The Brown Mouse

CHAPTER XXI
A SCHOOL DISTRICT HELD UP

Young McGeehee Simms was loitering along the snowy way to the schoolhouse bearing a brightly scoured tin pail two-thirds full of water. He had been allowed to act as Water Superintendent of the Woodruff School as a reward of merit – said merit being an essay on which he received credit in both language and geography on “Harvesting Wheat in the Tennessee Mountains.” This had been of vast interest to the school in view of the fact that the Simmses were the only pupils in the school who had ever seen in use that supposedly-obsolete harvesting implement, the cradle. Buddy’s essay had been passed over to the class in United States history as the evidence of an eye-witness concerning farming conditions in our grandfathers’ times.

The surnameless Pete, Colonel Woodruff’s hired man, halted Buddy at the door.

“Mr. Simms, I believe?” he said.

“I reckon you must be lookin’ for my brother, Raymond, suh,” said Buddy.

“I am a-lookin’,” said Pete impressively, “for Mr. McGeehee Simms.”

“That’s me,” said Buddy; “but I hain’t been doin’ nothin’ wrong, suh!”

“I have a message here,” said Pete, “for Professor James E. Irwin. He’s what-ho within, there, ain’t he?”

“He’s inside, I reckon,” said Buddy.

“Then will you be so kind and condescendin’ as to stoop so low as to jump so high as to give him this letter?” asked Pete.

Buddy took the letter and was considering of his reply to this remarkable speech, when Pete, gravely saluting, passed on, rather congratulating himself on having staged a very good burlesque of the dignified manners of those queer mountaineers, the Simmses.

“Please come to the meeting to-night,” ran the colonel’s note to Jim; “and when you come, come prepared to hold the district up. If we can’t meet the Pottawatomie County standard of wages, we ought to lose you. Everybody in the district will be there. Come late, so you won’t hear yourself talked about – I should recommend nine-thirty and war-paint.”

It was a crisis, no doubt of that; and the responsibility of the situation rather sickened Jim of the task of teaching. How could he impose conditions on the whole school district? How could the colonel expect such a thing of him? And how could any one look for anything but scorn for the upstart field-hand from these men who had for so many years made him the butt of their good-natured but none the less contemptuous ridicule? Who was he, anyway, to lay down rules for these substantial and successful men – he who had been for all the years of his life at their command, subservient to their demands for labor – their underling? Only one thing kept him from dodging the whole issue and remaining at home – the colonel’s matter-of-fact assumption that Jim had become master of the situation. How could he flee, when this old soldier was fighting so valiantly for him in the trenches? So Jim went to the meeting.

The season was nearing spring, and it was a mild thawy night. The windows of the schoolhouse were filled with heads, evidencing the presence of a crowd of almost unprecedented size, and the sashes had been thrown up for ventilation and coolness. As Jim climbed the back fence of the school-yard, he heard a burst of applause, from which he judged that some speaker had just finished his remarks. There was silence when he came alongside the window at the right of the chairman’s desk, a silence broken by the voice of Old Man Simms, saying “Mistah Chairman!”

“The chair,” said the voice of Ezra Bronson, “recognizes Mr. Simms.”

Jim halted in indecision. He was not expected while the debate was in progress, and therefore regarded himself at this time as somewhat de trop. There is no rule of manners or morals, however, forbidding eavesdropping during the proceedings of a public meeting – and anyhow, he felt rather shiveringly curious about these deliberations. Therefore he listened to the first and last public speech of Old Man Simms.

“Ah ain’t no speaker,” said Old Man Simms, “but Ah cain’t set here and be quiet an’ go home an’ face my ole woman an’ my boys an’ gyuhls withouten sayin’ a word fo’ the best friend any family evah had, Mr. Jim Irwin.” (Applause.) “Ah owe it to him that Ah’ve got the right to speak in this meetin’ at all. Gentlemen, we-all owe everything to Mr. Jim Irwin! Maybe Ah’ll be thought forrard to speak hyah, bein’ as Ah ain’t no learnin’ an’ some may think Ah don’t pay no taxes; but it will be overlooked, I reckon, seein’ as how we’ve took the Blanchard farm, a hundred an’ sixty acres, for five yeahs, an’ move in a week from Sat’day. We pay taxes in our rent, Ah reckon, an’ howsomever that may be, Ah’ve come to feel that you-all won’t think hard of me if Ah speak what we-uns feel so strong about Mr. Jim Irwin?”

