Tom Fairfield's Schooldays: or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall

CHAPTER XVII

DEFIANCE

“Well, what do you want?” demanded the bully, halting.

“I want to know where you’re going,” replied Tom.

“I don’t know that it’s any of your affair.”

“Well, it is, and the affair of every member of this class. We want to know who is with us, and who against us. And it looks, the way you were sneaking off just now, as though you weren’t going to be with us.”

“I don’t care how it looks,” retorted Sam, and his tone was not as defiant as it had been, “I’ve got some studying to do, and I want to get at it.”

“Well, we’ve no objection to you doing all the studying you want to,” went on our hero, “but if things turn out the way I expect we won’t do much more Latin boning – until things are different.”

“That’s what!” came in a chorus from the others.

Sam Heller started to walk away, but Tom was not done with him yet.

“Look here. Heller,” went on his questioner. “What we want to know is, whether you’re with us or against us?”

“Why shouldn’t I be with you?”

“That’s not answering the question. We know how you trained in with the Sophomores at the hazing, and that doesn’t look as though you considered yourself a Freshman, though I know why you did it, all right,” and Tom looked at his enemy significantly.

“That’s what!” shouted Jack Fitch.

“Now, as I said,” went on Tom, “if we do strike, and refuse to recite to Skeel, it won’t amount to anything unless the class stands together. If even one member backs down it will look as though he didn’t believe our cause right and just, and we can’t afford to have that. Now, are you with us or against us? We want to know before we go any further.”

“And if you’re not with us, it won’t be healthy for you, Heller!” exclaimed Frank Ralston.

“Hold on!” cried Tom. “We mustn’t have any threats. If he doesn’t want to join he doesn’t have to, in which case, of course, he can no longer consider himself a Freshman in the real sense of the word.”

“Coventry for his, if he doesn’t join!” cried Jack.

Sam started. He knew what it would mean to be given the “silence” by every member of his class. He would be practically ignored. For, in spite of his mean traits, he had a few friends beside Nick.

“Well?” asked Tom. “What about it?”

“I – I’m with you – of course.”

“To the end?”

“Yes.”

“No matter what happens?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean will you chance expulsion if it comes to that in case we strike?”

“I – I suppose so.”

“That’s all I want to know,” went on Tom. “We will have a meeting to-night, and decide on a plan. Then we’ll make a mutual promise to stick together, and we’ll wait our chance. Meeting’s adjourned.”

“Say, Tom Fairfield is all right!” exclaimed Bert Wilson to Jack, as the two walked on together.

“That’s true,” agreed Tom’s special chum. “I’m glad we’ve got him to run things.”

“What makes him that way – always doing things?” George Abbot wanted to know.

“Because, Why,” spoke Jack, “Tom eats rusty nails for breakfast. They give him an iron constitution.”

“Really. Are you joking?”

“Of course not,” replied Jack with a sober face. “Run along now, and ask Demy Miller if he knows his ancient history.”

The studious janitor was observed coming over the campus, a book, as usual, under his arm. He saw the students and turned to meet them.

“What is it now, Demy?” asked Jack, as he saw an anxious look on the man’s face.

“Oh, it’s this proposition about constructing squares on the sides of a right-angle triangle and making the sum of them equal the one constructed on the – er – hippenuse, I think it’s called.”

“Hypothenuse – the hypothenuse!” laughed Jack, as he heard the odd pronunciation. “Why, that’s an easy problem, Demy. George Abbot here will show you how. We’re going for a skate.”

“Oh, I – !” began the human question box. He was going skating also, but now he had to stop and explain to the janitor. And it was well to keep in with the latter, for he often did the boys favors, and many a night he let them in before some prowling monitor could spy them. “Well, come over here, and I’ll do it for you,” ended George, as he saw his chums making appealing signals to him.

Soon he was explaining that comparatively simple geometrical problem while the others, including Tom, went down to the frozen river.

Early that evening there was secret meeting of the Freshman Latin class, and a solemn agreement was entered into that, if they had to strike, they would all stick together. Even Sam Heller was present, though with no very good grace, and he made the promise with the others.

