It is little wonder that Pen passed a sleepless night, after the interview with his grandfather. He realized now, perhaps better than any one else, the seriousness of his offense. Knowing, so well as he did, Colonel Butler’s reverence for all things patriotic, he did not wonder that he should be so deeply indignant. Pen, himself, felt that the least he could do, under the circumstances, was to publicly apologize for his conduct, bitter and humiliating as it would be to make such an apology. And he was willing to apologize to any one, to anything save Alexander Sands. To this point of reparation he could not bring himself. This was the problem with which he struggled through the night hours. It was not a question, he told himself, over and over again, of whether he should leave Bannerhall, with its ease and luxury and choice traditions, and go to live on the little farm at Cobb’s Corners. It was a question of whether he was willing to yield his self-respect and manhood to the point of humbling himself before Alexander Sands. It was not until he heard the clock in the hall strike three that he reached his decision.

And his decision was, to comply, in full, with his grandfather’s demand and remain at Bannerhall.

At the breakfast table the next morning Colonel Butler was still reticent and taciturn. He had passed an uncomfortable night and was in no mood for conversation. He did not refer, in any way, to the matters which had been discussed the evening before; and when Pen, with the letter in his pocket, started for school, the situation was entirely unchanged. But, somehow, in the freshness of the morning, under the cheerful rays of an unclouded sun, the task that had been set for Pen did not seem to him to be quite so difficult and repulsive as it had seemed the night before. He even deigned to whistle as he went down the path to the street. But he noticed, as he passed along through the business section of the town, that people whom he knew looked at him curiously, and that those who spoke to him did so with scant courtesy. Across the street, from the corner of his eye, he saw one man call another man’s attention to him, and both men turned their heads, for a moment, to watch him. A little farther along he caught sight of Elmer Cuddeback, his bosom companion, a half block ahead, and he called out to him:

“Hey! Elmer, wait a minute!”

But Elmer did not wait. He looked back to see who had called to him, and then he replied:

“I can’t! I got to catch up with Jimmie Morrissey.”

And he started off on a run. This was the cut direct. There was no mistaking it. It sent a new fear to Pen’s heart. It served to explain why his schoolfellows had not been to see him and sympathize with him. He had not before fully considered what effect his conduct of the previous Saturday might have upon those who had been his best friends. But Elmer’s action was suspiciously expressive. It was more than that, it was ominous and forbidding. Pen trudged on alone. A group of a half dozen boys who had heretofore recognized him as their leader, turned a corner into Main street, and went down on the other side. He did not call to them, nor did they pay any attention to him, except that, once or twice, some of them looked back, apparently to see whether he was approaching them. But his ears burned. He knew they were discussing his fault.

In the school-house yard another group of boys was gathered. They were so earnestly engaged in conversation that they did not notice Pen’s approach until he was nearly on them. Then one of them gave a low whistle and instantly the talking ceased.

“Hello, fellows!” Pen made his voice and manner as natural and easy as determined effort could make them.

Two or three of them answered “Hello!” in an indifferent way; otherwise none of them spoke to him.

If the battle of Chestnut Hill had ended when the enemy had been driven into the school-house, and if the conquering troops had then gone home proclaiming their victory, these same boys who were now treating him with such cold indifference, would have been flinging their arms about his shoulders this morning, and proclaiming him to the world as a hero; and Pen knew it. With flushed face and sinking heart he turned away and entered the school-house.

Aleck Sands was already there, sitting back in a corner, surrounded by sympathizing friends. He still bore marks of the fray.

As Pen came in some one in the group said:

“Here he comes now.”

Another one added:

“Hasn’t he got the nerve though, to show himself after what he done to the flag?”

And a third one, not to be outdone, declared:

“Aw! He’s a reg’lar Benedic’ Arnold.”

Pen heard it all, as they had intended he should. He stopped in the aisle and faced them. The grief and despair that he had felt outside when his own comrades had ignored him, gave place now to a sudden blazing up of the old wrath. He did not raise his voice; but every word he spoke was alive with anger.

