Alger Horatio Jr.
Julius, The Street Boy
CHAPTER XIX.
MR. SLOCUM AS AN ORATOR
“Next Wednesday afternoon the boys will all speak pieces,” Mr. Slocum announced. “You may select any pieces you please. At the celebrated institution in Maine, from which I graduated, we used to speak pieces every week. You may be interested to know that your teacher gained a great reputation by his speaking. ‘Theophilus,’ said the principal to me one day, I never had a student under my instruction who could equal you in speaking. There is no one who can do such justice to Daniel Webster, and other great orators of antiquity. You are a natural orator, and eloquence comes natural to you.’ This was a high compliment, as you will agree; but it was deserved. The principal put it to vote whether a prize should be offered for speaking, but the students voted against it; ‘for,’ they said, ‘Slocum will be sure to get it, and it will do us no good.’ I hope, boys, you will do your best, so that I may be able to compliment you.”
The scholars were not a little amused at this illustration of their teacher’s self-conceit, which was quite in keeping with previous exhibitions of the same weakness.
“I wish Mr. Slocum would favor us with a specimen of his declamation,” said John Sandford, at recess.
“He must be a regular steam engine,” said Walter Pratt; “that is, according to his own account.”
“The principal of the celebrated institution in Maine thought a good deal of Theophilus,” said Julius.
“What a phenomenon he must have been!” said Tom Allen. “He appears to have stood first in everything.”
“But he seems to forget easy,” said Frank Bent. “Complex fractions are too much for him.”
“Well, how about asking him to speak?” resumed John Sandford. “Who goes in for it?”
“I,” said Julius.
“And I.”
“And I.”
“Who shall go up and ask him?”
“Go yourself, John.”
“All right, boys. I’ll do it, if you say so. But I am afraid I can’t keep a straight face.”
So John went back into school just before the bell rang, and approached the teacher’s desk.
“What’s wanted, Sandford?” said Mr. Slocum.
“The boys want to know, Mr. Slocum, if you will be willing to speak a piece for us on Wednesday. You see, sir, we never heard any good speaking, and we think it would improve us if we could hear a good speaker now and then.”
As may be inferred from his habit of boasting, Mr. Slocum was very accessible to flattery, and listened graciously to this request. John was perfectly sober, though he was laughing inside, as he afterward said; and the teacher never dreamed of a plot to expose and ridicule him.
“You are quite right, Sandford,” said he, graciously; “it would undoubtedly be very beneficial to you, and I will look over one of my old pieces, and see if I can remember it. I am glad to see that the boys are anxious to improve in the important branch of declamation.”
John carried to the boys the news of his success, which was received with a great deal of interest. Though most of the boys thought it irksome to commit a piece to memory, and had no ambition to become orators, all went to work willingly, feeling that they should be repaid by hearing the “master” speak.
“Speaking” was new business to Julius. During his very brief school attendance in New York he had not been sufficiently advanced to declaim, and he felt a little apprehensive about his success. He chose an extract from one of Webster’s speeches, and carefully committed it, reciting it at home to Mr. Taylor, from whom he received several suggestions, which he found of value. The result was that he acquitted himself quite creditably.
“I wonder whether the master’ll speak first,” said John Sandford, and there were others who wondered also; but Mr. Slocum had not announced his intentions on this point. But when the scholars were assembled on Wednesday afternoon, he said: “I have promised you that I will give you this afternoon a specimen of my speaking, and I have selected one of the pieces that I was distinguished for, when I was connected with one of the most celebrated institutions in the State of Maine. I will wait, however, until you are all through, as I do not like to discourage you in your inexperienced efforts. I will wind up the speaking by ascending the rostrum after your declamation is finished.”
One after another the boys spoke. One boy, of thirteen, rather inappropriately had selected the well-known little poem, commencing
“You’d scarce expect one of my age
To speak in public on the stage.”
