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............... ROADSIDE ROMANCES.

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ROADSIDE ROMANCES. BY GEORGE EDGAR Suthor of "Seaside Stories." "Pagan Billy Gubbins," "Tarradiddles," "Love at the Prow," "The Mysterious Minstrel," &c. VIII.—THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY. This story I gleaned from Mr. Sterling, the schoolmaster at Hesselgrave. It is a tiny village, which lies deep in the Cumberland district, into which I had walked about the time of the evening meal. As luck served, I met the schoolmaster in the road as I entered the village, and, inquiring where lodging might be found for the night, was promptly offered the hospitality of the schoolhouse. Mr. Sterling was an old man, but age had left him still "strong and erect. There was a merry light in his bright eyes, a smile played round his clean-shaven mouth, and a profusion of hair, very white, crowned his fine head. I shared the evening u:eal with him in the dining-room of the quaint school- house, and after we eat out in the garden where the roses were blowing, and from our seats looked on to a lawn behind, which was walled off from the road. Something I had said about the peaceful quietness of the place set the schoolmaster in a reminiscent mood. "Yes, it is quiet," he said. "You towns- people might even call it monotonous. Things happen slowly here but they do happen, in- evitably. The problems of life and death are much the same in town or country. Perhaps the town is a little more complicated, but that is all. Men live and marry, work, quarrel, play, and die here just as they do in the city. Only the Ipefcer-on sees more of the game in a village than he does in a large town. To illustrate this, I often tell the story of Joshua Bingham's conversion." I have no taste for stories of conversion, but politeness to a kindly host bade me prompt him to his story. Perhaps some note in my voice warned Sterling of my attitude. No, it is not a conventional conversion story," be began. You need not feel alarmed. It simply ishews how things happen here inevitably as they do elsewhere. It took just fifteen years to mature, but the climax was as conclusive as anything that ever hap- pened in a city. But let me retail the events as they occurred. The worst boy I had in the school, thirty years ago, was Robert Jones. You have perhaps noticed that the boys who give the most trouble, get in the most scrapes and need punishing oftenest, arc the boys that are best liked. It usually means that the graceless scamps have enough high- ispirited originality to make themselves inter- esting. Bobbie was a boy of average intelligence, hut there was nothing of the student about him. I know he preferred fishing, and fished very often when he should be at school. Also he went swimming at illegal hours, smoked cigarettes very early in life, and was the ring- leader in the riotous horseplay of the school- yard. Very rarely could I get his attention fixed on lessons, unless it was history with plenty of battles on sea or land in the section to be learnt. Things went very well with Bobbie, the only son of a widow in a prosperous way of business, until his mother committed the in- discretion of marrying Bingham. That it was an indiscretion everyone knew except the widow at the time, and she realised it very Boon after. Bingham was the toughest lot of humanity in the district, concerned with the management of the coaching stables at the hotel. Whether Mm. Jones loved him, had .some notion of reforming him, or was un- aware of his real character I do not know; but she became Mrs. Bingham, and regretted it immediately afterwards. For Joshua, hav- ing married a business woman, ceased to work, and went, if anything, quicker to the dogs than before. It was not long before rumour began to whisper 6tories of cruel usage on the part of the husband, and rumour for once did not lie. What I noticed chiefly was the change in Bobbie, my favcu" 7 From a frank, bold :w. .errv youn-,rter he turned i ti iurtive and somewhat silent lad. Ete seemed happier at school, coming early to play and going away later, long after the boys had been dismissed. He did not seem to have the high-spirited recklessness of earlier days, and was much more amenable. One Saturday I was going along the lane leading to the river, bent on trout-fishing. It was eleven o'clock and a fine morning B.6 I started out. I had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when, lying on the grass at the roadside, I found Bob, face downwards, crying silently and sobbing bitterly. 'Now, Jones,' I said, 'what's the mean- ing of this? You don't usually cry on holi- days.' He looked up, and as he turned his face I noticed a livid black ring round his eye. 'Fighting,' I suggested, succinctly. 'But that's no reason for grief. If you fight you ought to take all that comes along.' He got up as if he had been galvanised, scrubbed at his eyes, drove the tears away de- fiantly, and looked at me. I wasn't blubbering about that,' he said. When did it happen T' I asked. Last night,' Bob answered. Well, that means time enough for yon to have forgotten it by now. Who was the ft her party?' A man—a big bully.' Come, come, Jones, boys do not fight .en.' I did,' he said, bluntly that's why I'm blubbering. I couldn't lick him—see?' But a man, Bobbie?' Yes—my father, the man who calls him- self my father. He came home and hit mother, so I shied a plate at him. Then he beat me and I bit his finger, and then he punched me as if he were mad. That's when I got the eye.' I felt sorry for the d, and took him fish- ing. We had a glorious day together, made a fine catch, and came home about six. I in- vited my pupil in to tea, and stuffed him with sach food as I could command. Being a boy, aDd healthy at that, he did ample justice to it. Suddenly I saw his jaw drop. Now, Bobbie,' I said, 'what is wrong?' I followed the direction of his eyes and noticed they rested on a photo of myself in boxing attitude—a memento of the days when 1 was one of the beet amateurs in Liverpool. The belt on the table near my figure in the photo was won in open competition in that city. Can you fight? he said, with awe, en- tirely forgetting his food. 'There was, a time when I could box,' I anggested, mildly. Do you think you could thrash Bing- ham ? he asked. No,' I said. I dare not interfere.' But could you thrash him if you dared? he asked, eagerly. That was touching one of my weaknesses. I'm getting old, Bobbie,' I said, but— —yes, I think I could just manage Bing- ham.' Something was passing through the boy's mind. At last he said 0 Could you teach a man how to fight?' I nodded. If he had pluck I could teach him a great deal.' Ie He rubbed his chin with embarrassment. Look here, teacher,' he said at length, if I never play hookey again will you teach me how to fight-properly? It was a delicate proposition, but I thought no harm could be done by giving the lad a few lessons in the alleged 'noble art,' aDd we made the compact. I I will do Bobbie this credit. He became the model boy in the school. His attendance WM punctual and regular, he worked harder, and gave me less trouble. He was then a stordy boy of twelve, and three years later, when his school period was over, I was able to pass him out with as clean a certificate of character as I have been able to give any boy. And from the time we made the compact, almost weekly I gave Bobbie lessons. I think he was more apt as a boxer than as a IChoIar. I taught him how to stand up, how to watch his opponent's eyes, how to guard, how to lead with a straight right, and when to put in his left. I also taught him to keep his temper, and it was understood that the booing lessons were to be cut off the day he foaglit any boy in the school. After he left school he still came for his jraekly lesson. By now he was growing into

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"HUMORS OF HISTORY." ... ,…

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MY VERY REAL BABY. :

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THE EQUIPMENT OF SMALL HOLDINGS.,'"

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............... ROADSIDE ROMANCES.