1. He was nearing nineteen years of age that winter.
"I like that," he said to the trustee, who had been telling him of
the unruly boys--great, hulking fellows that made trouble every
winter term. "Trouble--it's a grand thing I--but I'm not selfish,
and if I find any, I'll agree to divide it with the boys. I don't
know but I'll be generous and let them have the most of it. If
they put me out of the schoolhouse, I'll have learned something."
The trustee looked at the six feet and two inches of bone and
muscle that sat lounging in a chair--looked from end to end of it.
"What's that?" he inquired, smiling.
"That I've no business there," said young Mr. Trove.
"I guess you'll dew," said the trustee. "Make 'em toe the line;
that's all I got t' say."
"And all I've got to do is my best--I don't promise any more," the
other answered modestly, as he rose to leave.
Linley School was at the four corners in Pleasant Valley,--a low,
frame structure, small and weathered gray. Windows, with no shade,
or shutter, were set, two on a side, in perfect apposition. A
passing traveller could see through them to the rocky pasture
beyond. Who came there for knowledge, though a fool, was dubbed a
"scholar.
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