Tom Playfair

Preface

HE vicissitudes of the “Tom Playfair ”manu-

1 script would of itself make a story. How it was written over seven years ago, for the sake of a college class, and with no ulterior thought of publication; how portions of it gradually found their way into print; how the writer hesitated for years whether to consign the remaining parts to the book publisher or to the waste-basket; how the cordial reception of “ Percy Wynn,” and the kind words concerning “ Tom Playfair” from critics and from readers inspirited him to take the venerable manuscript — done at all manner of odd times, in lead pencil and ink, upon all sorts and conditions of paper — from his trunk, and subsequently devote no small part of his vacation days (July, August, 1891) to its revisal; how the valued advice and kind words of literary friends served him in the revision — are not all these things indelibly impressed upon the author’s memory ?

And now he ventures to offer this story to the boys and girls of the land, in the hope that it may afford them healthful pleasure.

Advancing the figure learnedly styled hysteronproteron from sentences to volumes, he has published

PREFACE.

“ Percy Wynn ” first, although Percy’s adventures are subsequent to Tom’s. The reason for this procedure may be gathered from what has been said of the “ Tom Playfair” manuscript.

St. Maure’s is a pseudonym for a certain college in the West. Besides inventing incidents, the author, to suit his purpose, has on occasion taken liberties with the local surroundings; but in the main he has adhered to the prototype.

It is almost needless to say that the real college never suffered from the effects of a thunderbolt; in fact, the “cupola,” upon which turns a catastrophe recorded in these pages, was erected, not by an architect, but by a few strokes of the pen.

Near this Western college there is a village — a thriving, happy community. This village the author has eliminated from these stories. The village of St. Maure’s, which takes its place, is a fiction.

In drawing, with certain necessary reserves, upon his three years’ experience at this Western college, the author has, perhaps, made too little of one striking feature — the manly piety of the students. In all his experiences there he could count upon his fingers those who, while in attendance, had evidently changed for the worse; and they were marked exceptions.

It is hard upon seven years since the writer last saw “ St. Maure’s.” Then it was just on this side of its pioneer days. Now it is a college with a history of which it may well be proud. The “ old church building,” the little boys’ dormitory and washroom, the long, low frame structure used as an ^- firmary, are gone; new and nobler piles have arisen

PREFACE, in their place so that the college of to-day, as Peggotty remarked, I believe, of her nephew. Ham, has “ growed out of knowledge ; and yet the sweet spirit of faith and prayer has abided unchanged amid all changes.

The author has not seen these changes he is blessed in believing. Nor can he doubt, aside from all testimony, that the same spirit pervades them all. The Dial,, a college paper conducted by the students, reaches him every month ; and he can read in the lines and between the lines that the college of to-day and the college of seven years ago are one in that closest and most sacred of moral unions — a true, devout. Catholic spirit.

Francis J. Finn, S.J.

October ig^ i8gi.

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Contents

Preface,

Chapter I

In which the hero of the story is represented in doubtful light,

Chapter II

In which Tom by a series of misadventures brings down the wrath of his father in such wise that the author, for fear of forfeiting Tom’s chances of becoming a hero in the reader’s eyes, discreetly veils what actually happened when justice was administered, ....

Chapter I. In Which The Hero Of The Story Is Represented

IN A DOUBTFUL LIGHT,

1 No answer.

“ Tommy — do you hear me ? Get up this moment, sir. Do you think this house is a hotel ? Every one’s at breakfast except yourself.”

Miss Meadow, Tom Playfair’s maternal aunt, stood without the door of Master Playfair’s sleeping apartment. She paused for a moment, partly to gain her breath (having come up three pairs of stairs to arouse Tom) and partly to await some reply from our sleeping hero.

The silence, however, was simply emphasized by the ticking of the great clock in the hall.

“ Tommy !” she resumed at length, in a higher key, “ do you hear me ?”

Her strained ears caught the duU sound as of some one turning lazily in his bed. “ Now you’re awake, sir, jump right up, and dress for your breakfast.”

“Sho! scat!” came a yawning voice from the room.

TOM PL A YFAIR.

“Dear me!” cried poor Miss Meadow, “the boy doesn’t mind me in the least.”

“What’s the trouble, Jane ?” queried Mr. Playfair, who just then issued from his room.

“ I can’t get that Tommy out of bed. He’s growing worse every day, George. Last week he was late for school five times.”