“You cowardly puppies! You talk about the flag! The only flag you’re fit to live under is the black flag, with skull and cross-bones on it.”

Then he turned on his heel and marched up the aisle to where Miss Grey was seated at her desk. He took Colonel Butler’s letter from his pocket and handed it to her.

“My grandfather,” he said, “wishes me to give you this letter.”

She looked up at him with a grieved and troubled face.

“Oh, Pen!” she exclaimed, despairingly, “what have you done, and why did you do it?”

She was fond of the boy. He was her brightest and most gentlemanly pupil. On only one or two other occasions, during the years of her authority, had she found it necessary to reprimand him for giving way to sudden fits of passion leading to infraction of her rules. So that it was with deep and real sorrow that she deplored his recent conduct and his present position.

“I don’t know,” he answered her. “I guess my temper got the best of me, that’s all.”

“But, Pen, I don’t know what to do. I’m simply at my wit’s end.”

“I’m sorry to have given you so much trouble, Miss Grey,” he replied. “But when it comes to punishing me, I think the letter will help you out.”

The bell had stopped ringing. The boys and girls had crowded in and were already seated, awaiting the opening of school. Pen turned away from his teacher and started down the aisle toward his seat, facing his fellow-pupils as he went.

And then something happened; something unusual and terrible; something so terrible that Pen’s face went pale, he paused a moment and looked ahead of him as though in doubt whether his ears had deceived him, and then he dropped weakly into his seat. They had hissed him. From a far corner of the room came the first sibilant sound, followed at once by a chorus of hisses that struck straight to the boy’s heart, and echoed through his mind for years.

Miss Grey sprang to her feet. For the first time in all the years she had taught them her pupils saw her fired with anger. She brought her gavel down on the table with a bang.

“This is disgraceful!” she exclaimed. “We are in a school-room, not in a goose-pond, nor in a den of snakes. I want every one who has hissed to remain here when school closes at noon.”

But it was not until after the opening exercises had been concluded, and the younger children had gone out to the room of the assistant teacher, that she found an opportunity to read Colonel Butler’s letter. It did help her out, as Pen had said it would. She resolved to act immediately upon the request contained in it, before calling any classes. She rose in her place.

“I have an unpleasant duty to perform,” she said. “I hoped, when I gave you boys permission to have the snowball fight, that it would result in permanent peace among you. It has, apparently, served only to embitter you more deeply against each other. The school colors have been removed from the building without authority. With those guilty of this offense I shall deal hereafter. The flag has been abused and thrown into the slush of the street. As to this I shall not now decide whose was the greater fault. But one, at least, of those concerned in such treatment of our colors has realized the seriousness of his misconduct, and desires to apologize for it, to his teacher, to his country, to his flag, and to the one who was carrying it at the time of the assault. Penfield, you may come to the platform.”

But Pen did not stir. He sat there as though made of stone, that awful hiss still sounding in his ears. Miss Grey’s voice came to him as from some great distance. He did not seem to realize what she was saying to him. She saw his white face, and the vacant look in his eyes, and she pitied him; but she had her duty to perform.

“Penfield,” she repeated, “will you please come to the platform? We are waiting for your apology.”

This time Pen heard her and roused himself. He rose slowly to his feet; but he did not move from his place. He spoke from where he stood.

“Miss Grey,” he said, “after what has occurred here this morning, I have decided not to apologize.”

He bent over, picked up his books from the desk in front of him, stepped out into the aisle, walked deliberately down between rows of astounded schoolmates to the vestibule, put on his cap and coat, and went out into the street.

