Will was now at work on a very learned dissertation on “Philosophical Ingenuity.” That is the name he gave it,—but the name had nothing in common with the subject, “Socialism” would have been quite as appropriate,—and according to his views, he handled it in a graphic, original, and striking manner; and he was firmly convinced that he should make a very good thing of it.

Poor boy, it was too bad, after all the pains he took.

What was too bad?

This. The same evening on which he wrote out his composition for the last time, he sat up late and wrote to his cousin Henry, inviting him to come and pay them a visit in the holidays.

When this boy (Will) gave Stephen gunpowder instead of fire crackers, and again when he loaded Henry’s pistols with wads, his mistakes were glossed over, and he himself was laughed at, rather than blamed. But now the truth must be made known; he cannot be excused any longer. Right over his eyes, where the phrenologists locate order, there was a depression.

There, the secret is out, and the writer’s conscience is easy.

Boys, it is hard to have to deal with a hero who is not a paragon; but you must be indulgent, and we will do our best.

After finishing and directing the letter to his cousin, Will went to bed and slept peacefully, little dreaming of the thunderbolt which would soon burst over his head, and which he himself had prepared.

Next morning he found his writing materials strewn over his table in great confusion, and in a lazy, listless manner he set to work to put them to rights.

[272]

In order to keep his composition, or “essay,” perfectly clean, he intended to put it into an old envelope. Alas, poor boy, he made a blunder, as usual; and mistaking the composition for the letter, he thrust it into the envelope directed to Henry, which he sealed on the spot, and stowed away in his pocket. Then he put the letter into the old envelope and put it carefully away in his satchel.

Not one boy in fifty could possibly have made so egregious a blunder, but nothing else could be expected from Will.

On this eventful day, the “essays,” as Teacher Meadows saw fit to call them, were to be read, and the prize was to be delivered over to the “successful competitor.”

Full of his expected triumph, Will set out for school. He knew that his composition was good, and he could judge what the others’ would be. He was a little uneasy about George and Charles, but as for the rest—pshaw! the rest couldn’t write!

He imagined he saw his schoolmates watching him as he went home that evening with about the biggest book ever printed. He even heard their disappointed tones, and saw their sullen and envious looks, as he passed through the streets.

And that old lady who often cast admiring glances towards him—she would call next day and say, “Well, Mrs. Lawrence, your boy is just the smartest boy in the whole village.”

In a day or so Stephen would drop in and let him know what was said about it by the villagers in general, the schoolboys in particular.

And when his uncle and aunt heard the news, they would certainly be overjoyed, and send him (just what he wanted, of course) a monkey! As soon as it could be done, his father would buy him a little gun.

Full of these dreams, he went on, stopping at the post office to send, as he supposed, his letter to Henry.

Time wore away, and the hour for the “essays” to be read, came at last. Teacher Meadows took his seat, and they were laid on the desk before him. Good man,[273] he himself would read them all, lest the “composers” should not do themselves justice.

Only a dozen or so had competed for the prize, but all these had done their best, and the handwriting was so plain that it was a pleasure to read it.

A few of the competitors’ parents and “well-wishers” were present, “to see justice done to all,” as they pleasantly put it. But they served only to increase the master’s pompousness and self-esteem, and the “essayists’” bashfulness and inquietude; while they themselves were surely neither very much instructed nor very much delighted.

In fact, the truth was probably forced home to the more intelligent of the audience, that schoolboys and schoolgirls who would soar to the pinnacle of fame by attempting to write beyond their capabilities, generally find themselves floundering about in the slough of ignominious failure.

Mr. Meadows certainly read the different compositions with great care and earnestness, and took as much pains with the worthless ones as with the tolerably good ones.

By some chance, Will’s was the last to be read, and dead silence was observed till it was finished.

Whenever a new idea had struck the boy, he had set it down without the slightest regard to consecutiveness; and if the same idea was afterwards seen in a different light, he had promptly expressed his views, though in the midst of a paragraph.

A mere handful of words had been sufficient for him on this occasion, ............