“Now to await developments,” suggested Tom. “We’ll give that old taskmaster one more chance, and if he takes it, and bullyrags us any more, we’ll defy him, and go on strike.”

“Hurray!” yelled Jack Fitch.

“That’s the talk!” came from several.

“Meeting’s adjourned,” said Tom with a smile. “Come on, Jack, I feel just like running the guard.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Where you going?”

“What’s the matter with going into town, and seeing a moving picture show.”

“We may be nabbed.”

“What of it? Might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. If we go into this strike business we’ll get in bad with the powers that be, anyhow. And if we don’t, why I’ll feel so good at the change in Skeel, that I won’t mind a little rigging for being out after hours.”

“All right. I’m with you.”

The two chums went, with some other of their friends, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves at the show, for the pictures were of a high class. Coming back the boys were almost at their dormitory, when a friendly Senior warned them that some of the proctor’s scouts were on the watch.

“Go around by Skeel’s house, cut through his garden, and you can get in through the cellar, I think,” the Senior advised them.

“Thanks,” called Tom, as he and his chums moved off in the darkness. As they passed the residence of the disliked instructor, they saw a light in his study. The shade was drawn, but the shadow of two figures could be seen on the shade. And, as the lads came opposite it they made out one figure, which plainly was that of the professor, shaking his fist at the other.

“He’s laying down the law to some one,” murmured Jack. “Looks like he’d be in a sweet temper to-morrow.”

“I’m going to see who it is,” whispered Tom. “The shade is up a crack.”

“Better not,” advised Bert Wilson, but Tom was daring. He crept up to the window, and saw that it was Bruce Bennington who was with the professor.

“And it was him whom the professor was shaking his fist at,” thought Tom, as he stole back to his comrades with the information. “I wish I could find out what is up between those two, and what is troubling Bruce.”

Our friends managed to get to their rooms without being caught, though one or two of them had narrow escapes.

Tom’s thoughts, as he dropped off to sleep, were on what might happen the next day. Would it be necessary to strike? He imagined that it would, for it could hardly be expected that Professor Skeel would change his nature in a day.

It was not without a little feeling of nervousness that Tom and his associates filed into their Latin recitation the next morning. There was a grim smile on the face of Professor Skeel as he looked over the lads in their seats, and there was grim menace in the manner in which he opened his book, prepared to go on with the doubly-imposed task.

“Well,” he began, omitting the usual “young gentlemen,” with which jolly Professor Hammond, and the others of the faculty, used to greet their students. “Well, I trust you are all prepared; for if you are not, I warn you all that it will go hard with you.”

There was a subdued murmur. Clearly there was to be no let-up in the manner of conducting the Latin class.

“Silence!” snapped Mr. Skeel. “I have had enough of this insubordination.”

“You’ll have more before we’re through with you,” thought Tom.

“You may recite, Fitch,” spoke Professor Skeel. “And I want a perfect recitation from you to-day.”

Jack began. He did well enough for the first few lines and then began to stumble and hesitate.

“That will do!” snapped the professor. “You try, Fairfield.”

There was an indrawing of breaths. If the clash was to come, it would be with Tom, all thought.

Tom had the one day’s lesson perfectly. He rapidly translated that and stopped.

“Well, go on,” ordered Mr. Skeel, obviously ill-pleased that the student he suspected had done so well.

“That’s as far as I’m going,” said Tom quietly.

“What?”

“That’s as far as I’m going. That is all that is ever assigned to us for one day.”

“But I told you all to learn a double lesson.”

“And I refuse to do it. We all refuse to do it!”

This was the signal Tom had agreed upon as marking the defiance and revolt, in case there was no change in the professor’s manner.

For a moment Professor Skeel was dumb – as if he could not believe what he had heard.

“Will you kindly repeat that?” he asked Tom, in a quiet, menacing voice.

“I said,” began our hero, “that we have agreed that the double lesson was unfair. We have agreed that if you insisted on it that we would not recite. We will go no farther. Either we get better treatment, or we will not come to your class any more.”

“Wha – what?” gasped Professor Skeel, turning pale.

