LITMIR.BIZ

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read, but it bears on its title-page, in a school-boy's scrawl, the name and date for which I prize it:

      "David Buckleton Primrose, Rugby, a. d. 18 – ."

      He laughed as he gave it to me.

      "Mark, Bertram," said he, "the 'a. d.'"

      "Thank you, sir," I replied, tremulously. "You bet I'll always keep it, Mr. Primrose."

      "Dr. Primrose," he reproved me, gently.

      "Doctor, I mean. Maybe Tom had one like it."

      "Likely," he replied. "You must learn to read it."

      "Oh, I will, sir – and Greek."

      "That's right, my boy. Remember always what Dr. Primrose said when he gave you Horace: that no gentleman could have pretensions to sound culture who was not well-grounded in the classics. Can you remember that?"

      Twice he made me repeat it.

      "Oh yes, sir, I can remember it," I told him. "Do you suppose Tom put in his name like that?"

      "Doubtless," said Dr. Primrose, "minus the a. d."

      "I didn't know you had a middle name," I said.

      "Buckleton was my mother's maiden name," he explained. "She was of the Wiltshire Buckletons, and a very good family, too."

      "David Buckleton Primrose," I read aloud.

      "Lineal descendant of Dr. Charles Primrose, Vicar of Wakefield," added the minister, so solemnly that I fairly caught my breath. I had no notion then of whom he spoke, but there was that in the chant of his deep voice and the pleasant, pompous sound he gave the title, which awed me so I could only stare at him, and then at Horace, and then at him again, as he lay back solemnly in his chair, regarding me with half-shut eyes. Slowly a smile overspread his features.

      "I was only jesting. Did you never hear of the Vicar of Wakefield?"

      "No," I said.

      "There: that little yellow book on the third shelf, between the green ones. He was its hero, a famous character of Oliver Goldsmith's. He also was a clergyman, and his name was Primrose."

      "Oh," I said, "and did he go to Rugby, sir?"

      Now, though the doctor laughed and shook his head, somehow I got that notion in my noddle, and to this very day must stop to remember that the vicar was not a Rugby boy. I have even caught myself imagining that I had read somewhere, or perhaps been told, that his middle name was Buckleton. One thing, of course, was true of both Primroses: they lived a. d.

      II

      LITTLE RUGBY

      Hunting fox-grapes on a Saturday in fall, or rambling truantly on a fair spring morning, and chuckling to hear the school-bells calling in vain to us across the meadows, it was fine to say:

      "Gee! If there was only a game-keeper to get into a row with!"

      And then hear Peter's answer:

      "Gee, yes! Remember how Velveteens caught Tom up a tree?"

      It was fine, I say, because it proved that Peter, too, knew Tom Brown's School Days, and all about Slogger Williams and Tom's fight with him, all about East and Arthur and Dr. Arnold, and Tom in the last chapter standing alone in the Rugby chapel by the doctor's grave.

      One night in winter I remember keeping watch – hard-pressed was Cæsar by the hordes of Gaul – a merest stripling from among the legions, stealthily deserted post, braving the morrow's reckoning to linger in delicious idleness by his father's shelves. There, in a tattered copy of an old Harper's, whose cover fluttered to the hearth-rug, his eyes fell upon a set of drawings of a gate, a quadrangle, a tower door with ivy over it, a cricket-field with boys playing and scattering a flock of sheep, a shop (at this his eyes grew wider) – a mere little Englishy village-shop, to be sure, but not like others, for this, indeed, was Sallie Harrowell's, where Tom bought baked potatoes and a pennyworth of tea! And out of one full, dark page looked Dr. Arnold – a face as fine and wise and tender as Bertram Weatherby had fancied it, so that he turned from it but to turn back again, thinking how Tom had looked upon its living presence in more wondrous days. Cæsar's deserter read and looked, and looked and read again, beside the hearth, forgetting the legions in the Gallic wilds, forgetting the Roman sentry calls for the cries of cricketers, and seeing naught but the guarded wickets on an English green and how the sheep browsed peacefully under the windows in the vines.

      Schoolward next morning Rugby and Cæsar nestled together beneath his arm. He found his Little Rugby on a hill – a red brick school-house standing awkwardly and solemn-eyed in its threadbare playground, for all the world like a poor school-master, impoverished without, well stocked within. It was an ugly, mathematical-looking Rugby, austere and angular, and without a shred of vine or arching bough for birds or dreams to nest in, yet Bertram Weatherby hailed it joyfully, ran lightly up its painted steps, and flung wide open its great hall-door. A flood of sound gushed forth – laughter, boisterous voices, chatter of girls, and the movement of restless feet. Across the threshold familiar faces turned, smiling, familiar voices rose from the tumult, his shoulders tingled with the buffets of familiar hands.

      "Hello, Bildad!"

      "Hello, old saw-horse!"

      "Hello, yourself! Take that!"

      But suddenly, in the midst of these savage greetings, that gentle pressure of an arm about him, and Peter's voice:

      "Hello, old man!"

      Bertram would whirl at that, his face beaming; they had met but yesterday – it was as years ago – "Hello, old man! Look, Peter!"

      But a gong clanged. Then all about them was the hurry and tramp of feet upon the stairs. Lost in the precious pages, they climbed together, arm in arm, drifting upward with the noisy current and through the doors of the assembly-hall.

      "See, Bertram – the cricket-bats on the wall!"

      "Yes; and the High Street – and Sallie Harrowell's!"

      "And the doctor's door!"

      Through another door just then their own masters were slowly filing, their own doctor last and weightiest of all, his smooth, strong face busy with some chapel reverie.

      "The Professor's like Arnold," Bertram told Peter as they slipped together into their double seat.

      The last gong clanged. There was a last bang of seats turned down, a last clatter of books upon the desks, the last belated, breathless ones fluttered down aisles with reddened cheeks, while the Professor waited with the Bible open in his hand.

      "Let us read this morning the one-hundred-and-seventh Psalm – Psalm one hundred seven."

      Peter was in Rugby, hidden by the girl in front. The boy named Bertram fixed his gaze upon the desk before him. Fair and smooth it was – too smooth with newness to please a Rugbeian eye. During the Psalm, with his pocket-knife he cut his initials in the yellow wood, and smiled at them. In days to come other boys would sit where he was sitting, and gaze and puzzle over that rude legacy, and, if dreams came true, might be proud enough to sprawl their elbows where a famous man had lolled. They might even hang the old seat-top upon the wall, that all who ran might read the glory of an alma mater in the disobedience of a mighty son. Bertram Weatherby gazed fondly upon his handiwork and closed his knife. Time and Destiny must do the rest.

      "Let us pray."

      For a moment the Professor stood there silently with lowered eyes. Bertram and Peter, their shoulders touching, bowed their heads.

      "Our Father in heaven…"

      There was no altar – only a flat-topped desk; no stained-glass windows – only the sunshine on the panes; and there a man's voice, deep and trembling, and here a school-boy's beating heart.

      " … Help us, O Father, to be kinder…"

      How you loved Peter, the Professor, and your ugly Rugby on its hill!

      " … Lead us, O Father, to a nobler youth…"

      Ay, they should know you for the man you were, deep down in your hidden

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