Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute by Jr. Horatio Alger (short novels to read .txt) 📕

walk. In a rustic lane, much to his delight, he saw approaching him one of the boys who had so seriously offended him.

It was Ben Platt.

Ben was sauntering along in idle mood when he came face to face with the dethroned boss.

“So it’s you, Platt, is it?” said Jim, grimly.

“I believe it is,” answered Ben, coolly.

“I’ve got a word or two to say to you,” said Jim, significantly.

“Say them quick,” said Ben, “for I’m in a hurry.”

“I’m not,” said Jim, in his old tone, “and it makes no difference whether you are or not.”

“Indeed! you are as polite as usual,” returned Ben.

“Look here, you young whelp!” Jim broke forth, unable any longer to restrain his wrath, “what, did you mean by lying about me last evening?”

“I didn’t lie about you,” said Ben, boldly.

“Yes, you did. What made you say you saw me put that wallet into Roscoe’s pocket?”

“I can’t think of any reason, unless because it was true,” said Ben.

“Even if it were, how dared you turn against me? First you play the spy, and then informer. Paugh!”

“I see you admit it,” said Ben. “Well, if you want an answer I will give you one. You laid a plot for Hector Roscoe—one of the meanest, dirtiest plots I ever heard of, and I wasn’t going to see you lie him into a scrape while I could prevent it.”

“That’s enough, Platt!” exclaimed Jim, furiously. “Now, do you know what I am going to do?”

“I don’t feel particularly interested in the matter.”

“You will be, then. I am going to thrash you.”

“You wouldn’t if Hector Roscoe were here,” said Ben, not appearing to be much frightened.

“Well, he isn’t here, though if he were it wouldn’t make any difference. I’ll whip you so you can’t stand.”

Ben’s reply was to call “Wilkins!”

From a clump of bushes, where he had lurked, unobserved hitherto, sprang Wilkins, and joined his friend.

“There are two of us, Smith!” said Ben Platt.

“I can thrash you both,” answered Jim, whose blood was up.

Before the advent of Hector no two boys would have ventured to engage Jim in combat, but his defeat by a boy considerably smaller had lost him his prestige, and the boys had become more independent. He still fancied himself a match for both, however, and the conflict began. But both of his antagonists were in earnest, and Jim had a hard time.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Crabb, the usher, was taking a solitary walk, and had approached the scene of conflict unobserved by any of the participants. He arrived at an opportune time. Jim had managed to draw Wilkins away, and by a quick movement threw him. He was about to deal his prostrate foe a savage kick, which might have hurt him seriously, when the usher, quiet and peaceful as he was by nature, could restrain himself no longer. He rushed up, seized him by the collar, dragged him back and shook him with a strength he did not suppose he possessed, saying:

“Leave that boy alone, you brute!”

Jim turned quickly, and was very much surprised when he saw the meek usher, whom he had always despised, because he looked upon him as a Miss Nancy.

“So it’s you, is it?” he said, with a wicked glance.

“Yes, it is I,” answered the usher, manfully; “come up just in time to stop your brutality.”

“Is it any of your business?” demanded Jim, looking as if he would like to thrash the usher.

“I have made it my business. Platt and Wilkins, I advise you to join me, and leave this fellow, who has so disgraced himself as to be beneath your notice.”

“We will accompany you with pleasure, sir,” said the boys.

They regarded the usher with new respect for this display of courage, for which they had not given him credit.

“I’ll fix you, Crabb,” said Jim Smith, insolently, “and don’t you forget it!”

Mr. Crabb did not deign to answer him.

Jim Smith was as good as his word.

An hour later Mr. Crabb was summoned to the presence of the principal.

Socrates received him with marked coldness.

“Mr. Crabb,” he said, “I cannot conceal the amazement I feel at a complaint which has just been made by my nephew.”

“Well, sir?”

Mr. Crabb had nerved himself for the worst, and did not cower or show signs of fear, as Socrates expected he would.

“James tells me that you attacked him savagely this afternoon when he was having a little sport with two of his schoolfellows.”

“Is that what he says, Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, sir, and I require an explanation.”

“You shall have it. The sport in which your nephew was engaged was attempting to thrash Wilkins. He had him down, and was about to deal him a savage kick when I fortunately came up.”

“And joined in the fight,” sneered Socrates.

“Yes, if you choose to put it so. Would you have had me stand by, and see Wilkins brutally used?”

“Of course, you color the affair to suit yourself,” said Socrates, coldly. “The fact is that you, an usher, have lowered yourself by taking part in a playful schoolboy contest.”

“Playful!” repeated Mr. Crabb.

“Yes, and I shall show how I regard it by giving you notice that I no longer require your services in my school. I shall pay you up at the end of the week and then discharge you.”

“Mr. Smith,” said the usher, “permit me to say that anything more disgraceful than your own conduct within the last twenty-four hours I have never witnessed. You have joined your nephew in a plot to disgrace an innocent boy, declining to do justice, and now you have capped the climax by censuring me for stopping an act of brutality, merely because your nephew was implicated in it!”

“This to me?” exclaimed Socrates Smith, hardly crediting the testimony of his ears.

“Yes, sir, and more! I predict that the stupid folly which has characterized your course will, within six months, drive from you every scholar you have