“I’ll fix that, Jane,” said Mr. Playfair. And he took one step toward Tom’s sleeping-room, when the door of that apartment opened a few inches, discovering a young face peering anxiously from beneath a mass of tangled hair.

“Pa,” said the apparition, “I’m dressing just as fast as I know how. I heard you, auntie, and I’m coming right away.”

Then the door closed. Tom, it must be explained, had been composing himself for another nap, when the whispered dialogue between his aunt and his father had brought him out of bed with most unwonted celerity. The wily lad deemed it best not to wait for an order from his father. Hence the apparition.

“ If you are not at the breakfast table in two minutes, sir, you shall hear from me,” and with these sternly delivered words Mr. Playfair conducted Miss Meadow to breakfast.

Little more than a minute later, a stout, healthy, dark-complexioned lad of ten emerged from his room ready and eager for the labor and heat of the day. His rosy face and jet-black hair gave token of a hasty toilet. His shoes were partially buttoned, his sturdy legs were encased in a pair of bright red stockings and rather tight knickerbockers, and his chubby cheeks wore an air of serenity, which coupled with

TOM FLA YFAIR.

his naturally handsome features made him a pleasing sight to all lovers of the genuine American boy.

Hastily descending the stairs (which he did by taking from three to four steps at a bound), Tom very quickly presented himself in the dining room, and ignoring the presence of the cat, in the teasing of which he spent a considerable portion of his valuable time, he seated himself at table, and fell to with great good will. But trouble was brewing.

Besides Mr. Playfair and Miss Meadow, there was at table a young man, brother to Tom’s aunt, and the bane of our hero’s life. Mr. Charles Meadow was not a bad young man, but he had, despite this negative good quality, a large and constantly increasing stock of small faults, one of which was an inordinate delight in teasing and browbeating Tom. It is fair to say, however, that in the indulgence of this fault Mr. Meadow did not always come off with flying colors. Tom contrived to gain a victory now and then, and thus added a zest to the domestic war, which would otherwise have been too one-sided to be interesting. Strangely enough, Mr. Playfair held himself, in general, strictly neutral ; and it was only when the campaign gave signs of unusual bitterness that he felt himself called upon to interfere.

On the present occasion young Mr. Meadow had been awaiting with ill-concealed anxiety Tom’s appearance.

“ Oh, so here you are at last, are you ?” he began as Tom seated himself at the table.

In the tranquillity of a healthy appetite applied to its proper purpose, Tom ignored the enemy’s hostile flag.

TOM TLA YFAIT.

“ Look here, young man,” continued Mr. Meadow, “ were you at my room again last night ?”

“ How could a fellow get in your old room when you had it locked?” queried Tom with virtuous indignation.

“Never mind the ‘how,’ but did you go into my room last night ?”

“Say, Aunt Jane, please put a little more sugar in this coffee. You never do give me enough.”

“What I want to know,” pursued the unrelenting uncle, “ is, whether you went into my room last night. ”

“ If you stayed at home, and went to bed early, instead of running round the town nights,” answered Tom, still desirous of shifting the battle-ground, “you wouldn’t be asking such questions.”

At this moment Mary the cook entered the dining-room with a plate of pancakes.

If Tom had a preference, it was for this dish.

“Whoop!” he cried, and his eyes glistened.

A smile of triumph passed over Mr. Meadow’s countenance; just as Tom was about to help himself liberally to the food of his preference, his persecutor took possession of the plate, and having helped Mr. Playfair and Miss Meadow to several cakes, he placed the rest upon his own plate.

Tom waxed angry.

“Oh! you think you’re funny, don’t you? May be you don’t use hair-dye for that straw-colored mustache of yours — I spelled it on a big bottle.”

Mr. Playfair smiled. Miss Meadow tittered, Mr. Meadow blushed deeply. Recovering himself, he returned to the charge.

“Aha!” he cried, directing his forefinger at Tom. “ So you have been in my room ?”

TOM PLA YFAIR.

It was Tom’s turn to blush; he was fairly caught.

“ How did you get in, sir ?” continued Mr. Meadow, pursuing his advantage.

“Button-hook,” answered Tom, with the falling inflection.

“ Exactly — that’s just what I thought, and that’s just the way you ruined the lock of the pantry last week.”

Mr. Playfair’s face took on an air of concern; he glanced severely at the culprit.