Old Man Simms finished this exordium with the rising inflection, which denoted a direct question as to his status in the meeting. “Go on!” “You’ve got as good a right as any one!” “You’re all right, old man!” Such exclamations as these came to Jim’s ears with scarcely less gratefulness than to those of Old Man Simms – who stammered and went on.

“Ah thank you-all kindly. Gentlemen an’ ladies, when Mr. Jim Irwin found us, we was scandalous pore, an’ we was wuss’n pore – we was low-down.” (Cries of “No – No!”) “Yes, we was, becuz what’s respectable in the mountings is one thing, whar all the folks is pore, but when a man gets in a new place, he’s got to lift himse’f up to what folks does where he’s come to, or he’ll fall to the bottom of what there is in that there community – an’ maybe he’ll make a place fer himse’f lower’n anybody else. In the mountings we was good people, becuz we done the best we could an’ the best any one done; but hyah, we was low-down people becuz we hated the people that had mo’ learnin’, mo’ land, mo’ money, an’ mo’ friends than what we had. My little gyuhls wasn’t respectable in their clothes. My childern was igernant, an’ triflin’, but I was the most triflin’ of all. Ah’ll leave it to Colonel Woodruff if I was good fer a plug of terbacker, or a bakin’ of flour at any sto’ in the county. Was I, Colonel? Wasn’t I perfectly wuthless an’ triflin’?”

There was a ripple of laughter, in the midst of which the colonel’s voice was heard saying, “I guess you were, Mr. Simms, I guess you were, but – ”

“Thankee,” said Old Man Simms, as if the colonel had given a really valuable testimonial to his character. “I sho’ was! Thankee kindly! An’now, what am I good fer? Cain’t I get anything I want at the stores? Cain’t I git a little money at the bank, if I got to have it?”

“You’re just as good as any man in the district,” said the colonel. “You don’t ask for more than you can pay, and you can get all you ask.”

“Thankee,” said Mr. Simms gravely. “What Ah tell you-all is right, ladies and gentlemen. An’ what has made the change in we-uns, ladies and gentlemen? It’s the wuk of Mr. Jim Irwin with my boy Raymond, the best boy any man evah hed, and my gyuhl, Calista, an’ Buddy, an’ Jinnie, an’ with me an’ my ole woman. He showed us how to get a toe-holt into this new kentry. He teached the children what orto be did by a rentin’ farmer in Ioway. He done lifted us up, an’ made people of us. He done showed us that you-all is good people, an’ not what we thought you was. Outen what he learned in school, my boy Raymond an’ me made as good crops as we could last summer, an’ done right much wuk outside. We got the name of bein’ good farmers an’ good wukkers, an’ when Mr. Blanchard moved to town, he said he was glad to give us his fine farm for five years. Now, see what Mr. Jim Irwin has done for a pack o’ outlaws and outcasts. Instid o’ hidin’ out from the Hobdays that was lay-wayin’ us in the mountings, we’ll be livin’ in a house with two chimleys an’ a swimmin’ tub made outen crock’ryware. We’ll be in debt a whole lot – an’ we owe it to Mr. Jim Irwin that we got the credit to git in debt with, an’ the courage to go on and git out agin!” (Applause.) “Ah could affo’d to pay Mr. Jim Irwin’s salary mysr’f, if Ah could. An’ there’s enough men hyah to-night that say they’ve been money-he’ped by his teachin’ the school to make up mo’ than his wages. Let’s not let Mr. Jim Irwin go, neighbors! Let’s not let him go!”

Jim’s heart sank. Surely the case was desperate which could call forth such a forlorn-hope charge as that of Old Man Simms – a performance on Mr. Simms’ part which warmed Jim’s soul. “There isn’t a man in that meeting,” said he to himself, as he walked to the schoolhouse door, “possessed of the greatness of spirit of Old Man Simms. If he’s a fair sample of the people of the mountains, they are of the stuff of which great nations are made – if they only are given a chance!”

Colonel Woodruff was on his feet as Jim made his way through the crowd about the door.

“Mr. Irwin is here, ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “and I move that we hear from him as to what we can do to meet the offer of our friends in Pottawatomie County, who have heard of his good work, and want him to work for them; but before I yield the floor, I want to say that this meeting has been worth while just to have been the occasion of our all becoming better acquainted with our friend and neighbor, Mr. Simms. Whatever may have been the lack of understanding, on our part, of his qualities, they were all cleared up by that speech of his – the best I have ever heard in this neighborhood.”