No one called him back. He would not have gone if any one had. He turned his face toward home. Whether or not people looked at him curiously as he passed, he neither knew nor cared. He had been hissed in public by his schoolfellows. No condemnation could be more severe than this, or lead to deeper humiliation. Strong men have quailed under this repulsive and terrible form of public disapproval. It is little wonder that a mere schoolboy should be crushed by it. That he could never go back to Miss Grey’s school was perfectly plain to him. That, having refused to apologize, he could not remain at Bannerhall, was equally certain. One path only remained open to him, and that was the snow-filled, country road leading to his grandfather Walker’s humble abode at Cobb’s Corners.

When he reached home he found that his grandfather and his Aunt Millicent had gone down the river road for a sleigh-ride. He did not wait to consider anything, for there was really nothing to consider. He went up to his room, packed his suit-case with some clothing and a few personal belongings, and came down stairs and left his baggage in the hall while he went into the library and wrote a letter to his grandfather. When it was finished he read it over to himself, aloud:

“Dear Grandfather:

“After what happened at school this morning it was impossible for me to apologize, and keep any of my self-respect. So I am going to Cobb’s Corners to live with my mother and Grandpa Walker, as you wished. Good-by!

“Your affectionate grandson,
“Penfield Butler.”

“P. S. Please give my love to Aunt Millicent.”

He enclosed the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and left it lying on the library table. Then he put on his cap and coat, took his suit-case, and went out into the sunlight of the winter morning. At the entrance gate he turned and looked back at Bannerhall, the wide lawn, the noble trees, the big brick house with its hospitable porch, the window of his own room, facing the street. Something rose in his throat and choked him a little, but his eyes were dry as he turned away. He knew the road to Cobb’s Corners very well indeed. He had made frequent visits to his mother there in the summer time. For, notwithstanding his forbidding attitude, Colonel Butler recognized the instinct that drew mother and child together, and never sought to deny it proper expression. But it was hard traveling on the road to-day, especially with a burden to carry, and Pen was glad when Henry Cobb, a neighbor of Grandpa Walker, came along with horse and sleigh and invited him to ride.

It was just after noon when he reached his grandfather’s house, and the members of the family were at dinner. They looked up in astonishment when he entered.

“Why, Pen!” exclaimed his mother, “whatever brings you here to-day?”

“I’ve come to stay with you awhile, mother,” he replied, “if grandpa ’ll take me in.”

“Of course grandpa ’ll take you in.”

And then, as mothers will, especially surprised mothers, she fell on his neck and kissed him, and smiled through her tears.

“Well, I dunno,” said Grandpa Walker, facetiously, balancing a good-sized morsel of food carefully on the blade of his knife, “that depen’s on wuther ye’re willin’ to take pot-luck with us or not.”

“I’m willing to take anything with you,” replied Pen, “if you’ll give me a home till I can shift for myself.”

He went around the table and kissed his grandmother who had, for years, been partially paralyzed, shook hands with his Uncle Joseph and Aunt Miranda, and greeted their little brood of offspring cheerfully.

“What’s happened to ye, anyhow?” asked Grandpa Walker when the greetings were over and a place had been prepared for Pen at the table. “Dick Butler kick ye out; did he?”

“Not exactly,” was the reply. “But he told me I couldn’t stay there unless I did a certain thing, and I didn’t do it I couldn’t do it and so I came away.”

“Jes’ so. That’s Dick Butler to a T. Ef ye don’t give him his own way in everything he aint no furder use for ye. Well, eat your dinner now, an’ tell us about it later.”

So Pen ate his dinner. He was hungry, and, for the time being at least, the echo of that awful hiss was not ringing in his ears. But they would not let him finish eating until he had told them, in detail, the cause of his coming. He made the story as brief as possible, neither seeking to excuse himself nor to lay the blame on others.

“Well,” was Grandpa Walker’s comment when the recital was finished, “I dunno but what ye done all right enough. They ain’t one o’ them blame little scalawags down to Chestnut Valley, but what deserves a good thrashin’ on gen’al principles. They yell names at me every time I go down to mill, an’ then cut an’ run like blazes ’fore I can git at ’em with a hoss-whip. I’m glad somebody’s hed the grace to wallop ’em. And es for Dick Butler; he’s too allfired pompous an’ domineerin’ for anybody to live with, anyhow. Lets on he was a great soldier! Humph! I’ve known him

“Hush, father!”