“That piece is rather too young for you,” said Mr. Slocum, when he had taken his seat. “I remember speaking that piece when I was two years old. I was considered a very forward baby, and my parents were very proud of me; so they invited some company, and in the course of the evening they stood me up on a table, and I spoke the piece you have just listened to. Even now I can remember, though it is so long ago, how the company applauded, and how the minister came up to me, and, putting his hand on my head, said: ‘Theophilus, the day will come when your father will be proud of you. You will live to be a credit to the whole Slocum family.’ Then he turned to my father, and said: ‘Mr. Slocum, I congratulate you on the brilliant success of your promising son. He is indeed a juvenile “progedy”’”—this was Mr. Slocum’s word—“‘and the world will yet hear of him.’ Such was my first introduction to the world as an orator, and I have always enjoyed speaking from that time. I hope that some of my pupils will also become distinguished in the same way.”
“I wish he’d speak that piece now,” whispered Julius to his next neighbor.
“Isn’t he a conceited jackass?” was the reply.
“He must have been a beautiful baby,” said Julius, comically.
“A regular phenomenon in petticoats.”
“What are you laughing at?” demanded Mr. Slocum, sternly.
“Julius said he wished you would speak that piece you spoke when you were two years old.”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” said the teacher, seriously. “I like best now to declaim the sonorous sentences of Daniel Webster and Patrick Henry. If I should ever enter public life, as my friends have tried at times to persuade me, I think I should adopt their style. Frank Bent, it is your turn to speak.”
At last the scholars had all spoken, and in expectant silence Mr. Slocum’s “piece” was awaited by the boys.
“Boys,” he said, arising with dignity, and advancing to the platform, “I should like to speak a piece from Webster; but I have forgotten those I once knew, and I will favor you with one of a lighter character, called ‘The Seminole’s Reply.’”
Mr. Slocum took his place on the rostrum, as he liked to call it, made a low bow to the boys, struck an attitude, and began to declaim at the top of his voice. The first two stanzas are quoted here, in order to show more clearly the character of Mr. Slocum’s declamation:
“Blaze, with your serried columns!
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne’er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I’ve mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempest muttered low,
And when it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!
“I’ve seared ye in the city,
I’ve scalped ye on the plain;
Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty!
The paleface I defy!
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And blood my battle cry!”
No fault could be found with Mr. Slocum on the score of animation. He exerted his voice to the utmost, stamped with his foot, and when he came to “the arm which now is free,” he shook his first at the boys in a most savage way. But his most effective gesture occurred in the second line of the second verse, where, in illustrating the act of scalping, he gathered with one hand his luxuriant red hair, and with the other made a pass at it with an imaginary tomahawk.
The boys cheered vociferously, which encouraged Mr. Slocum to further exertions. Nothing could exceed the impressive dignity with which he delivered the concluding half of the fourth stanza:
“But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red
And warns ye, Come not here!”
The gravity of the boys, however, was endangered by a too appropriate gesture. When Mr. Slocum wished to designate the scalp of vengeance as still red, he pointed to his own hair, which, as has been said, was of a decided red tint.
The two concluding lines of the poem, as many of my readers, to whom it is familiar, will doubtless remember, are these:
“But I’ll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave.”
This Mr. Slocum illustrated by going through the motions of swimming with his hands, much to the delight of the boys.
When the orator had concluded his effort, and with a low bow resumed his seat, the boys applauded uproariously. Mr. Slocum’s vanity was flattered, and he arose to acknowledge the compliment.
“Boys,” he said, “I am glad to find that you appreciate my efforts to instruct you. Don’t be discouraged because you cannot yet speak as well as I do. Keep on in your efforts. Let your motto ever be Excelsior! and the time will perhaps come when you will receive the applause of listening multitudes. The school is now dismissed.”
“Wasn’t it rich, Julius?” asked John Sandford, when they were walking home. “I never wanted to laugh so much in all my life. But the best of it was about the red scalp.”
“You’re envious, John. That’s the reason you ridicule Mr. Slocum’s speaking. I’m afraid you’ll never be as great an orator as he is.”