“Well,” drawled Tom, “I guess it isn’t fair to lock up ripe apples. They don’t give a fellow any show in this house.”

“Tommy!” — an electric shock seemed to convulse our little pantry-burglar at the low, stern tones of his father’s voice, — “Tommy, have you been forcing locks with a button-hook again ?”

The roses in Tom’s cheeks grew out of all bounds, till the “ roots of his hair were stirred ” ; he dropped his knife and fork, and with a despairing expression hung his head.

“ This is getting too bad,” Mr. Playfair continued. “ I don’t like to say it, but such conduct is more fit for a young thief than for a little boy whom his father wishes to make a gentleman.” At the word “ thief” there was a subdued boo-hoo, followed by the sound of heavy breathing.

“You may well cry, sir,” pursued the parent, “ for you have every reason to be ashamed of yourself. ”

“I j-j-just d-d-did it for f-fun,” he sobbed.

“Oh, you’re exceedingly funny!” broke in Mr. Meadow with infinite sarcasm.

This last remark filled his cup of sorrow to overflowing; stifling an incipient sob and muttering that i6

TOM FLA YFAIR.

he “didn’t want no breakfast,” he departed into the welcome solitude of the hall. The word “thief” still rang in his ears, and sigh upon sigh bursting at short intervals from his passion-racked bosom testified his appreciation of the term.

Presently Mr. Meadow, on his way down town, where he held the honorable position of assistant book-keeper in a St. Louis hardware store, issued from the dining-room. At the sight of him, Tom’s grief hardened into the sterner form of anger.

“You’ll pay for this, Mr. Give-away,” he muttered, shaking a diminutive fist at Mr. Meadow. “ I’m going to see Miss Larkin to-day — I will, I will! — and I’ll just tell her all the mean things you say to me, how your mustache is dyed — see if I don’t, — I’ll spoil your chances there.”

Mr. Meadow, who had a soft spot in his heart (devoted almost exclusively to said Miss Larkin), was taken back not a little at this threat.

“You young scamp, ” he roared with more earnestness than dignity, “ if you go near that young lady with any of your wretched stories. I’ll give you a cowhiding.”

“Ugh! you give-away !” cried Tom with ineffable disgust.

“So, sir; that's the language you use to your uncle,” said Mr. Playfair, who as he opened the dining-room door had caught these words. “ Go up to your room, sir, and don’t leave it till nine o’clock. Jane,” he continued, looking into the dining-room, “please tell Tommy when it is nine.”

Mr. Playfair left the house with a stern cast of countenance. Tom was scarcely five when his mother died. The boy was good — but the want of a mother’s

TOM FLA YFAIF.

care and refining influence was very evident. Then too, Mr. Playfair reflected, the child stood in great danger of having his disposition ruined. Petted by Miss Meadow, he was growing selfish; teased by Mr. Meadow, he was becoming bold.

“Yes,” he muttered, “I shall have to take some decisive step, or the boy will be spoiled.”

Chapter II

IN WHICH TOM BY A SERIES OF MISADVENTURES BRINGS DOWN THE WRA TH OF HIS FA THER IN SUCH WISE THA T THE A UTHOR, FOR FEAR OF FORFEITING TOM'S CHANCES OF BECOMING A HERO IN THE READER'S EVES, DIS- CREETLY VEILS WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED WHEN JUSTICE WAS ADMINISTERED.

T he mournful wail that swept at dismal intervals through Mr. Playfair’s house touched the sympathetic chord of compassion in the heartstrings of gentle Aunt Jane. Stealing softly up to Tom’s room, she entered on tiptoe. Master Tom, his hair dishevelled, and the channels of grief plainly traced upon his cheeks, was lying prone upon his bed. The sight of her compassionate face opened a new flood of tears.

“ Don’t cry. Tommy,” she said softly.

“ I wish I was dead,” cried that young gentleman. “ Now, now, Tommy,” exclaimed the horrified and too credulous aunt, “don’t talk that way: it is sinful, and I’m sure you don’t mean it.”

“I’ll bet I do,” he howled. “And I wish I was b-b-buried too under the ground. And I’ll tell you what. Aunt Jane, I’ll run away.”

2 , - i8

TOM PLA YFAIR.

“ Oh, Tommy, how can you say such wicked things ? Come, now, can’t I bring you up some breakfast?”