It was Pen’s mother who spoke. The old man turned toward her abruptly.

“You ain’t got no call,” he said, “to stick up for Dick Butler.”

“I know,” she replied. “But he’s Pen’s grandfather, and it isn’t nice to abuse him in Pen’s presence.”

“Well, mebbe that’s so.”

He rose from the table, got his pipe from the mantel, filled it and lighted it, and went over and deposited his somewhat ponderous body in a cushioned chair by the window. Pen’s mother and aunt pushed the wheel-chair in which Grandma Walker sat, to one side of the room, and began to clear the dishes from the table.

“Well,” said the old man, between his puffs of smoke, “now ye’re here, what ye goin’ to do here?”

“Anything you have for me to do, grandpa,” replied Pen.

“I don’t see’s I can send ye to school.”

“I’d rather not go to school. I’d rather work do chores, anything.”

“All right! I guess we can keep ye from rustin’. They’s plenty to do, and I ain’t so soople as I was at sixty.”

He looked the embodiment of physical comfort, with his round, fresh face, and the fringe of gray whiskers under his chin, as he sat at ease in his big chair by the window, puffing lazily at his pipe.

So Pen stayed. There was no doubt but that he earned his keep. He did chores. He chopped wood. He brought water from the well. He fed the horse and the cows, the chickens and the pigs. He drove Old Charlie in the performance of any work requiring the assistance of a horse. He was busy from morning to night. He slept in a cold room, he was up before daylight, he was out in all kinds of weather, he did all kinds of tasks. There were sore muscles and aching bones, indeed, before he had hardened himself to his work; for physical labor was new to him; but he never shirked nor complained. Moreover he was treated kindly, he had plenty to eat, and he shared in whatever diversions the family could afford. Then, too, he had his mother to comfort him, to cheer him, to sympathize with him, and to be, ever more and more, his confidante and companion.

And Grandpa Walker, relieved of nearly all laborious activities about the place, much to his enjoyment, spent his time reading, smoking and dozing through the days of late winter and early spring, and discussing politics and big business in the country store at the cross-roads of an evening.

One afternoon, about the middle of March, as the old man was rousing himself from his after-dinner nap, two men drove up to the Walker homestead, tied their horse at the gate, came up the path to the house and knocked at the door. He, himself, answered the knock.

“Yes,” he said in response to their inquiry, “I’m Enos Walker, and I’m to hum.”

The spokesman of the two was a tall young man with a very black moustache and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

“We’re glad to see you, Mr. Walker,” he declared. “My name is Hubert Morrissey, and the gentleman who is with me is Mr. Frank Campbell. We’re on a hunting expedition.”

“Perty late in the season fer huntin’, ain’t it? The law’s on most everything now.”

“I don’t think the law’s on what we’re hunting for.”

“What ye huntin’ fer?”

“Spruce trees.”

“Eh?”

“Spruce trees. Or, rather, one spruce tree.”

“Well, ye wouldn’t have to shoot so allfired straight to hit one in these parts. I’ve got a swamp full of ’em down here.”

“So we understand. But we want a choice one.”

“I’ve got some that can’t be beat this side the White mountains.”

“We’ve learned that also. We took the liberty of looking over your spruce grove on our way up here.”

“Well; they didn’t nobody hender ye, did they?”

“No. We found what we were looking for, all right.”

“Jes’ so. Come in an’ set down.”

Grandpa Walker moved ponderously from the doorway in which he had been standing, to his comfortable chair by the window, seated himself, picked up his pipe from the window-sill, filled it, lighted it and began puffing. The two men entered the room, closing the door behind them, and found chairs for themselves and occupied them. Then the conversation was renewed.