Tom repeated what he had said.

“What does this mean? Have done with this nonsense!”

“It means a strike!” cried Tom, turning to his classmates. “Boys, are you with me? A strike for better treatment in the Latin class! Are you with me?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” came the cries from all parts of the room.

“Silence! Sit down!” shouted Professor Skeel, as he saw the students rise in a body. “Sit down!” He banged his rule on the desk.

“Come on!” ordered Tom, and the boys – every one – followed his lead.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE STRIKE

For a moment amazement held Professor Skeel motionless. Several boys were filing through the door before he could manage to make a move. Then he sprang to the portal.

“Stop!” he commanded. “I demand that this nonsense cease. Return to your seats, and continue the recitation!”

“Will you hear us on just one day’s lesson – the usual length?” asked Tom, turning back.

“No! Certainly not! You will do exactly as I say, and recite the double lesson. I will make no compromise.”

“Then it’s a strike,” replied Tom. “Come on.”

The boys continued to follow him. For a moment it looked as if Professor Skeel would resort to physical measures and hold the boys in his room, but he did not.

He scowled at them, but the fact that there were several large lads in the class, lads who had a reputation as boxers, probably deterred him. The last student filed out, and under the leadership of Tom they all stood in the corridor.

“Well, we did it,” remarked Jack, and there was a trace of awe in his voice. It was the first time, in his experience that a class had “struck,” against a disliked teacher. He was a little doubtful of the outcome.

“Of course we did it,” replied Tom. “It was the only thing to do.”

“And what’s the next thing?” asked Bert Wilson.

“Go to history lecture, as soon as it’s time,” declared Tom. “We’ve half an hour yet. I suggest that we act quietly and as if nothing had happened. Report as usual in history class.”

“But what will Skeel be doing?” inquired Jack.

“We’ll have to wait and see. It’s up to him now. I know one thing, though, I’ll never go back to his class until he admits that he was in the wrong, and releases us from double lessons. That’s what I’m going to do, and I don’t care if they suspend me!”

“The same here!” came from several, and then the lads dispersed to their rooms, to do a little studying on history, or to various parts of the campus.

As for Professor Skeel, that worthy did not know what to do at first. Clearly he had been outwitted, and by Freshmen! He must recover and maintain his reputation as a disciplinarian, somehow, but how?

“I’ll – I’ll suspend every one of them until they beg my pardon!” he exclaimed. “As for that Fairfield, I’ll see that he is expelled! The insolent puppy!”

But mere words never did any good yet, and Professor Skeel knew this. He must act, and he resolved to hit on some plan that would give him the victory. But first blood had been drawn by the students, and he realized that.

He decided to remain in his lecture room until the period was up, in order that he might think, and so that none of his fellow members on the faculty would not ask embarrassing questions as to how his class had disappeared.

“I’ll get even with them,” he declared. “They shall beg my pardon, and do more work than ever before.”

He decided that he must first lay the matter before Doctor Meredith, for he could not act on his own initiative. He would ask that stringent measures be taken. With this in view, at the time when Tom and his chums were filing into history class, as if nothing had happened, Professor Skeel sought the head master.

There was a little feeling of nervousness on the part of our hero and his associates as they faced Professor Whitely, who had ancient history at his finger tips, but, though he had heard some rumors of trouble in the Freshman Latin class, he did not refer to it, but plunged at once into the work of the day.

Nor did anything take place during the remainder of the lectures which filled up time until about two o’clock. In the meantime, however, Professor Skeel had placed the matter before Doctor Meredith.

“They went on strike, you say?” asked the head master. “Bless my soul! I never heard of such a thing! I have known laboring bodies to refuse to work, but how can students strike?”

“By refusing to recite, or to remain in class,” answered the Professor.

“And did the Freshmen do that?”

“They certainly did.”

“Dear, dear! What a situation!” exclaimed Doctor Meredith. “What a peculiar position! I really never heard of one like it.”

“Nor I,” admitted Professor Skeel dryly. “But something must be done.”

“Oh, assuredly; most assuredly,” Doctor Meredith answered his colleague.

