Snow everywhere; freshly fallen, white and beautiful. It lay unsullied on the village roofs, and, trampled but not yet soiled, in the village streets. The spruce trees on the lawn at Bannerhall were weighted with it, and on the lawn itself it rested, like an ermine blanket, soft and satisfying. Down the steps of the porch that stretched across the front of the mansion, a boy ran, whistling, to the street.

He was slender and wiry, agile and sure-footed. He had barely reached the gate when the front door of the square, stately old brick house was opened and a woman came out on the porch and called to him.

“Pen!”

“Yes, Aunt Millicent.” He turned to listen to her.

“Pen, don’t forget that your grandfather’s going to New York on the five-ten train, and that you are to be at the station to see him off.”

“I won’t forget, auntie.”

“And then come straight home.”

“Straight as a string, Aunt Milly.”

“All right! Good-by!”

“Good-by!”

He passed through the gate, and down the street toward the center of the village. It was the noon recess and he was on his way back to school where he must report at one-fifteen sharp. He had an abundance of time, however, and he stopped in front of the post-office to talk with another boy about the coasting on Drake’s Hill. It was while he was standing there that some one called to him from the street. Seated in an old-fashioned cutter drawn by an old gray horse were an old man and a young woman. The woman’s face flushed and brightened, and her eyes shone with gladness, as Pen leaped from the sidewalk and ran toward her.

“Why, mother!” he cried. “I didn’t expect to see you. Are you in for a sleigh-ride?”

She bent over and kissed him and patted his cheek before she replied,

“Yes, dearie. Grandpa had to come to town; and it’s so beautiful after the snow that I begged to come along.”

Then the old man, round-faced and rosy, with a fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, and a green and red comforter about his neck, reached out a mittened hand and shook hands with Pen.

“Couldn’t keep her to hum,” he said, “when she seen me hitchin’ up old Charlie.”

He laughed good-naturedly and tucked the buffalo-robe in under him.

“How’s grandma?” asked Pen.

“Jest about as usual,” was the reply. “When you comin’ out to see us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a week from Saturday. I’ll see.”

Then Pen’s mother spoke again.

“You were going to school, weren’t you? We won’t keep you. Give my love to Aunt Millicent; and come soon to see us.”

She kissed him again; the old man clicked to his horse, and succeeded, after some effort, in starting him, and Pen returned to the sidewalk and resumed his journey toward school.

It was noticeable that no one had spoken of Colonel Butler, the grandfather with whom Pen lived at Bannerhall on the main street of Chestnut Hill. There was a reason for that. Colonel Butler was Pen’s paternal grandfather; and Colonel Butler’s son had married contrary to his father’s wish. When, a few years later, the son died, leaving a widow and an only child, Penfield, the colonel had so far relented as to offer a home to his grandson, and to provide an annuity for the widow. She declined the annuity for herself, but accepted the offer of a home for her son. She knew that it would be a home where, in charge of his aunt Millicent, her boy would receive every advantage of care, education and culture. So she kissed him good-by and left him there, and she herself, ill, penniless and wretched, went back to live with her father on the little farm at Cobb’s Corners, five miles away. But all that was ten years before, and Pen was now fourteen. That he had been well cared for was manifest in his clothing, his countenance, his bearing and his whole demeanor as he hurried along the partly swept pavement toward his destination.

A few blocks farther on he overtook a school-fellow, and, as they walked together, they discussed the war.

For war had been declared. It had not only been declared, it was in actual progress.

Equipped and generalled, stubborn and aggressive, the opposing forces had faced each other for weeks. Yet it had not been a sanguinary conflict. Aside from a few bruised shins and torn coats and missing caps, there had been no casualties worth mentioning. It was not a country-wide war. It was, indeed, a war of which no history save this veracious chronicle, gives any record.

The contending armies were composed of boys. And the boys were residents, respectively, of the Hill and the Valley; two villages, united under the original name of Chestnut Hill, and so closely joined together that it would have been impossible for a stranger to tell where one ended and the other began. The Hill, back on the plateau, had the advantage of age and the prestige that wealth gives. The Valley, established down on the river bank when the railroad was built through, had the benefit of youth and the virtue of aggressiveness. Yet they were mutually interdependent. One could not have prospered without the aid of the other. When the new graded-school building was erected, it was located on the brow of the hill in order to accommodate pupils from both villages. From that time the boys who lived on the hill were called Hilltops, and those who lived in the valley were called Riverbeds. Just when the trouble began, or what was the specific cause of it, no one seemed exactly to know. Like Topsy, it simply grew. With the first snow of the winter came the first physical clash between the opposing forces of Hilltops and Riverbeds. It was a mild enough encounter, but it served to whet the appetites of the young combatants for more serious warfare. Miss Grey, the principal of the school, was troubled and apprehensive. She had encouraged a friendly rivalry between the two sets of boys in matters of intellectual achievement, but she greatly deprecated such a state of hostility as would give rise to harsh feelings or physical violence. She knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to coerce them into peace and harmony, so she set about to contrive some method by which the mutual interest of the boys could be aroused and blended toward the accomplishment of a common object.

