FullReads

When the story-teller had concluded amidst a general call for more drinks, Sperry approached the driver. The latter recognizing him, turned to his companion carelessly, said, “Here’s one of ’em,” and was going away when Sperry stopped him.

“We were expecting a young man.”

“Yes,” said the driver, impatiently, “and there he is, I reckon.”

“We don’t mean the new expressman,” said the minister, smiling blandly, “but a young man who”–

“THAT ain’t no new expressman,” returned the driver in scornful deprecation of his interlocutor’s ignorance. “He only took Hill’s place from Montezuma. He’s the new kid reviver and polisher for that University you’re runnin’ here. I say–you fellers oughter get him to tell you that story of Sam Barstow and the Chinaman. It’d limber you fellers up to hear it.”

“I fear there’s some extraordinary mistake here,” said Mr. Peaseley, with a chilling Christian smile.

“Not a bit of it. He’s got a letter from Sam for one of ye. Yere, Charley–what’s your name! Com yere. Yere’s all yer three bosses waiting for ye.”

And the supposed expressman and late narrator of amusing stories came forward and presented his credentials as the assistant teacher of Pine Clearing.

CHAPTER II.

Even the practical Mr. Sperry was taken aback. The young man before him was squarely built, with broad shoulders, and a certain air of muscular activity. But his face, although good-humored, was remarkable for offering not the slightest indication of studious preoccupation or mental training. A large mouth, light blue eyes, a square jaw, the other features being indistinctive–were immobile as a mask–except that, unlike a mask, they seemed to actually reflect the vacuity of the mood within, instead of concealing it. But as he saluted the trustees they each had the same feeling that even this expression was imported and not instinctive. His face was clean-shaven, and his hair cut so short as to suggest that a wig of some kind was necessary to give it characteristic or even ordinary human semblance. His manner, self-assured yet lacking reality, and his dress of respectable cut and material, yet worn as if it did not belong to him, completed a picture as unlike a student or schoolmaster as could be possibly conceived.

Yet there was the letter in Mr. Peaseley’s hands from Barstow, introducing Mr. Charles Twing as the first assistant teacher in the Pine Clearing Free Academy!

The three men looked hopelessly at each other. An air of fatigued righteousness and a desire to be spiritually at rest from other trials pervaded Mr. Peaseley. Whether or not the young man felt the evident objection he had raised, he assumed a careless position, with his back and elbows against the bar; but even the attitude was clearly not his own.

“Are you personally known to Mr. Barstow?” asked Sperry, with a slight business asperity.

“Yes.”

“That is–you are quite well acquainted with him?”

“If you’d heard me gag his style a minute ago, so that everybody here knew who it was, you’d say so.”

Mr. Peaseley’s eyes sought the ceiling, and rested on the hanging lamp, as if nothing short of direct providential interference could meet the occasion. Yet, as the eyes of his brother trustees were bent on him expectantly, he nerved himself to say something.

“I suppose, Mr.–Mr. Twing, you have properly understood the great–I may say, very grave, intellectual, and moral responsibilities of the work you seek to undertake–and the necessity of supporting it by EXAMPLE, by practice, by personal influence both in the school and OUT OF IT. Sir, I presume, sir, you feel that you are fully competent to undertake this?”

“I reckon HE does!”

“WHO does?”

“Sam Barstow, or he wouldn’t have selected me. I presume” (with the slightest possible and almost instinctive imitation of the reverend gentleman’s manner) “his head is considered level.”

Mr. Peaseley withdrew his eyes from the ceiling. “I have,” he said to his companions, with a pained smile, “an important choir meeting to attend this afternoon. I fear I must be excused.” As he moved towards the door, the others formally following him, until out of the stranger’s hearing, he added: “I wash my hands of this. After so wanton and unseemly an exhibition of utter incompetency, and even of understanding of the trust imposed upon him–upon US–MY conscience forbids me to interfere further. But the real arbiter in this matter will be–thank Heaven!–the mistress herself. You have only to confront her at once with this man. HER decision will be speedy and final. For even Mr. Barstow will not dare to force so outrageous a character upon a delicate, refined woman, in a familiar and confidential capacity.”