll tell you, answered Tom, fasting in prayers is what does it? Fasting, echoed Joe? Yes, we must go without supper tonight. The members of the little band looked at each other doubtfully. It's got to be done, said Tom with decision. I read about it in a prayer book. And what else asked Harry? Then we've got to pray over him. The prospect of these duties was inducing a feeling of awe upon them. What will we say, Tom? whispered Willie. That's just the trouble. It's got to be in Latin cause I saw it in the prayer book a lot of Latin prayers they use for exercising. exclaimed Harry. We can't get over that. Yes we can, said the ever ready Tom. There's a lot of Latin hymns at the end of my prayer book. And I'll practice saying them during the day. Then, when I read them out loud, all you fellows need to do is to answer Amen. We can do that easy enough isn't it, Harry? But when you call this to come off? That's another thing I've settled, Tom made answer. At twelve o'clock tonight. You need it look so scared. I'll keep awake till twelve and then I'll call you fellows. You see, we must pray over him and when he is lying in bed we can do it as easy as not. I'll stand at his head reading the verses and you three be ready to grab him if he wakes so as to make him behave while he's getting exercised. Oh, Tom really exclaimed the ingenuous Joe. How can you read it twelve o'clock without a light? For the first time during the proceedings Tom was nonplussed. The question of illumination had not occurred to him. Gracious, I didn't think of that. Let's all try and get up some scheme. Hello, I'll tell you what, cried Harry triumphantly breaking in upon the silence which had ensued. We can get some candlesticks out of the sacristy. You're at Joe, Harry exclaimed Tom enthusiastically. That'll make it more religious like still. What's the matter with the few surpluses? asked Willie. I don't know, Muse Tom. You think it would make the thing more pious or? Of course rejoined Harry. Then we'll get surpluses too. And Harry, I'll leave all that to you because you know more about the sacristy than I do.  Hide the candlesticks behind the door going up to the dormitory. Each boy can keep his surplus under his pillow. Now don't speak about this affair and we'll put it through in style. As supper that evening, four little boys took nothing, and before retiring, Harry procured candles and surpluses, and we stowed them according to directions. As Tom slipped into bed, he felt confident of success, and indeed he found less difficulty in keeping awake than might have been expected. With his eyes fixed on the presiding prefect, Mr. Middleton, he watched anxiously to see him retire. But Mr. Middleton sat at his desk, calmly reading, till a cold perspiration came upon Tom, who feared the prefect might stay up all night. Finally, to Tom's great relief, the prefect arose and sat about preparing for bed. But before retiring, he knelt beside his bed and kept this position for an interminably long time, seemed to Tom. Pasha growled the impatient sentinel. This isn't the time to pray. He had to do that when the boys were awake instead of watching him. At length, Mr. Middleton did go to bed, and there was silence for an hour. Then arose Tom, donned his garments, and, tiptoeing from bed to bed, aroused his fellow conspirators. All dressed, they stole noiselessly out of the dormitory. Presently, a silent procession enters. Tom surpliced and was prayer-book at the head, followed by his three friends, each bearing a light at candle. Solemn and silent they ranged themselves round the bed of the unconscious victim. Don't touch him, whispered Tom, unless he wakes. But if he does, grab him and hold him down while I'm done expelling the devil out. What if he shouts, asked Joe? He won't shout, said Harry. I'll see that he's quiet. Very well, said Tom. Now you all ready? General sent. All right, here goes. Here Tom looked up from his book, general silence. Answer, will you? It's the end of the verse. Ah, men, came the solemn answer. The sleeping innocent did not appear to be effected in the least. Tom went on. Trimor, asked Ventura's. Cuando, you dex, es Ventura's. Ah, men, was the prompt response. Green moved uneasily and gave a groan. Go on, Tom, it's fetching him. Observed Harry gravely. Oh, cried Joe, maybe it's the devil coming out. You think he'll hurt us? Not if we behave properly, said Tom, though he pale a little. Come on now, here's one that's got a sound to it. Tubal Mirum, Spargin Sonum, Parasuputra Regionum, Coget Omnes Antetronum. Ah, men. Green moved and groaned again. Grab him, boys. He's waking, exclaimed Tom. As Green opened his eyes to find himself in the clutches of four white-robed figures, his terror knew no bounds. What's the matter? he gasped. Am I dead? No, but you will be, answered Tom, if you don't lie still. Keep quiet, you goose, while you are being exercised. Green's terror, now that he came to appreciate the situation, fast gave way to rage.  Green was a strong lad and he made violent struggles to escape from the grasp of his persecutors. But his efforts seemed to be unavailing. Suddenly there was a great crash. The bed had come to pieces. Panic stricken, Joe, Harry, and Willie rushed from the dormitory. Quick as thought, Tom extinguished the lighted candles which the deserters had left on the field, and with a skip inbound, tucked himself snugly in his bed. Nor was he too quick. Mr. Middleton, on coming to the scene of action, found Green standing beside his dismantled bed, looking in the embodiment of guilt. Take that vacant bed over there, Green, and we'll settle this matter in the morning. But sir!" Remins jayeth innocent victim, but sir! That'll do now. Go to bed. And Mr. Middleton, glancing about the dormitory, took down the names of the absentees. Next morning Tom confessed the whole affair, taking all the blame upon his own shoulders. Mr. Middleton was secretly amused at Tom's ideas of diabolical action. Nonetheless, he kept the young gentleman very busy for some time committing lies to memory. And, with his exercise, terminated Tom's career as an exorcist. End of Chapter 7 Recording by Maria Therese


Hi, I'm Chef Vanshika Bhatia and I'm very happy to collaborate with the FAO for the Chef's Challenge, promoting the International Year of Millets 2023.


A powerful explosion has occurred in the Russian city of Belgorod, Russian telegram channels reported. A large pit has been formed at the site of the explosion. Houses and cars near the site of the explosion have been seriously damaged. Casualties have been reported. Although there is no official information available yet, it is believed that the explosion has been caused by a missile strike by the Ukrainian armed forces or by an explosive-laden strides drone.


It's an interesting time because we have sort of a backlash against science. We have people sort of denying climate change. We have people sort of out there putting pseudo-scientific theories out. I think it's a shame perhaps we as scientists haven't really communicated well and that there are people who feel left out of science and that somehow it's for other people, not them. I think everybody can appreciate science.


Hi everyone Joe for jazby's case breaks comm coming at you with a random number block randomizer for all of these teams here That's a lot of teams It's pretty good. You get a you get a block of numbers So should be a lot of fun big. Thanks to this group for getting in on it. They're the numbers right there. Thank you numbers Let's roll it. Let's randomize names and numbers three and a two five times for each one two three four and fifth and final time Sean oh down to Sean oh Three and a two five times for the numbers one two three four and five Zero down to two remember Zero gets you any and all redemptions for that for that group of teams that tab down there including one-of-one redemptions Live one-of-ones will still go to number one So that's for you shana. Oh with oh You also have eight Brian with three Sean with six Brian with five Sean with seven mark with nine Brian with one Sean with four and two Let's sort these numerically coming up in a separate video Will be the break itself jazby's case rakes comm