“And something drastic!” went on the Latin instructor.

“Oh, yes, – er – I suppose so. Really it is rather a novelty – a strike of students.”

“Novelty!” puffed Professor Skeel.

“Yes. I never heard of such a thing. Really I think some sort of psychological study might be made of it – the causes and effects you know. What peculiar action of the brain cells brought it about. The reason for it. I think I shall write a paper on it for the International society. It will create a sensation, I think.”

“I think so myself. But, in the meanwhile, something must be done – something drastic. The strike must be broken.”

“Oh, of course. I – er – I perfectly agree with you,” and Doctor Meredith spoke dreamily. He was already forming in his mind the chief points for a paper he determined to write on students striking. “We should have to begin with the cause,” he murmured. “Ah, by the way, Professor Skeel, what was the reason the Freshmen walked out, and refused to recite?”

“They declared they would not do the lessons I had set for them.”

“Why not?”

“They said they were too long – or rather, their leader, Tom Fairfield, did.”

“Ah, and so they have a leader, just as in an industrial strike. Very interesting, very.”

“Interesting!”

“Yes – er – that is from a psychological standpoint, of course.”

“Oh, I see. But something must be done. Even though, as a punishment for careless work, I doubled the usual lesson, that is no excuse for striking.”

“Oh, and so you doubled their lessons? Well, I suppose they naturally resented that. But, of course, as you say, I presume that was no excuse. But I will do something. I will act at once. I have thought of the best plan.”

“What is it?” asked Professor Skeel, hoping it was the suspension of the entire class, and the expulsion of Tom.

“We will treat with the strikers, just as is done in industrial strikes,” said Doctor Meredith with an air of triumph, as if he had discovered a most unusual way of settling the trouble. “We will arbitrate. That is the best way. I will send them a personal communication, when they have assembled. I must make some notes. If you will kindly post a bulletin, requesting the class to assemble in, say, the gymnasium, I will send a communication to them. That, I believe is the usual way the authorities treat with strikers. I will personally communicate with them,” and with a delighted air, and a childish eagerness, Doctor Meredith took out pen and paper.

“I am to post a bulletin, calling the students together, am I?” asked Professor Skeel, not altogether relishing his work.

“Yes, and I will communicate with them. Wait, better still, I will speak to them in person.”

“And what will you say?”

“I will ask them to return to your class room, and resume the interrupted session and lecture,” spoke the head master with an air of triumph, as though he had made a most astounding discovery. “I will point out to them how foolish it was to strike, I will assure them that there will be no more double lessons in the future, and I will talk with them, and get at the reasons that impelled them to strike. I can use their answers in the paper I propose to write.”

“Is – is that all you will do?” asked Professor Skeel, much disappointed.

“That is all that will be necessary,” replied Doctor Meredith mildly. “You will see, Professor Skeel, I will soon break the strike. I think that ‘break’ is the proper word; is it not?”

“Yes, but it will not be broken that way, Doctor Meredith. Drastic measures are needed. Very drastic!”

“We will try my way first,” decided the head master quietly. “Write out the bulletin, Professor.”

CHAPTER XIX

NEGOTIATIONS END

Much against his will, and very much opposed to the mild method proposed by Doctor Meredith, Professor Skeel wrote and posted the following bulletin:

“Members of the Freshman Latin Class will assemble in the gymnasium at once, at the request of Doctor Meredith, to receive a personal communication from him.

It did not take long for it to be discovered, for some student or other was always on the alert for notices, athletic or otherwise, posted on the common bulletin board.

Bert Wilson was the first Freshman to know of it, and he darted off, post-haste, to tell Tom, who was in his room with Jack.

“I say, Tom!” exclaimed Bert. “Come on! Something doing in the strike!”

“How?”

Bert told of the notice, and soon the board was surrounded by a curious throng of students. From his window, where he was still in communication with Professor Skeel, Doctor Meredith saw the throng.

“There, you see!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “They are interested at once. They will listen to reason, surely. I wish you would come in person, and tell them that if they will recite to you the double lesson, you will impose no more.”