More applause, in the midst of which Old Man Simms slunk away down in his seat to escape observation. Then the chairman said that if there was no objection they would hear from their well-known citizen, whose growing fame was more remarkable for the fact that it had been gained as a country schoolmaster – he need not add that he referred to Mr. James E. Irwin. More and louder applause.

“Friends and neighbors,” said Jim, “you ask me to say to you what I want you to do. I want you to do what you want to do – nothing more nor less. Last year I was glad to be tolerated here; and the only change in the situation lies in the fact that I have another place offered me – unless there has been a change in your feelings toward me and my work. I hope there has been; for I know my work is good now, whereas I only believed it then.”

“Sure it is!” shouted Con Bonner from a front seat, thus signalizing that astute wire-puller’s definite choice of a place in the bandwagon. “Tell us what you want, Jim!”

“What do I want?” asked Jim. “More than anything else, I want such meetings as this – often – and a place to hold them. If I stay in the Woodruff District, I want this meeting to effect a permanent organization to work with me. I can’t teach this district anything. Nobody can teach any one anything. All any teacher can do is to direct people’s activities in teaching themselves. You are gathered here to decide what you’ll do about the small matter of keeping me at work as your hired man. You can’t make any legal decision here, but whatever this meeting decides will be law, just the same, because a majority of the people of the district are here. Such a meeting as this can decide almost anything. If I’m to be your hired man, I want a boss in the shape of a civic organization which will take in every man and woman in the district. Here’s the place and now’s the time to make that organization – an organization the object of which shall be to put the whole district at school, and to boss me in my work for the whole district.”

“Dat sounds good,” cried Haakon Peterson. “Ve’ll do dat!”

“Then I want you to work out a building scheme for the school,” Jim went on. “We want a place where the girls can learn to cook, keep house, take care of babies, sew and learn to be wives and mothers. We want a place in which Mrs. Hansen can come to show them how to cure meat – she’s the best hand at that in the county – where Mrs. Bonner can teach them to make bread and pastry – she ought to be given a doctor’s degree for that – where Mrs. Woodruff can teach them the cooking of turkeys, Mrs. Peterson the way to give the family a balanced ration, and Mrs. Simms induct them into the mysteries of weaving rag rugs and making jellies and preserves – you can all learn these things from her. There’s somebody right in this neighborhood able to teach anything the young people want to learn.

“And I want a physician here once in a while to examine the children as to their health, and a dentist to look after their teeth and teach them how to care for them. Also an oculist to examine their eyes. And when Bettina Hansen comes home from the hospital a trained nurse, I want her to have a job as visiting nurse right here in the Woodruff District.

“I want a counting-room for the keeping of the farm accounts and the record of our observation in farming. I want cooperation in letting us have these accounts.

“I want some manual training equipment for wood-working and metal working, and a blacksmith and wagon shop, in which the boys may learn to shoe horses, repair tools, design buildings, and practise the best agricultural engineering. So I want a blacksmith and handyman with tools regularly on the job – and he’ll more than pay his way. I want some land for actual farming. I want to do work in poultry according to the most modern breeding discoveries, and I want your cooperation in that, and a poultry plant somewhere in the district.

“I want a laboratory in which we can work on seeds, pests, soils, feeds and the like. For the education of your children must come out of these things.

“I want these things because they are necessary if we are to get the culture out of life we should get – and nobody gets culture out of any sort of school – they get it out of life, or they don’t get it at all.

“So I want you to build as freely for your school as for your cattle and horses and hogs.

“The school I ask for will make each of you more money than the taxes it will require would make if invested in your farm equipment. If you are not convinced of this, don’t bother with me any longer. But the money the school will make for you – this new kind of rural school – will be as nothing to the social life which will grow up – a social life which will make necessary an assembly-room, which will be the social center, because it will be the educational center, and the business center of the countryside.