The procuring of an American flag for the use of the school had long been talked of, and it occurred to her now that if she could stimulate a friendly rivalry among her pupils, in an effort to obtain funds for the purchase of a flag, it might divert their minds from thoughts of hostility to each other, into channels where a laudable competition would be provocative of harmony. So she decided, after consultation with the two grade teachers, to prepare two subscription blanks, each with its proper heading, and place them respectively in the hands of Penfield Butler captain of the Hilltops, and Alexander Sands commander of the Riverbeds. The other pupils would be instructed to fall in behind these leaders and see which party could obtain, not necessarily the most money, but the largest number of subscriptions. She felt that interest in the flag would be aroused by the numbers contributing rather than by the amount contributed. It was during the session of the school that afternoon that she made the announcement of her plan, and delivered the subscription papers to the two captains. She aroused much enthusiasm by the little speech she made, dwelling on the beauty and symbolism of the flag, and the patriotic impulse that would be aroused and strengthened by having it always in sight.

No one questioned the fact that Pen Butler was the leader of the Hilltops, nor did any one question the similar fact that Aleck Sands was the leader of the Riverbeds. There had never been any election or appointment, to be sure, but, by common consent and natural selection, these two had been chosen in the beginning as commanders of the separate hosts.

When, therefore, the subscription blanks were put into the hands of these boys as leaders, every one felt that nothing would be left undone by either to win fame and honor for his party in the matter of the flag.

So, when the afternoon session of school closed, every one had forgotten, for the time being at least, the old rivalry, and was ready to enlist heartily in the new one.

There was fine coasting that day on Drake’s Hill. The surface of the road-bed, hard and smooth, had been worn through in patches, but the snow-fall of the night before had so dressed it over as to make it quite perfect for this exhilarating winter sport.

As he left the school-house Pen looked at his watch, a gift from his grandfather Butler on his last birthday, and found that he would have more than half an hour in which to enjoy himself at coasting before it would be necessary to start for the railroad station to see Colonel Butler off on the train. So, with his companions, he went to Drake’s Hill. It was fine sport indeed. The bobs had never before descended so swiftly nor covered so long a stretch beyond the incline. But, no matter how fascinating the sport, Pen kept his engagement in mind and intended to leave the hill in plenty of time to meet it. There were especial reasons this day why he should do so. In the first place Colonel Butler would be away from home for nearly a week, and it had always been Pen’s custom to see his grandfather off on a journey, even though he were to be gone but a day. And in the next place he wanted to be sure to get Colonel Butler’s name at the head of his flag subscription list. This would doubtless be the most important contribution to be made to the fund.

At half-past four he decided to take one more ride and then start for the station. But on that ride an accident occurred. The bobs on which the boys were seated collapsed midway of the descent, and threw the coasters into a heap in the ditch. None of them was seriously hurt, though the loose stones among which they were thrown were not sufficiently cushioned by the snow to prevent some bruises, and abrasions of the skin. Of course there was much confusion and excitement. There was scrambling, and rubbing of hurt places, and an immediate investigation into the cause of the wreck. In the midst of it all Pen forgot about his engagement. When the matter did recur to his mind he glanced at his watch and found that it lacked but twelve minutes of train time. It would be only by hard sprinting and rare good luck that he would be able to reach the station in time to see his grandfather off. Without a word of explanation to his fellows he started away on a keen run. They looked after him in open-mouthed wonder. They could not conceive what had happened to him. One boy suggested that he had been frightened out of his senses by the shock of the accident; and another that he had struck his head against a rock and had gone temporarily insane, and that he ought to be followed to see that he did no harm to himself. But no one offered to go on such a mission, and, after watching the runner out of sight, they turned their attention again to the wrecked bobs.