“We’ll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Walker,” said Hubert Morrissey, “and tell you what we want and why we want it. It is proposed to erect a first-class liberty-pole in the school-yard at Chestnut Hill. A handsome American flag has already been given to the school. The next thing in order of course is the pole. Mr. Campbell and I have been authorized to find a spruce tree that will fill the bill, buy it, and have it cut and trimmed and hauled to town while the snow is still on. It has to be dressed, seasoned, painted, and ready to plant by the time the frost goes out, and there isn’t a day to lose. There, Mr. Walker, that is our errand.”

“Jes’ so. Found the tree did ye? down in my swamp?”

“We certainly did.”

“Nice tree, is it? What ye was lookin’ fer?”

“It’s a beauty! Just what we want. I know it isn’t just the thing to crack up the goods you’re trying to buy from the other fellow, but we want to be perfectly fair with you, Mr. Walker. We want to pay you what the tree is worth. Suppose we go down the hill and look it over, and then you can doubtless give us your price on it.”

“‘Tain’t ne’sary to go down an’ look it over. I know the tree ye’ve got your eye on.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, sort o’ guessed it. It’s the one by the corner o’ the rail fence on the fu’ther side o’ the brook as ye go in from the road.”

“That’s a good guess. It’s the very tree. Now then, what about the price?”

The old man pulled on his pipe for a moment with rather more than his usual vigor, then removed it from his mouth and faced his visitors.

“Want to buy that tree, do ye?” he asked.

“Sure we want to buy it.”

“Cash down, jedgment note, or what?”

The man with the black moustache smiled broadly, showing an even row of white teeth.

“Cash down,” he replied. “Gold, silver or greenbacks as you prefer. Every dollar in your hands before an axe touches the tree.”

Grandpa Walker inserted the stem of his pipe between his teeth, and again lapsed into a contemplative mood. After a moment he broke the silence by asking:

“Got the flag, hev ye?”

“Yes; we have the flag.”

“Might I be so bold as to ask what the flag cost?”

“It was given to the school.”

“Air ye tellin’ who give it?”

“Why, there’s no secret about it. Colonel Butler gave the flag.”

“Dick Butler?”

“Colonel Richard Butler; yes.”

It was gradually filtering into the mind of Mr. Hubert Morrissey that for some reason the owner of the tree was harboring a resentment against the giver of the flag. Then he suddenly recalled the fact that Mr. Walker was the father of Colonel Butler’s daughter-in-law, and that the relation between the two men had been somewhat strained. But Grandpa Walker was now ready with another question:

“Is Colonel Richard Butler a givin’ the pole too?”

“Why, yes, I believe he furnishes the pole also.”

“It was him ‘t sent ye out here a lookin’ fer one; was it?”

“He asked us to hunt one up for him, certainly.”

“Told ye, when ye found one ’t was right, to git it? Not to haggle about the price, but git it an’ pay fer it? Told ye that, didn’t he?”

“Well, if it wasn’t just that it was first cousin to it.”

“Jes’ so. Well, you go back to Chestnut Hill, an’ you go to Colonel Richard Butler, an’ you tell Colonel Richard Butler that ef he wants to buy a spruce tree from Enos Walker of Cobb’s Corners, to come here an’ bargain fer it himself. He’ll find me to hum most any day. How’s the sleighin’?”

“Pretty fair. But, Mr. Walker

“No buts, ner ifs, ner ands. Ye heard what I said, an’ I stan’ by it till the crack o’ jedgment.”

The old man rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put the pipe in his vest pocket, stretched himself, and reached for his cap. It was plain that he considered the interview at an end. The persuasive Mr. Morrissey tried to get a wedge in somewhere to reopen it, but he tried in vain. Enos Walker was adamant. So, disappointed and discomfited, the emissaries of Colonel Richard Butler bade “good-day,” to the oracle of Cobb’s Corners, and drove back to Chestnut Hill.