CHAPTER I

  THE BOY ON THE BOX

  “Hillton! Hillton!”

  The brakeman winked solemnly at the group of boys in the end seats,withdrew his head, slammed the door and crossed the swaying platformsto make a similar announcement to the occupants of the car ahead. Fromthe left side of the train passengers caught a glimpse of a broadexpanse of meadow upon which tiny flecks of red flared dully in thewinter sunshine; of a distant grand stand, bleak and desolate, againstwhose northern shoulder a drift of snow snuggled as though seekingprotection from its enemy the sun; of two pairs of goal-posts gravelywatching each other from opposite ends of a long field; of a bit ofcountry road, a slowly rising hill, a little army of leafless elms,and, last of all, crowning a promontory below which the frozen Hudsonsparkled, a group of old red brick buildings, elbowing each otherwith friendly rivalry in an endeavor to gain the post of honor and tobe first seen of the outside world that traveled by train. That wasHillton Academy.

  There was a long warning shriek from the engine, echoed back by thewooded slope of Mount Adam; a momentary reverberating roar as the traincrossed the little viaduct; the whistle of air brakes; and then, as thetrain came to a stop, a babel of boys’ voices. Some twenty youths ofassorted ages and sizes, laden with every description of luggage, fromgolf bags and valises down to boxes of figs and caramels purchased fromthe train-boy and still uneaten, pushed and scrambled their way to thestation platform. The last trunk was slid from the baggage car, and theconductor, portly and jovial, sang “All aboard!” and waved a smilinggood-by to the boys.

  “Good-by, Pop! See you later!” “Don’t forget that anti-fat, Pop!” Andthen, when the train had gained speed, a slim junior danced along theplatform waving a bit of pasteboard exultingly under the conductor’snose and just out of his reach: “Hey, Pop! You didn’t get my ticket!Stop the train! Stop the train!” An old joke this, that never failed ofapplause. The conductor shook his fist in simulated wrath, and the nextinstant, with a farewell shriek of the whistle, the train was lost tosight.

  Beside the platform waited the coach, from the box of which “Old Joe,”the driver, smiled a toothless welcome. Each year held three red-letterdays for “Old Joe,” namely, the days preceding the commencement of thethree school terms, when the students, refreshed by recess or vacation,returned in merry troops to Hillton--noisy, mischievous, vexing, butever admirable to the old stage-driver--and taxed the capacity of thecoach to the utmost, and “Old Joe’s” patience to the limit. This wasthe first of the red-letter days of the present year, which was as yetbut forty-eight hours old, and all day long the boys who had been sofortunate as to return to their homes for the Christmas recess had beenpiling from the trains to the stage and from the stage to the stepsof Academy Building. And “Old Joe,” who loved the excitement of itall, and worshiped everything, animate or inanimate, that belonged toHillton, was in his glory.

  “Now, then, you young terrors, get aboard here. Can’t wait allafternoon for you. This ain’t no ’commodating train, and----”

  “Hello, Joe, old chap; how’s your appetite?” “Still able to sit up andtake your meals, Joe?” “Say, fellows, Old Joe’s looking younger everyday.” “Give me a hand up, Joe, and I’ll show you how to drive those oldplugs of yours.” “Please, Joe, you said I could sit on the box with youthis trip, don’t you remember?”

  “Have to be next time, youngster; seat’s full a’ready. How do, MisterHope? Scramble out o’ here, sir, an’ give Mister Hope your seat. Oh, isthat you, Mister Nesbitt? Well----”

  “No, I’ll sit back here,” answered the boy addressed as Hope. “I canjump off quicker when we upset.”

  “Hark to that,” growled the driver in pretended anger; “an’ meforty-two years on this road an’ never no accident yet. All aboardthere! No, ye don’t, sir; no more room atop. Trunks’ll go up next trip,sir. All right now. _Tlk! Get ap!_”

  The two stout grays, known popularly as “Spring Halt” and “Spavin,”settled into their collars, and the big stage, swaying comfortably onits leather springs, lumbered around the corner into Station Road.From the interior of the coach, where twelve youths had managed topack themselves into a space designed to hold but nine, floated out awild medley of shouts and laughter. On top, two boys had secured themuch-coveted places beside the driver, while on the seat behind threeothers were perched. When the little stone station had been left theboy who occupied the other end of the driver’s seat, and whom “Old Joe”had called “Mister Nesbitt,” leaned across the intervening youth andaddressed the driver:

  “Now, Joe, let’s have the lines, old chap, and I’ll show you a bit offancy driving that’ll open your eyes. Come now, like a nice old Joe.”