“But I refuse to make any such agreement as that. And I don’t believe they will listen to reason. Moreover, I shall have something to say to you after the meeting,” snapped Professor Skeel.

“Very well. See, they are filing off to the gymnasium now. I will soon go there to speak to them.”

Tom and his chums were indeed hurrying to the athletic building, and tongues were freely wagging on the way.

“What do you suppose is up?” asked George Abbot.

“Don’t know,” replied Jack shortly.

“Doctor Meredith is going to take a hand,” commented Luke Fosdick.

“And he’ll listen to reason,” spoke Tom. “But, even if he requests it we’re not going to knuckle down to Skeel; are we?”

“Surely not,” came in a chorus.

“The strike ends when he stops imposing double lessons on us for no reason at all, but because he is ugly,” went on Tom. “How about that?”

“We’re with you!”

“And if he doesn’t give in,” proceeded our hero, “we’ll – ”

“Burn Skeel in effigy, after we hang him!” came the cry from some one.

“That’s it,” assented Tom, glad to see that his chums were with him.

They filed into the gymnasium, and the buzz of talk continued until some one announced that Doctor Meredith and Professor Skeel were approaching.

“Ah, young gentlemen, good afternoon!” greeted the head master, as he walked in and took his stand on the platform, where the secretaries and officers of the various athletic committees presided, when there was a class or school session. Professor Skeel, with a grim look in his face, followed, and sat down.

“I am informed that you are on a strike,” began Doctor Meredith. “Very interesting, I’m sure – I mean of course it is altogether wrong,” he added hastily. “You should have tried arbitration first. However, since you have decided to strike, I am glad to be able to speak to you – to reason with you.

“I understand that you object to having to do a double lesson as a punishment. Now I dislike to have a strike in the school, and, though I do not, for one minute, admit that you are in the right, I wish to know, if Professor Skeel agrees to give out no more double lessons, will you return to your class?”

“I will make no such agreement!” shouted the irate instructor.

“Then the strike is still on!” exclaimed Tom, springing to his feet.

“Silence!” stormed Professor Skeel.

Doctor Meredith held up his hand. The commotion that had started, at once ceased.

“I will hear what Fairfield has to say,” spoke the head master, quietly.

“We have stood all we can,” went on Tom. “We do not think Professor Skeel treats us fairly. We protested once, and – ”

“By an anonymous letter!” broke in the Latin teacher.

“Yes, that was hardly right,” commented the doctor, gently.

“It was the best way we could think of,” spoke Tom. “We wanted better treatment. We want it yet, and we are going to get it, or we will continue to refuse to recite to Professor Skeel. We will continue to strike.”

“Strong words,” said the head master. “But may I ask how you came to hit on – er this – er – rather novel form of rebellion? I am anxious to know,” and he prepared to make some notes in a book. Professor Skeel fairly snorted with rage.

“It began from the very first,” explained Tom, and he went over the different steps in their trouble with the unpopular professor. “Now we can stand it no longer. We will leave school, if necessary, to gain our rights.”

Doctor Meredith looked surprised at this. The loss of the Freshman Latin class would mean a serious blow to the finances of the institution of learning. Still he would have done his duty in the face of this if he saw it clearly. But he was not at all in sympathy with the methods of Professor Skeel, and the boys probably realized this.

“And so we struck,” ended Tom, concluding the history of the rebellion.

“And it is my duty to end this strike,” declared the head master. “I ask you to return to your recitation in Professor Skeel’s room, and I – er – I have no doubt but what matters will adjust themselves.”

“We will not – we feel that we cannot – return and end the strike, unless we receive some assurance that we will be treated like gentlemen, and not imposed upon in the matter of lessons,” declared Tom.

“That’s right!” chorused the others.

“Silence!” commanded the professor, but he was not in command now, and the lads realized it. “Then you will remain on strike?” asked Doctor Meredith, as if surprised that his request had not been complied with.

“We must, sir,” replied Tom respectfully.

“Then – er – then this ends the negotiations, I presume, young gentlemen,” spoke the doctor, rather sorrowfully. “I shall have to consider what further will be done.”