“I hope not,” said John.
CHAPTER XX.
MR. SLOCUM’S PANIC
Had Mr. Slocum become in after years a distinguished man, and in due time a biography had been called for, some one of the scholars who had the great privilege of receiving his instructions would have been admirably qualified, so far as information went, to perform the task of writing it; for, as we have seen, the teacher took frequent occasion to illustrate points that came up in the day’s lessons by narratives drawn from his own personal experience. One day, for instance, when in the class in geography a certain locality was spoken of as abounding in bears, Mr. Slocum indulged in a reminiscence.
Laying down the book on his desk, he said: “I myself once had an adventure with a bear, which I will narrate for your entertainment.”
Mr. Slocum’s stories were always listened to with close attention, in the confident expectation that they would be found to redound greatly to his credit. So the boys looked up, and exhibited a gratifying interest on the part of the class.
“You must know,” said the teacher, “that we have extensive forests in Maine, in some of which wild animals are to be found. One day, when a mere boy, I wandered into the woods with some of my school companions. We were hunting for squirrels. All at once an immense bear walked around from behind a tree, and faced us, not more than fifty feet away. Most of the boys were frightened, for we had no guns with us. We knew that if we climbed the trees the bear could climb after us. So, as they looked upon me as a leader, they turned to me, and said, ‘Theophilus, what shall we do? The bear will kill us,’ and one of the smallest boys began to cry. But I was not frightened,” continued Mr. Slocum, impressively. “I was always noted for my presence of mind even as a boy.
“‘Don’t be frightened, boys,’ I said, ‘I will save you.’
“I had heard that nearly all beasts are afraid of the human eye. So I advanced slowly toward the savage beast, fixing my eye sternly upon him all the while.”
Here Mr. Slocum glared upon the boys, by way of illustrating the manner in which he regarded the bear.
“The result was what I expected. The bear tried to sustain my steady gaze, but in vain. Slowly he turned, and sought the solitudes of the forest, leaving us in safety. When my companions found that they were saved, they crowded around me, and said, with tears in their eyes, ‘Theophilus, you have saved our lives!’ When we returned home,” Mr. Slocum added, complacently, “the fame of my bravery got about, and the parents of the boys clubbed together, and bought a gold medal, which they presented to me out of gratitude for what I had done.”
“Have you got it with you, sir?” asked one of the class.
“I am sorry to say that I have not,” answered the teacher. “I was afraid I might lose it, and so I left it on deposit in a bank, before I left Maine for the West.”
“Do you believe that bear story, John?” asked Julius, of John Sandford, when they were walking home from school together.
“No, I don’t.”
“Nor do I.”
“The fact is, Mr. Slocum is the biggest blower I ever met with. I don’t believe half the stories that he tells about himself. If they were true, he would be, I think, one of the most remarkable men that ever lived. I don’t believe he’s as brave as he pretends.”
“Suppose we find out.”
“How can we?”
“Has he ever seen your bear?”
“I don’t think he has. We never let it out into the road.”
“Can’t we manage to have him fall in with the bear some evening, John?” asked Julius. “It would be fun to see him try to stare the old fellow out of countenance.”
“That’s a splendid idea, Julius. I’m in for it, but I don’t see exactly how we can manage it.”
“I’ll tell you. He goes by your house sometimes in the evening, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. He told me once he walked in order to commune with Nature.”
“Well, I propose that he shall commune with the bear once, by way of variety.”
“Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”
“Have the bear close by, and just after he has passed let him out—the bear, I mean. Then run by Mr. Slocum, appearing to be in a great fright, and tell him there’s a bear after him.”
“Good!” said John, shaking with laughter. “But you must help me.”
“So I will.”
“It will be easier for one reason,” said John. “I have taught the bear to run after me, and as soon as he sees me ahead he will begin to run too.”
“Let it be to-morrow evening. What time does Mr. Slocum go by?”
“About seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be around at your house then at half-past six.”