“Don’t want any breakfast. I’ll run away, and sell newspapers, and have a jolly time,”

“ Dear, dear, where did you get all these notions ?” querkd Miss Meadow, whose confiding spirit received these exaggerated expressions of grief as so much gospel truth. “ Tommy, what do you say to some buttered toast, and a bit of cake?”

In spite of himself, Tom could not help showing, at this stage, some interest in sublunary affairs.

“No,” he said, sitting up in bed, “but I’d like to have some pancakes.”

“They’re all gone. Tommy, and it’s so much trouble to make them.”

“Well, then, I don’t want any breakfast,” he said, throwing himself back on the bed, and relapsing into sobs.

This last exhibition of tactics won the victory. Miss Meadow descended to the kitchen, and put herself to the elaborate work of making pancakes for the world-worn youth of ten.

Upon her departure, Tom smiled in a manner not entirely devoid of guile; and the smile running counter to his tears formed a sort of facial rainbow.

Presently Aunt Jane appeared with the pancakes, and other delicacies, and very shortly, indeed, Tom fell to in a manner most encouraging to behold.

“ I say. Aunt Jane,” he said, speaking with as much distinctness as the crowded state of his mouth would allow, “ you’re a real genuine, old fairy-grandmother, you are.”

He intended this fora magnificent compliment, but Aunt Jane did not look particularly gratified. To a

TOM FLA YFAIF.

miss of thirty the epithets “ old ” and “ grandmother ” were rather suggestive.

Perceiving that he had made some mistake, Tom added :

“I’ll tell you what, Auntie, I won’t bother your pantry, or scare the cook for — well, for a week.” He spoke as if he felt how handsome his offer was.

“That sounds better,” said Miss Meadow. “So you’ll be a good boy now, wont you?”

“ Honor bright. Aunt Jane.” And Miss Meadow, with this consolatory assurance gladdening her heart, departed to attend to her domestic affairs, having first given him his liberty.

Availing himself of this, he was presently engaged in the back yard in constructing a chicken-coop.

“ Halloa!” said a voice directly behind him.

“ Halloa yourself ; is that you, Jeff?” he made answer, as a boy of about his own age, with a dollish face, and clad in soft garments, met his view.

“Got any chickens yet?” asked Jeff, ignoring Tom’s question as being superfluous.

• “Not yet, but I guess I’ll trade off my base-ball with Tom White for one.” And master Tom picked up a pine board which he proceeded to split into smaller sections. In the midst of this interesting operation, a chip flew up, striking Jeff rather sharply upon the lobe of his left ear.

“ Confound you !” shouted Jeff, rubbing the injured member with pathetic earnestness.

“You needn’t curse,” said Tom resentfully.

“ That aint cursin’,” retorted Jeff in a sharper key.

“Well, it’s vulgar all the same,” insisted Tom, unwilling to give in entirely.

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“ I tell you it isn’t.”

“ I tell you it is.”

“ I guess my pa uses it.”

“ J/y pa doesn’t, and he ought to know.”

Their voices “ took a higher range. ”

“ See here, Jeff Thompson, do you mean to say that your pa knows more than mine?”

“Yes, I do.”

Tom seemed to think that the conversation had reached a point where argument should be advanced by other means than mere verbal expression, for he suddenly struck out straight from the shoulder, and before his astonished opponent could hold up his hands to ward off the blow a sturdy little fist came into forceful contact with Jeff’s nose.

As stars gladiatorial flashed before Jeff’s eyes, his yell of anguish broke upon the silence.

“I’m killed,” he shrieked, as the blood gushed from his injured member.

The fast-flowing stream frightened Tom exceedingly.

“ Oh, Jeff! ” he cried, clasping his hands, “ I didn’t mean to hurt you so much — cross my heart, I didn’t,” and he rubbed his thumb so as to form an invisible cross upon the right side of his sailor jacket, supposing, in his ignorance, that he had precisely located his heart.

“Go ’way, don’t talk to me,” said Jeff, suspending a howl to deliver this important communication. “I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Oh, Jeff, don’t stand bleeding!” implored Tom. “Come ’long to the pump and I’ll help you wash yourself.”

TOM FLA YFAIR.

“ I wont go to the pump,” roared Jeff. * I’ll just stand here and bleed to death, and you’ll be hung for a murderer.”

This threat, coupled with the sight of the flowing blood, filled Tom’s soul with horror.