Aleck Sands went straight from school to his home in the valley. There were afternoon chores to be done, and he was anxious to finish them as soon as possible in order that he might start out with his subscription paper.

He did not hope to equal Pen in the amount of contributions, for he had no wealthy grandfather on whom to depend, but he did intend to excel him in the number of subscribers. And it was desirable that he should be early in the field.

It was almost dusk when he started from home to go to the grist-mill of which his father was the proprietor. He wanted to get his father’s signature first, both as a matter of policy and as a matter of filial courtesy.

As he approached the railroad station, which it was necessary for him to pass on his way to the mill, he saw Colonel Butler pacing up and down the platform which faced the town, and, at every turn, looking anxiously up the street.

It was evident that the colonel was waiting for the train, and it was just as evident that he was expecting some one, probably Pen, to come to the station to see him off. And Pen was nowhere in sight.

A brilliant and daring thought entered Aleck’s mind. While, ordinarily, he was neither brilliant nor daring, yet he was intelligent, quick and resourceful. He was always ready to meet an emergency. The idea that had taken such sudden possession of him was nothing more nor less than an impulse to solicit Colonel Butler for a subscription to the flag fund and thus forestall Pen. And why not? He knew of nothing to prevent. Pen had no exclusive right to subscriptions from the Hill, any more than he, Aleck, had to subscriptions from the Valley. And if he could be first to obtain a contribution from Colonel Butler, the most important citizen of Chestnut Hill, if not of the whole county, what plaudits would he not receive from his comrades of the Riverbeds?

Having made up his mind he was not slow to act. He was already within fifty feet of the platform on which the gray-mustached and stern-faced veteran of the civil war was impatiently marching up and down. An empty sleeve was pinned to the breast of the old soldier’s coat; but he stood erect, and his steps were measured with soldierly precision. He had stopped for a moment to look, with keener scrutiny, up the street which led to the station. Aleck stepped up on the platform and approached him.

“Good evening, Colonel Butler!” he said.

The man turned and faced him.

“Good evening, sir!” he replied. “You have somewhat the advantage of me, sir.”

“My name is Aleck Sands,” explained the boy. “My father has the grist-mill here. Miss Grey, she is our teacher at the graded school, and she gave me a paper

Colonel Butler interrupted him.

“A pupil at the graded school are you, sir? Do you chance to know a lad there by the name of Penfield Butler; and if you know him can you give me any information concerning his whereabouts this evening?”

“Yes, sir. I know him. After school he started for Drake’s Hill with some other Hill boys to go a coasting.”

“Ah! Pleasure before duty. He was to have met me here prior to the leaving of the train. I have little patience, sir, with boys who neglect engagements to promote their own pleasures.”

He had such an air of severity as he said it, that Aleck was not sure whether, after all, he would dare to reapproach him on the subject of the subscription. But he plucked up courage and started in anew.

“Our teacher, Miss Grey, gave me this paper to get subscriptions on for the new flag. I’d be awful glad if you’d give something toward it.”

“What’s that?” asked the man as he took the paper from Aleck’s hand. “A flag for the school? And has the school no flag?”

“No, sir; not any.”

“The directors have been derelict in their duty, sir. They should have provided a flag on the erection of the building. No public school should be without an American flag. Let me see.”

He unhooked his eye-glasses from the breast of his waistcoat and put them on, shook out the paper dexterously with his one hand, and began to read it aloud.

“We, the undersigned, hereby agree to pay the sums set opposite our respective names, for the purpose of purchasing an American flag for the Chestnut Hill public school. All subscriptions to be payable to a collector hereafter to be appointed.”

Colonel Butler removed his glasses from his nose and stood for a moment in contemplation.

“I approve of the project,” he said at last. “Our youth should be made familiar with the sight of the flag. They should be taught to reverence it. They should learn of the gallant deeds of those who have fought for it through many great wars. I shall be glad to affix my name, sir, to the document, and to make a modest contribution. How large a fund is it proposed to raise?”

Aleck stammered a little as he replied. He had not expected so ready a compliance with his request. And it was beginning to dawn on him that it might be good policy, as well as a matter of common fairness, to tell the colonel frankly that Pen also had been authorized to solicit subscriptions. There might indeed be such a thing as revoking a subscription made under a misleading representation, or a suppression of facts. And if that should happen

“Why,” said Aleck, “why Miss Grey said she thought we ought to get twenty-five dollars. We’ve got to get a pole too, you know.”