“Would you tell the rest of the boys?”
“Not till afterward. If they come around, and there is a crowd, we may not be able to carry out our plan.”
“He’ll be mad with us when he finds out our game.”
“Let him be mad. We’ll look him in the eye, and he’ll turn tail and flee.”
* * * * * * * * *
The next evening two boys might have been seen crouching behind the wall bordering a large field belonging to Mr. Sandford. The bear was peacefully reclining beside them. From time to time the boys took observations, with a view to discover whether the enemy was in sight.
“I am afraid he isn’t coming,” said Julius. “That would be a joke on us.”
“He can’t be so mean, when we have made such preparations to receive him.”
“I think he would if he only knew what they are.”
“Hush! there he is.”
In the distance the stately figure of the teacher was seen, walking with dignified composure. Mr. Theophilus Slocum always walked as if he felt that the eyes of the world were upon him. He realized that he was a personage of no little importance, and that it behooved him to shape his walk and conversation accordingly.
The hearts of the boys beat high with anticipation. At length they heard the teacher go by.
“Now for it!” said Julius.
“Now is the time to try men’s soles!” said John. “Can you run?”
“You’ll see.”
Through an opening they emerged into the road, followed by the bear. Mr. Slocum was now about fifty feet in advance.
“Now scream!” said Julius.
The boys uttered a shriek, and began to run at the top of their speed. The bear, as he had been trained, tried to keep up with them. Mr. Slocum turned around, and saw the fleeing boys, and behind them the huge, unwieldy bear getting rapidly over the ground. He knew it was a bear, for he had once seen one at a menagerie.
“Oh, Mr. Slocum, save us!” implored Julius, appearing greatly frightened.
“There’s a bear after us,” chimed in John. “Don’t let him kill us.”
Now the teacher had never heard of Mr. Sandford’s bear. He was not aware that one was kept in the village. He supposed that this one had strayed from the forest, and was dangerous. Alas! that I should record it—instead of bravely turning, and facing the animal, Theophilus turned pale with terror, and exerting his long limbs to the utmost, fled incontinently, shooting ahead of the boys, whom he didn’t pause to rescue, coattails flying, and, having lost his hat in his flight, with his red hair waving in the wind.
When John and Julius saw the tall figure speeding before them, and saw the panic into which their eminent instructor had been thrown through their mischievous means, a sense of the ridiculous so overcame them that they sank down in the path, convulsed with laughter. But Mr. Slocum didn’t see this, for he never stopped till he had run half a mile, when he bolted into the village store, panting and out of breath, and answered the eager inquiries of the men who were congregated there, by giving an alarming account of a ferocious bear which had closely pursued him for two miles.
“Is it Sandford’s bear?” asked one of his auditors.
“Does Mr. Sandford keep a bear?” asked Theophilus.
“Yes; he has a large one. But it is quite tame. It wouldn’t hurt a child.”
“Why,” said the teacher, bewildered, “Mr. Sandford’s son, John, was running away from him. Julius Taylor was with him. They told me that a bear was after them, and asked me to save them.”
Mr. Slocum was hardly prepared for the laugh which followed. The joke was understood at once.
“I think, Mr. Slocum,” said the storekeeper, “that the boys were playing a trick upon you. They probably let out the bear just after you passed by. You didn’t stop to save them, did you?”
“No,” stammered Theophilus, beginning to look foolish, for he, too, understood the joke now, and saw that it would be hard to reconcile his conduct this evening with his bravery as a boy.
For almost the first time in his life he had absolutely nothing to say. He left the store, and retraced his steps in the hope of finding his hat. In this he was successful, but neither John, Julius, nor the bear was visible. The boys were in Mr. Sandford’s barn, laughing over the joke, and beginning to wonder whether Mr. Slocum would say anything about it in school the next day.
CHAPTER XXI.