“ Good gracious! Jeff, I believe yoMwill die, if you keep on bleeding.” , ^

“ Do you think so?” inquired Jeff, paling a little, for he was not so very anxious for death.

“ Yes, Jeff, I — I’m afraid you’re gone, and you’ll be cold and stiff, and a big policeman will come and grab me, and a judge will hang me in a black cap — Oh, gracious!” And at this dismal prospect Tom blubbered.

“ I guess I’ll go to the pump,” said Jeff. And two mournful little lads sought together the cooling waters. Despite the wholesome application of the water, the bleeding still continued. Their looks of dismay deepened. Suddenly Tom’s face lighted up.

“Oh, Jeff! I’ve got it! I heard Aunt Jane read in an almanax that if you hold your arm up when your nose is blooded it will stop.”

Forthwith, Jeff’s right arm reached madly toward the sky. To the intense gratification of both parties the bleeding soon began to subside.

“ I say, Jeff, hold up both arms, that ought to make it stop twice as fast.”

With equal docility, Jeff struck the new attitude. The bleeding was now almost imperceptible.

“And, Jeff, what’s the matter with your leg?”

“ How ?”

“Suppose you hold that up too.”

There was a returning twinkle in Tom’s eye, which Jeff failed to notice.

“How’ll I do it?”

“ Lean up against the pump, and I’ll fix the rest.’’

Jeff obeyed, and Tom catching hold of the patient’s right leg lifted it up, up, up, till Jeff shrieked with pain.

“ Drop it, you goose!’’

“You needn’t get excited. I didn’t mean to hurt you,’’ said Tom, apologetically, and he lowered Jeff’s leg a few inches.

It was a funny sight — Jeff leaning against the pump with his two arms raised perpendicularly, and his leg supported at a right angle to the rest of his body by his sympathetic friend. The bleeding soon ceased, and Tom showed his sense of the humor of the situation by giving the leg such a twist that Jeff shrieked louder than ever.

“You’re a mean fellow, and I wont speak to you again,’’ vociferated Jeff when he had recovered speech.

“ You oughtn’t to sass a boy in his own yard,’’ said Tom argumentatively.

“Who’s going to stay in your old yard?’’ and Jeff in high dudgeon made his way into the alley.

Tom now devoted himself for the next five minutes to the construction of the chicken-coop. Presently wearying of this lonely occupation he clambered over the fence into the alley in search of some companion. To his great disappointment not a single boy was to be seen except Jeff Thompson, who was poring interestedly over a kite. The loneliness which had come upon Tom caused his heart to soften.

“ I say, Jeff, got a string for that kite?’’

“ You needn’t mind about this kite,’’ answered Jeff, without raising his eyes.

rOM PLA VFAIR.

“ Because, if you haven’t,” went on Tom in gentle tones, “I’ll lend you mine.”

Jeff’s countenance softened somewhat. Tom, seeing his advantage, followed it up.

“ Oh, Jeff, you ought to see my new flint!”

“ Where’d you get it?” This with awakened interest.

“Bunkered it off Sadie Roberts; come on up, and I’ll show it to you.”

This ended all hostilities; and within five minutes Jeff and Tom had entered into a solemn contract to be “ partners ” thenceforward and forever.

An hour or so after this binding contract. Aunt Jane called up at Tom’s room to ascertain what was keeping that young gentleman so quiet. His tranquillity was easily explained; neither Tom nor Jeff was there. Miss Meadow made a careful examination of the house, paying special attention to Mr. Meadow’s room, and the pantry; but finding not even a trace of her graceless charge in these places, she hurried into the yard. Her eyes swept anxiously over the limited view. The yard was deserted.

“Tom!” she cried.

“Yes’m.”

“Good gracious! where in the world are you?”

“Up here.”

Miss Meadow raised her eyes, then gave a shriek of horror; on the slanting roof of the house Tom was busily attending to a dove-cot with one hand, while the other was held by Jeff, who was standing on the top rung of a ladder, his little nose, “ tip-tilted like the petal of a flower,” just appearing over the opening in the skylight.

“ Tommy, get down out of that this very instant.

TOM PLA YFAIR.

Good gracious ! do you want to slip off and kill yourself?”

“I want to put some feed in for my doves. I don’t care about falling and killing myself,” came the tranquil answer.

“Tommy, I want you to get down from that dangerous position instantly.”