“Certainly you must have a staff, and a good one. Twenty-five dollars is not enough money, young man. You should have forty dollars at least. Fifty would be better. I’ll give half of that amount myself. There should be no skimping, no false economy, in a matter of such prime importance. I shall see Miss Grey about it personally when I return from New York. Kindly accompany me to the station-agent’s office where I can procure pen and ink.”

Aleck knew that the revelation could be no longer delayed.

“But,” he stammered, “but, Colonel Butler, you know Pen’s got one too.”

The colonel turned back again.

“Got what?” he asked.

“Why, one of these, now, subscription papers.”

“Has he?”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Butler stood for a moment, apparently in deep thought. Then he looked out again from under his bushy eye-brows, searchingly, up the street. He took his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. After that he spoke.

“Under normal conditions, sir, my grandson would have preference in a matter of this kind, and I am obliged to you for unselfishly making the suggestion. But, as he has failed to perform a certain duty toward me, I shall consider myself relieved, for the time being, of my duty of preference toward him. Kindly accompany me to the station-master’s office.”

With Aleck in his wake he strode down the platform and across the waiting-room, among the people who had gathered to wait for or depart by the train, and spoke to the ticket-agent at the window.

“Will you kindly permit me, sir, to use your table and pen and ink to sign a document of some importance?”

“Certainly!”

The man at the window opened the door of the agent’s room and bade the colonel and Aleck to enter. He pushed a chair up to the table and placed ink and pens within reach.

“Help yourself, Colonel Butler,” he said. “We’re glad to accommodate you.”

But the colonel had barely seated himself before a new thought entered his mind. He pondered for a moment, and then swung around in the swivel-chair and faced the boy who stood waiting, cap in hand.

“Young man,” he said, “it just occurs to me that I can serve your school as well, and please myself better, by making a donation of the flag instead of subscribing to the fund. Does the idea meet with your approval?”

The proposition came so unexpectedly, and the question so suddenly, that Aleck hardly knew how to respond.

“Why, yes, sir,” he said hesitatingly, “I suppose so. You mean you’ll give us the flag?”

“Yes; I’ll give you the flag. I am about starting for New York. I will purchase one while there. And in the spring I will provide a proper staff for it, in order that it may be flung to the breeze.”

By this time Aleck comprehended the colonel’s plan.

“Why,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, “that’ll be great! May I tell Miss Grey?”

“You may be the sole bearer of my written offer to your respected teacher.”

He swung around to the table and picked up a pen.

“Your teacher’s given name is ?” he inquired.

“Why,” stammered Aleck, “it’s it’s why, her name’s Miss Helen Grey.”

The colonel began to write rapidly on the blank page of the subscription paper.

“To Miss Helen Grey;
“Principal of the Public School
“Chestnut Hill.

“My Dear Madam:

“I am informed by one of your pupils, Master

He stopped long enough to ask the boy for his full name, and then continued to write

“Alexander McMurtrie Sands, that it is your patriotic purpose to procure an American flag for use in your school. With this purpose I am in hearty accord. It will therefore give me great pleasure, my dear madam, to procure for you at once, at my sole expense, and present to your school, an appropriate banner, to be followed in due season by a fitting staff. I trust that my purpose and desire may commend themselves to you. I wish also that your pupil, the aforesaid Master Sands, shall have full credit for having so successfully called this matter to my attention; and to that end I make him sole bearer of this communication.

“I remain, my dear madam,
“Your obedient servant,
“Richard Butler.”

January 12th.

Colonel Butler read the letter over slowly aloud, folded the subscription paper on which it had been written, and handed it to Aleck.

“There, young man,” he said, “are your credentials, and my offer.”

The shrieking whistle had already announced the approach of the train, and the easy puffing of the locomotive indicated that it was now standing at the station. The colonel rose from his chair and started across the room, followed by Aleck.

“You’re very kind to do that,” said the boy. And he added: “Have you a grip that I can carry to the train for you?”

“No, thank you! A certain act rash perhaps, but justifiable, in the civil war, cost me an arm. Since then, when traveling, I have found it convenient to check my baggage.”

He pushed his way through the crowd on the platform, still followed by Aleck, and mounted the rear steps of the last coach on the train. The engine bell was ringing. The conductor cried, “All aboard!” and signalled to the engineer, and the train moved slowly out.

On the rear platform, scanning the crowd at the station, stood Colonel Butler, tall, soldierly, impressive. He saw Aleck and waved his hand to him. And at that moment, capless, breathless, hopeless, around the corner of the station into sight, dashed Pen Butler.