“I want all these things, and more. But I don’t expect them all at once. I know that this district is too small to do all of them, and therefore, I am going to tell you of another want which will tempt you to think that I am crazy. I want a bigger district – one that will give us the financial strength to carry out the program I have sketched. This may be a presumptuous thing for me to propose; but the whole situation here to-night is presumptuous on my part, I fear. If you think so, let me go; but if you don’t, please keep this meeting together in a permanent organization of grown-up members of the Woodruff school, and by pulling together, you can do these things – all of them – and many more – and you’ll make the Woodruff District a good place to live in and die in – and I shall be proud to live and die in it at your service, as the neighborhood’s hired man!”

As Jim sat down there was a hush in the crowded room, as if the people were dazed at his assurance. There was no applause, until Jennie Woodruff, now seen by Jim for the first time over next the blackboard, clapped her gloved hands together and started it; then it swept out through the windows in a storm. The dust rose from stamping feet until the kerosene lamps were dimmed by it. And as the noise subsided, Jim saw standing out in front the stooped form of B. B. Hamm, one of the most prosperous men in the district.

“Mr. Chairman – Ezra Bronson,” he roared, “this feller’s crazy, an’ from the sound of things, you’re all as crazy as he is. If this fool scheme of his goes through, my farm’s for sale! I’ll quit before I’m sold out for taxes!”

“Just a minute, B. B.!” interposed Colonel Woodruff. “This ain’t as dangerous as you think. You don’t want us to do all this in fifteen minutes, do you, Jim?”

“Oh, as to that,” replied Jim, “I just wanted you to have in your minds what I have in my mind – and unless we can agree to work toward these things there’s no use in my staying. But time – that’s another matter. Believe with me, and I’ll work with you.”

“Get out of here!” said the colonel to Jim in an undertone, “and leave the rest to your friends.”

Jim walked out of the room and took the way toward his home. A horse tied to the hitching-pole had his blanket under foot, and Jim replaced it on his back, patting him kindly and talking horse language to him. Then he went up and down the line of teams, readjusting blankets, tying loosened knots, and assuring himself that his neighbors’ horses were securely tied and comfortable. He knew horses better than he knew people, he thought. If he could manage people as he could manage horses – but that would be wrong. The horse did his work as a servant, submissive to the wills of others; the community could never develop anything worth while in its common life, until it worked the system out for itself. Horse management was despotism; man-government must be like the government of a society of wild horses, the result of the common work of the members of the herd.

Two figures emerged from the schoolhouse door, and as he turned toward his home after his pastoral calls on the horses, they overtook him. They were the figures of Newton Bronson and the county superintendent of schools.

“We were coming after you,” said Jennie.

“Dad wants you back there again,” said Newton.

“What for?” inquired Jim.

“You silly boy,” said Jennie, “you talked about the good of the schools all of the time, and never said a word about your own salary! What do you want? They want to know?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Jim in the manner of one who suddenly remembers that he has forgotten his umbrella or his pocket-knife. “I forgot all about it. I haven’t thought about that at all, Jennie!”

“Jim,” said she, “you need a guardian!”

“I know it, Jennie,” said he, “and I know who I want. I want – ”

“Please come back,” said Jennie, “and tell papa how much you’re going to hold the district up for.”

“You run back,” said Jim to Newton, “and tell your father that whatever is right in the way of salary will be satisfactory to me. I leave that to the people.”

Newton darted off, leaving the schoolmaster standing in the road with the county superintendent.

“I can’t go back there!” said Jim.

“I’m proud of you, Jim,” said Jennie. “This community has found its master. They can’t do all you ask now, nor very soon; but finally they’ll do just as you want them to do. And, Jim, I want to say that I’ve been the biggest little fool in the county!”

CHAPTER XXII
AN EMBASSY FROM DIXIE

Superintendent Jennie sat at her desk in no very satisfactory frame of mind. In the first place court was to convene on the following Monday, and both grand jury and petit juries would be in session, so that her one-room office was not to be hers for a few days. Her desk was even now ready to be moved into the hall by the janitor. To Wilbur Smythe, who did her the honor of calling occasionally as the exigencies of his law practise took him past the office of the pretty country girl on whose shapely shoulders rested the burden of the welfare of the schools, she remarked that if they didn’t soon build the new court-house so as to give her such accommodations as her office really needed, “they might take their old office – so there!”

“Fair woman,” said Wilbur, as he creased his Prince Albert in a parting bow, “should adorn the home!”

“Bosh!” sneered Jennie, rather pleased, all the same, “suppose she isn’t fair, and hasn’t any home!”

This question of adorning a home was no nearer settlement with Jennie than it had ever been, though increasingly a matter of speculation.