  “Now, don’t be askin’ for the reins, Mister Nesbitt, sir. You know it’sagin the rules for the boys to drive.”

  “What! Oh, rot, Joe! I never heard of such a rule. Did you, Williams?”

  “Never,” replied the third occupant of the box. “Joe dreamed it.”

  “Of course you did, Joe. Come on, now; just let me have them to thecorner there. Don’t be a duffer, man. Why, I can drive a pair bang up.”“Old Joe” cast a deeply suspicious glance at the youth--and was lost.Trevor Nesbitt assumed a look of angelic innocence and sweetness andpleaded so eloquently with his blue eyes that the driver grudginglyrelinquished the lines.

  “Mind ye now, Mister Nesbitt, just to the corner you said.”

  “Meaning around it, Joe, of course,” replied Nesbitt as he adjustedthe lines knowingly between his gloved fingers. “Come, Spavin, cheerup, old laddie!” Williams, who had been holding the long-lashed whip,now handed it to Nesbitt, who sent the lash swirling over his head,and with a quick movement snapped it loudly a few inches from Spavin’shead. The result was instantaneous. The off horse snorted loudly andleaped forward, and the other followed suit. “Old Joe” snatched at thereins, but Nesbitt held them out of reach.

  “Don’t whip ’em, sir,” cried the old man, “please don’t whip ’em; theyain’t used to it, sir.” Nesbitt laughed gaily.

  “Don’t you worry, Joe, I’ll not hurt them. But we can’t put on side,old chap, unless we just touch them up a bit.”

  _Crack_ went the long lash again.

  For several years the grays had traveled the road from station toschool and thence to the Eagle Tavern without other persuasion thana cheery chirp or a sharp whistle from “Old Joe,” or, upon rareoccasions, a half-hearted snap of the whip in no startling proximityto their ears. To-day there was plainly something wrong, and so, aftera moment of bewildered consideration, they broke into a long ungainlygallop, to the joy of the boy with the reins and to the terror of “OldJoe.”

  “By Jove, Williams, this is something like, eh?” Nesbitt sat upstraight on the seat, tightened the lines and grinned delightedly athis companion. “Old Joe” was pleading excitedly for the whip.

  “Please, sir, give me the whip now. I’m afeared for you to have it. Youmight hit ’em, sir, accidental, an’ there’s no telling what they’d do.Mister Williams, sir, just you hand it to me. _Stop him!_” But he hadspoken too late. Nesbitt brought the lash down smartly on the broadback of the off horse, and the gallop changed to a plunging run, thecoach swaying awkwardly from side to side. “Old Joe” reached forwarddesperately to wrest the lines from the boy, but Williams interfered.

  “Hands off, Joe,” cried Nesbitt, “or you’ll have us over. Keep himquiet, Williams.”

  From inside the stage came a babel of shouts, the exclamations of alarmhalf drowned by the noise of the beating hoofs and the protestingcreaks of the leather springs. The horses with heads down, frightenedat length by the unwonted use of the whip, galloped madly. Nesbitt,smiling and cool, sat straight and handled the lines with skill, whichat any other time would have won loud commendation from “Old Joe.” Butjust at present that worthy was too terrorized to appreciate aughtbut the fact that the grays were apparently running away. He had afrightful vision of an overturned coach, of mangled bodies, and ofeverlasting d
isgrace. Yet he recognized the fact that to take the linesaway from Nesbitt by force, even had such a thing been possible, wouldbe the surest way to bring about the very catastrophe he dreaded. Andthen he glanced ahead down the frozen road and saw the sharp turn but ashort distance away.

  The three youths on the seat behind had been watching affairs at firstwith amusement and now with apprehension. The boy in the center frownedand turned to one of his companions.