A REVOLUTION IN SCHOOL
Mr. Slocum was terribly annoyed by what had happened. It seemed impossible to explain his flight in any way that would reflect credit upon himself. He could not pretend that it was all a joke, for he had shown himself too much in earnest in the village store, where he had taken refuge, for this to be believed. Though not remarkable for sense, Mr. Slocum knew that if he should undertake to punish Julius and John for their agency in the affair, he would only give it greater publicity. He felt a strong desire to do this, however, and would have derived great comfort from flogging them both. Finally he decided not to refer to the matter in school, and in this decision he was unusually discreet.
Of course Julius and John did not keep the matter secret. When Mr. Slocum came up the school-house hill, the next morning, there was not a scholar in the school who had not heard of his adventure, and the teacher, in his hurried glance at his pupils, detected a look of sly meaning, which revealed to him the fact that all was known. Julius and John were among the rest, looking very demure and innocent. Mr. Slocum saw them, too, out of the corner of his eye, and he determined to seize the first chance that presented itself of flogging each.
The school opened. Julius was doubtful whether any reference would be made to the bear. He rather expected a speech, but Mr. Slocum disappointed him. He heard the classes as usual, but refrained from making any remarks of a biographical character. His self-complacency had been severely disturbed, and he looked severe and gloomy.
He watched Julius and John, hoping to detect something in their conduct which would justify him in punishing them; but they, too, were unusually quiet, as rogues are apt to be just after a successful trick.
At length, however, something happened which led to an explosion.
Tom Allen, who has been described as the oldest and largest boy in school, sat directly behind Julius. He was not a brilliant scholar, but he had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and had been very much amused by the account of the teacher’s narrow escape from Mr. Sandford’s bear. He had a little taste for drawing, of which he occasionally made use. After finishing his sums, having a few idle moments, he occupied himself with drawing on his slate a caricature of Mr. Slocum pursued by the bear. There was enough resemblance in the portraits, both of the man and the animal, to make the subject of the picture unmistakable. It was, as was natural, slightly caricatured, so that the effect was ludicrous.
Desiring his effort to be appreciated, he passed the slate to Julius, who sat in front of him. Our hero was easy to make laugh, and he no sooner cast his eyes over the picture than he burst into audible laughter. This was the occasion that Mr. Slocum had been waiting for. Laughter was against the rules of the school—it was disorderly—and would give him an excuse for the punishment he was so strongly desirous of inflicting. He strode to the desk of Julius while the latter was still looking at the slate. Mr. Slocum, too, saw it, and his fury was increased, for he recognized the subject only too well.
Seizing Julius by the collar, he jerked him out upon the floor, saying, in a voice of concentrated passion: “So, sir, you are drawing pictures instead of studying. I’ll give you a lesson.”
“I didn’t draw it,” said Julius.
“I’ll flog you for telling a lie,” exclaimed the excited teacher.
Julius was about to repeat his disclaimer, but it was made unnecessary. Tom Allen arose quietly in his seat, and said: “Julius is perfectly right, Mr. Slocum; he didn’t draw the picture.”
“Who did, then?” asked the teacher, pausing in his contemplated punishment.
“I did,” said Tom, coolly. “If you want to punish anybody for doing it, you’ll have to punish me.”
This was very disagreeable intelligence for Mr. Slocum. Tom Allen was a stout, broad-shouldered, immensely powerful young fellow, standing five feet ten inches in his stockings. There are few teachers who would not have fought shy of punishing, or attempting to punish, such a formidable scholar. Mr. Slocum was disconcerted at the interruption, and did not care about undertaking such a doubtful job. Neither did he want to release Julius from his clutches. He knew that he could punish him, and he meant to do it. A lucky thought came to him.
“I do not punish him for drawing the picture,” he said, “but for disturbing the order of the school by laughing at it.”
“I couldn’t help laughing at it,” exclaimed our hero.
“Nor could any of the other scholars,” said Tom Allen; and taking the slate from the desk before him, he held it up, and exhibited it to the other scholars. It was recognized at once, and there was a general shout of laughter.