There were two or three men – rather good catches, too – who, if they were encouraged – but what was there to any of them? Take Wilbur Smythe, now; he would by sheer force of persistent assurance and fair abilities eventually get a good practise for a country lawyer – three or four thousand a year – serve in the legislature or the state senate, and finally become a bank director with a goodly standing as a safe business man; but what was there to him? This is what Jennie asked her paper-weight as she placed it on a pile of unfinished examination papers. And the paper-weight echoed, “Not a thing out of the ordinary!” And then, said Jennie, “Well, you little simpleton, who and what are you so out of the ordinary that you should sneer at Wilbur Smythe and Beckman Fifield and such men?” And echo answered, “What?” – and then the mail-carrier came in.

Down near the bottom of the pile she found this letter, signed by a southern state superintendent of schools, but dated at Kirksville, Missouri:

“I am a member of a party of southern educators – state superintendents in the main,” the letter ran, “en tour of the country to see what we can find of an instructive nature in rural school work. I assure you that we are being richly repaid for the time and expense. There are things going on in the schools here in northeastern Missouri, for instance, which merit much study. We have met Professor Withers, of Ames, who suggests that we visit your schools, and especially the rural school taught by a young man named Irwin, and I wonder if you will be free on next Monday morning, if we come to your office, to direct us to the place? If you could accompany us on the trip, and perhaps show us some of your other excellent schools, we should be honored and pleased. The South is recreating her rural schools, and we are coming to believe that we shall be better workmen if we create a new kind rather than an improvement of the old kind.”

There was more of this courteous and deferential letter, all giving Jennie a sense of being saluted by a fine gentleman in satin and ruffles, and with a plume on his hat. And then came the shock – a party of state officials were coming into the county to study Jim Irwin’s school! They would never come to study Wilbur Smythe’s law practise – never in the world – or her work as county superintendent – never! – and Jim was getting seventy-five dollars a month, and had a mother to support. Moreover, he was getting more than he had asked when the colonel had told him to “hold the district up!” But there could be no doubt that there was something to Jim – the man was out of the ordinary. And wasn’t that just what she had been looking for in her mind?

Jennie wired to her southerner for the number of his party, and secured automobiles for the trip. She sent a note to Jim Irwin telling of the prospective visitation. She would show all concerned that she could do some things, anyhow, and she would send these people on with a good impression of her county.

She was glad of the automobiles the next Monday morning, when at nine-thirty the train discharged upon her a dozen very alert, very up-to-date, very inquisitive southerners, male and female, most of whom seemed to have left their “r’s” in the gulf region. It was eleven when the party parked their machines before the schoolhouse door.

“There are visitors here before us,” said Jennie.

“Seems rather like an educational shrine,” said Doctor Brathwayt, of Mississippi. “How does he accommodate so many visitors in that small edifice?”

“I am not aware,” said Jennie, “that he has been in the habit of receiving so very many from outside the district. Well, shall we go in?”

Once inside, Jennie felt a queer return of her old aversion to Jim’s methods – the aversion which had caused her to criticize him so sharply on the occasion of her first visit. The reason for the return of the feeling lay in the fact that the work going on was of the same sort, but of a more intense character. It was so utterly unlike a school as Jennie understood the word, that she glanced back at the group of educators with a little blush. The school was in a sort of uproar. Not that uproar of boredom and mischief of which most of us have familiar memories, but a sort of eager uproar, in which every child was intensely interested in the same thing; and did little rustling things because of this interest; something like the hum at a football game or a dog-fight.

On one side of the desk stood Jim Irwin, and facing him was a smooth stranger of the old-fashioned lightning-rod-agent type – the shallower and laxer sort of salesman of the kind whose sole business is to get signatures on the dotted line, and let some one else do the rest. In short, he was a “closer.”

Standing back of him in evident distress was Mr. Cornelius Bonner, and grouped about were Columbus Brown, B. B. Hamm, Ezra Bronson, A. B. Talcott and two or three others from outside the Woodruff District. With envelopes in their hands and the light of battle in their eyes stood Newton Bronson, Raymond Simms, Bettina Hansen, Mary Smith and Angie Talcott, the boys filled with delight, the girls rather frightened at being engaged in something like a debate with the salesman.

As the latest-coming visitors moved forward, they heard the schoolmaster finishing his passage at arms with the salesman.