  “Who is that chap?” he asked in a low voice.

  “What! don’t you know ‘’Is ’Ighness’?”

  “‘His Highness’? No, I don’t. Who is he; one of our class?”

  “No; he’s an upper middle chap; Trevor Nesbitt’s his real name. Thefellows call him ‘’Is ’Ighness’ because he’s English. He’s a good sort,all right, but I wish he’d let driving alone.”

  “So do I,” responded the boy at the other end of the seat, “but”--anote of admiration creeping into his dubious tones--“he knows how, allright!”

  “But, I say, Hope,” cried the previous speaker, “look there; we’vegot to go around that corner! Let’s say our prayers.” Hope’s browscontracted as he glanced ahead; then he slid from the seat, restedhimself on his knee, clinging tightly the while, and leaned over theback of the seat ahead.

  “Look here, can you get them around that turn?”

  “Who’s that, Williams?” asked Nesbitt without looking around.

  “Dick Hope; he wants to know----”

  “Tell him to shut up and sit down, Williams,” interrupted Nesbittcalmly. Hope flushed angrily, but said no more, crouching in his placebetween the seats with an idea of lending a hand in case of disaster,although in just what way he could be of use was far from clear.Nesbitt raised to his feet, propping himself firmly, the reins tightwrapped about his hands.

  “Hold tight all,” he warned, “and bear to the right!”

  With the turn but a few yards away he brought his weight to bear onthe lines, swaying from side to side with the lurching coach, settlingfarther and farther back as the horses lowered their heads to thecommand of the tugging bits. Hope thought of “Old Joe” at that moment,and glanced across at him. The stage-driver was silent now, his cheekswhite, his face drawn. Williams, too, was pale, and his rigid attitudetold more plainly than words that the fun had ceased for him. Nesbittalone of the three occupants of the box appeared at ease. Hope couldsee the warm color playing on his cheek, and----

  “Easy, boys, easy!” Nesbitt called slowly, soothingly to the horses,and then-- Well, Hope was clutching desperately at the boards in thegrating; he saw the backs of the straining animals turn at an angle tothe stage, heard the great wheels _slur-r-r_ across the frozen ground,felt the body of the coach sway far to the left, as though it were onits way across the fence at that side, and opened his eyes again tofind a straight road ahead of them, and to see Nesbitt settle himselfinto his seat once more. “Old Joe” muttered an exclamation of relief.Hope again leaned across Nesbitt’s shoulder.

  “I think you’ve shown off enough for to-day,” he said. “Now pull thosehorses down--if you can.”

  Nesbitt glanced back into the other’s face, an angry light in his blueeyes.

  “Will you kindly attend to your own affairs?” he asked with suspicioussweetness. Hope smiled in spite of his anger.

  “If you don’t think it’s my affair,” he replied, “maybe you’llacknowledge that the gentlemen ahead have something to say about it.”Nesbitt looked up the road and whistled.

  “Just my bally luck!” he murmured. “Professors!” With straining arms hebore back on the lines. Little by little the horses slackened speed,and at last dropped into a trot, but not before the coach had swept bytwo very serious-faced Hillton professors out for a walk, whose sharpglances presaged trouble. Nesbitt handed over the lines and whip to“Old Joe.”

  “My luck again,” he sighed.

  “An’ serves you right,” grunted the driver.

  Hope crawled into his seat again. His companions were busy explainingthe course of events to the inhabitants of the interior of the coach,or as many of them as could get their heads out the doors, and erethe latter had run out of questions the stage turned into the academygrounds and crawled sedately up to the steps of Academy Building.

  Hope leaped from the coach and hurried off to his room, while the otherboys, laughing and joking, clustered about Nesbitt. “Wheels won’t do athing to you,” one lad assured him with a grin.

  “Well, don’t let it trouble you, Tommy,” he answered gaily. “But, Isay, Williams, who was that meddlesome chap on the back seat?”

  It was Williams’s turn to grin.

  “The fellow you told to shut up, you mean?” Nesbitt nodded.

  “Oh, no one much; just Dick Hope, captain of the crew.”