Mr. Slocum looked about him with an angry scowl, and his temper was fairly aroused, so that he became, to a certain extent, regardless of consequences.
“I won’t let you off,” he said to Julius, tightening his grasp on the boy’s collar.
“What are you punishing him for?” asked Tom Allen, quietly.
“For laughing out in school.”
“The rest of the scholars have done the same. Are you going to punish them, too?”
“I shall punish some of them,” said the teacher, with a smile of complacent malice. “John Sandford laughed loudest. His turn will come next.”
By this time it was very clear to all present what the two boys were to be punished for. The laughing was only a pretext. They were to be flogged for their participation in the practical joke of the day before.
“Mr. Slocum,” said Tom Allen, “I am the greatest offender. The boys only laughed, but I drew the picture.”
“You did not laugh,” said Mr. Slocum, uneasily.
“Still, if anybody is to be punished, I am the one. Here is my hand. You may ferule me, if you like.”
Tom Allen’s hand was hardened by labor, and he would not have minded the feruling in the least. But Mr. Slocum had no desire to ferule Tom. His animosity was not excited against him, but against Julius and John. He wanted to punish them, and so wipe out the grudge he had against them.
“I don’t choose to punish you,” said Theophilus, “though you have been guilty of inciting disorder.”
“Why not?” asked Tom. “I shall not resist; that is, if you only ferule me.”
“There is no need of giving my reasons,” said Mr. Slocum, stubbornly. “I have on more than one occasion noticed the insubordinate spirit of Julius Taylor and John Sandford; and it is due to myself that I should punish them, and I intend to do it now.”
He was preparing to punish Julius, and evidently would not have spared the rod to spoil the child, when Tom Allen interfered again.
“Mr. Slocum,” said he, stepping out from behind the desk, “I’ve got a word to say in this matter. You shall not punish Julius!”
“What!” roared Theophilus, almost foaming at the mouth. “Do you know whom you are talking to?”
“I know that I am talking to a man in a passion, who wants to do an injustice,” said Tom. “I am willing to do what’s right, and I have offered to let you ferule me; but I won’t stand by and see an innocent boy suffer for what he couldn’t help.”
“You are a rebel! I will expel you from school!” exclaimed Mr. Slocum.
“I won’t go,” said Tom, “as long as there are boys here who need my protection. I have got Julius into a scrape, and I won’t let him be punished for my fault. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
“And this is what I’ve got to say,” retorted the furious teacher, bringing down the rod on the shoulders of Julius, who was struggling in his grasp.
Then Tom Allen thought it was time to act. He tore the rod from Mr. Slocum’s grasp, and flung it to the other side of the room. The astonished teacher loosened his grasp, and Tom, forcibly drawing him away, told him to take his seat. Then Mr. Slocum lost all prudence. His face fiery with rage, he pitched into Tom Allen, and there was a rough-and-tumble fight, in which Tom had the best of it. At this most unlucky time one of the trustees, the Rev. Mr. Brandon, entered the schoolroom on a visit of inspection, and stood appalled at the spectacle before him.
“Good heavens! Mr. Slocum, what does this mean?” he ejaculated.
Mr. Slocum started as if he had been shot, and turned his perturbed countenance toward the trustee.
“It means that there is a rebellion in school,” he said.
An immediate inquiry was instituted, and Mr. Brandon was at last made acquainted with the circumstances.
“I think, Mr. Slocum,” he said, “you had better dismiss the school, and I will call a meeting of the trustees for this evening at my house. I will ask you to be present; also four of your scholars, including Thomas Allen, Julius Taylor, and any two others whom you may select.”
It needs only to be said that, it being made clear to the trustees that Mr. Slocum was incompetent to teach the school, taking into consideration his literary qualifications alone, he was recommended to resign; and next week, to the joy of the scholars, Dexter Fairbanks, the former popular teacher, was installed in his place.
Mr. Slocum did not remain long in Brookville. Whether he went farther West, or returned to Maine, was not ascertained, and few of his pupils cared to inquire.