“You should not feel exasperated at us, Mr. Carmichael,” said he in tones of the most complete respect, “for what our figures show. You are unfortunate in the business proposition you offer this community. That is all. Even these children have the facts to prove that the creamery outfit you offer is not worth within two thousand dollars of what you ask for it, and that it is very doubtful if it is the sort of outfit we should need.”

“I’ll bet you a thousand dollars – ” began Carmichael hotly, when Jim waved him down.

“Not with me,” said Jim. “Your friend, Mr. Bonner, there, knows what chance there is for you to bet even a thousand cents with me. Besides, we know our facts, in this school. We’ve been working on them for a long time.”

“Bet your life we have!” interpolated Newton Bronson.

“Before we finish,” said Jim, “I want to thank you gentlemen for bringing in Mr. Carmichael. We have been reading up on the literature of the creamery promoter, and it is a very fine thing to have one in the flesh with whom to – to – demonstrate, if Mr. Carmichael will allow me to say so.”

Carmichael looked at Bonner, made an expressive motion with his head toward the door, and turned as if to leave.

“Well,” said he, “I can do plenty of business with men. If you men want to make the deal I offer you, and I can show you from the statistics I’ve got at the hotel that it’s a special deal just to get started in this part of the state, and carries a thousand dollars of cut in price to you. Let’s leave these children and this he school-ma’am and get something done.”

“I can’t allow you to depart,” said Jim more gently than before, “without thanking you for the very excellent talk you gave us on the advantage of the cooperative creamery over the centralizer. We in this school believe in the cooperative creamery, and if we can get rid of you, Mr. Carmichael, without buying your equipment, I think your work here may be productive of good.”

“He’s off three or four points on the average overrun in the Wisconsin co-ops,” said Newton.

“And we thought,” said Mary Smith, “that we’d need more cows than he said to keep up a creamery of our own.”

“Oh,” replied Jim, “but we mustn’t expect Mr. Carmichael to know the subject as well as we do, children. He makes a practise of talking mostly to people who know nothing about it – and he talks very well. All in favor of thanking Mr. Carmichael please say ‘Aye.’”

There was a rousing chorus of “Aye!” in which Mr. Carmichael, followed closely by Mr. Bonner, made his exit. B. B. Hamm went forward and shook Jim’s hand slowly and contemplatively, as if trying to remember just what he should say.

“James E. Irwin,” said he, “you’ve saved us from being skinned by the smoothest grafter that I ever seen.”

“Not I,” said Jim; “the kind of school I stand for, Mr. Hamm, will save you more than that – and give you the broadest culture any school ever gave. A culture based on life. We’ve been studying life, in this school – the life we all live here in this district.”

“He had a smooth partner, too,” said Columbus Brown. Jim looked at Bonner’s little boy in one of the front seats and shook his head at Columbus warningly.

“If I hadn’t herded ’em in here to ask you a few questions about cooperative creameries,” said Mr. Talcott, “we’d have been stuck – they pretty near had our names. And then the whole neighborhood would have been sucked in for about fifty dollars a name.”

“I’d have gone in for two hundred,” said B. B. Hamm.

“May I call a little meeting here for a minute, Jim?” asked Ezra Bronson. “Why, where’s he gone?”

“They’s some other visitors come in,” said a little girl, pulling her apron in embarrassment at the teacher’s absence.

Jim had, after what seemed to Jennie an interminable while, seen the county superintendent and her distinguished party, and was now engaged in welcoming them and endeavoring to find them seats, – quite an impossible thing at that particular moment, by the way.

“Don’t mind us, Mr. Irwin,” said Doctor Brathwayt. “This is the best thing we’ve seen on our journeyings. Please go on with the proceedin’s. That gentleman seems to have in mind the perfectin’ of some so’t of organization. I’m intensely interested.”

“I’d like to call a little meetin’ here,” said Ezra to the teacher. “Seein’ we’ve busted up your program so far, may we take a little while longer?”

“Certainly,” said Jim. “The school will please come to order.”

The pupils took their seats, straightened their books and papers, and were at attention. Doctor Brathwayt nodded approvingly as if at the answer to some question in his mind.

“Children,” said Mr. Irwin, “you may or may not be interested in what these gentlemen are about to do – but I hope you are. Those who wish may be members of Mr. Bronson’s meeting. Those who do not prefer to do so may take up their regular work.”