prepare him to earn his living in some useful way.”
“Kind philanthropist!” exclaimed Socrates. “He ought, indeed, to be grateful.”
“I doubt if he will,” said Mr. Roscoe, shrugging his shoulders. “He has a proud spirit, and a high idea of his own position, though he is of unknown parentage, and has nothing of his own.”
“Indeed!”
“I merely wish to say that you do not need to treat him as if he were my nephew. It is best to be strict with him, and make him conform to the rules.”
“I will, indeed, Mr. Roscoe. Would that all guardians of youth were as judicious! Your wishes shall be regarded.”
After a little more conversation, Allan Roscoe took his leave.
So, under auspices not the most pleasant, Hector’s school life began.
CHAPTER VII. THE TYRANT OF THE PLAYGROUND
Under the guidance of the lank boy, named Wilkins, Hector left Mr. Smith’s office, and walked to a barren-looking plot of ground behind the house, which served as a playground for the pupils of Smith Institute.
Wilkins scanned the new arrival closely.
“I say, Roscoe,” he commenced, “what made you come here?”
“Why do boys generally come to school?” returned Hector.
“Because they have to, I suppose,” answered Wilkins.
“I thought they came to study.”
“Oh, you’re one of that sort, are you?” asked Wilkins, curiously.
“I hope to learn something here.”
“You’ll get over that soon,” answered Wilkins, in the tone of one who could boast of a large experience.
“I hope not. I shall want to leave school if I find I can’t learn here.”
“Who is it that brought you here—your father?”
“No, indeed!” answered Hector, quickly, for he had no desire to be considered the son of Allan Roscoe.
“Uncle, then?”
“He is my guardian,” answered Hector, briefly.
They were by this time in the playground. Some dozen boys were playing baseball. They were of different ages and sizes, ranging from ten to nineteen. The oldest and largest bore such a strong personal resemblance to Socrates Smith, that Hector asked if he were his son.
“No,” answered Wilkins; “he is old Sock’s nephew.”
“Who is old Sock?”
“Smith, of course. His name is Socrates, you know. Don’t let him catch you calling him that, though.”
“What sort of a fellow is this nephew?” asked Hector.
“He’s a bully. He bosses the boys. It’s best to keep on the right side of Jim.”
“Oh, is it?” inquired Hector, smiling slightly.
“Well, I should say so.”
“Suppose you don’t?”
“He’ll give you a thrashing.”
“Does his uncle allow that?”
“Yes; I think he rather likes it.”
“Don’t the boys resist?”
“It won’t do any good. You see, Jim’s bigger than any of us.”
Hector took a good look at this redoubtable Jim Smith.
He was rather loosely made, painfully homely, and about five feet nine inches in height. Nothing more need be said, as, in appearance, he closely resembled his uncle.
Jim Smith soon gave Hector an opportunity of verifying the description given of him by Wilkins.
The boy at the bat had struck a ball to the extreme boundary of the field. The fielder at that point didn’t go so fast as Jim, who was pitcher, thought satisfactory, and he called out in a rough, brutal tone:
“If you don’t go quicker, Archer, I’ll kick you all round the field.”
Hector looked at Wilkins inquiringly.
“Does he mean that?” he asked.
“Yes, he does.”
“Does he ever make such a brute of himself?”
“Often.”
“And the boys allow it?”
“They can’t help it.”
“So, it seems, you have a tyrant of the school?”
“That’s just it.”
“Isn’t there any boy among you to teach the fellow better manners? You must be cowards to submit.”
“Oh, you’ll find out soon that you must submit, too,” said Wilkins.
Hector smiled.
“You don’t know me yet,” he said.
“What could you do against Jim? He’s three or four inches taller than you. How old are you?”
“I shall be sixteen next month.”
“And he is nineteen.”
“That may be; but he’d better not try to order me round.”
“You’ll sing a different tune in a day or two,” said Wilkins.
By this time Jim Smith had observed the new arrival.
“What’s that you’ve got with you, Wilkins?” he demanded, pausing in his play.
“The new boy.”
“Who’s he?”
“His name is Roscoe.”
“Ho! Hasn’t he got any other name?” asked Jim, meaningly.
Wilkins had forgotten the new arrival’s first name, and said so.
“What’s your name, Roscoe?” asked Jim, in the tone of a superior.
Hector resented this tone, and, though he had no objection, under ordinary circumstances, to answering the question, he did not choose to gratify his present questioner.
“I don’t happen to have a card with me,” he answered, coldly.
“Oh, that’s your answer, is it?” retorted Jim, scenting insubordination with undisguised pleasure, for he always liked the task of subduing a new boy.
“Yes.”