“Oh, Auntie, just one minute; I’m all right.”

Miss Meadow was ready to cry with anxiety. “Tommy, if you don’t obey me this very — ”

Miss Meadow paused on seeing the look of animation that suddenly appeared upon Tom’s features.

“ Did you hear it, Jeff?”

“ What ?”

“It’s the fire bell, — hurrah!” and with a quick spring through the trap - door Master Tom disappeared.

“ Now, he thinks he’s going off to the fire,” soliloquized Miss Meadow; “but out of this house he shall not stir one step.” And she hastened in, constraining her mind to the proper degree of firmness. But alas! as she passed through the kitchen and dining-room into the hall, four sturdy little legs twinkled down the front door steps; and two treble voices raised to their highest yelling key completely drowned her command to come back.

Miss Meadow sank into a chair and wiped her eyes. It was mortifying to confess even to herself, but she had to admit that Tom was fast slipping beyond her control. The mild, timid little lady was no match for the wild, impetuous, thoughtless boy. If Tom could have understood the pain and anxiety his conduct had wrought in her gentle bosom, he would have thought twice before taking so abrupt a

TOM TLA YFAIR.

departure. But her tears (so far as he was concerned) were as dew upon the naked rock ; and, shouting with excitement, he hurried away through the streets to the scene of the fire.

The dinner hour came, but no Tom ; and the poor lady with aching eyes peered long through the parlor window hoping to catch some glimpse of the returning adventurer. As the quarters passed on, Miss Meadow became more grieved.

“ I must give up,” she said to herself. “ The boy loves me, I am sure; but I cannot take the place of his poor dead mother. He does just what he likes. Unless something decided be done, he will grow up to be self-willed and undisciplined. Thank God ! to-morrow’s a class day. But even at school he is not under the proper charge. Miss Harvey teaches well; but in Tommy’s hands she is powerless.”

At length, wearied with waiting, and ve^ed with the disagreeable train of thought Tom’s recent escapades had occasioned, she endeavored, with, poor success, however, to eat a little dinner. As she was about to leave the table, a light but slow tread was heard without. The tread drew nearer; the door opened, and Tom, his stockings bespattered with mud, his shirt-collar crushed out of all shapeliness, his hat gone, and an expression of shame upon his dirt-smeared features, entered the room.

“Well, sir,” began his aunt, who, in spite of the joy she felt at his reappearance, was determined to be severe, “ how are you going to account for yourself ?” Tom hung his head, fell into a close consideration of his feet; and, having no hat to twirl, began pulling his fingers.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

TOM PLA YFAIR.

Tom appeared to consider this a difficult question.

“ Do you hear? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Yes’m,” this in a subdued tone, and after due reflection.

“ Now, sir, you needn’t think to escape a flogging. Let’s hear your story, and then I’ll attend to you in your room, where you may remain fasting till supper. ”

Healthy boys as a rule are not pleased with the prospect of losing their dinner; nor is the number great of those boys who entertain no prejudices against flogging. Tom saw that matters had come to a crisis; and that nothing but a masterly stroke would win the day. Quick as thought the young general had planned out his campaign. Advancing to his aunt’s side in all humility, he suddenly caught her hand, and said :

“ Auntie Jane, I’m sorry,” and before Miss Meadow could become aware of his intention, he threw his arms round her neck and kissed her.

Under the warmth of this greeting, her icy sternness melted away, and flowed off in a gentle stream of kindness.

“Poor boy! you must be tired and hungry, too. Indeed you don’t deserve any dinner. But sit down; I haven’t the heart to see you go to your room in hunger.”

Tom was not slow to avail himself of this permission; and while Miss Meadow, her bosom agitated by a conflict between duty and affection, helped him to the various dishes, Tom plied knife and fork with no small earnestness.

For the rest of the afternoon he distinguished himself by his conduct. In fact, he was trembling on account of the wrath to come. His unusual excursion would be reported to his father, and then it would require more than Tom’s address to avoid serious consequences.

Nor were his forebodings without foundation. When Mr. Playfair heard from Miss Meadow’s lips the , account of his son’s doings, he compressed his iips tightly, knit his brow, and then, after some serious reflection, called for the culprit.

“ Sir,” said the father sternly, “you have gone the limit of your tether.”

Tom did not know what “ going the limit of one’s tether” meant; but entertaining the idea that it was something very horrid indeed, he set up a dismal wail.