Uncle Rutherford stood at the far end of the great schoolroom, awaiting the admission of his two candidates for its privileges and opportunities. It was the opening-day after the conclusion of the Christmas holidays; and half a dozen boys, besides Theodore Yorke and Jim, had presented themselves as new scholars, and they now stood before the principal, Theodore at one end of the line, and Jim at the other.

“What is your name?” asked the principal of Theodore; to which the boy responded simply, “Theodore Yorke,” and then answered in like manner the few more questions put to him relative to age and so forth; and the gentleman passed down the line till he came to Jim.

“What is your name?”

To uncle Rutherford’s consternation, Jim, straightening himself up, answered in a loud, confident tone, “Jim,” he had meant to say “James,” but the more familiar appellation escaped him, “Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington;” and then glanced down the line as if to say, “Beat that if you can!”

A titter ran around the room, speedily checked by the stern eye of the principal, and one or two of the new boys giggled outright; but Jim, with head erect, and fearless eyes fixed upon the master, was unmoved, perhaps did not even guess that the merriment was caused by himself.

The principal found it necessary to caress his whiskers a little, then said,

“Good names, my boy, every one of them. Try to prove worthy to bear them. Your age?”

This and the other needful preliminaries being settled, the new boys were turned over to the examiners, to have their classes and position in the school defined; and uncle Rutherford made his exit, only too thankful that the irrepressible Jim had not added to his list of high-sounding appellations, “President that is to be of these United States.”

School discipline, of course, had, for the time, restrained the gibes and sneers, the open laugh, which would have greeted Jim’s announcement of his adopted name or names; but the time was only deferred. The joke was, to the schoolboy mind, too good to be lost; and when the recess came, and the boys were for a while at liberty, Jim became the target for many sorry witticisms, and “Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington” was called from all sides of the playground in almost as many tones of mockery as there were boys; and Jim speedily found that he had taken too much upon himself for his own comfort. The “Grant Garfield” had been an after-thought, and he had been prompted thereto by hearing another boy give his name to which he was probably justly entitled as “George William Winfield Scott Jones.” Jim was not going to be outdone, or to be satisfied with four names, when here was a fellow with five; hence the “Grant Garfield” on the spur of the moment.

Milly had feared that even the “Rutherford Livingstone Washington” would excite derisive comment; and when she heard uncle Rutherford’s report of Jim’s further adoption of great names, she groaned in spirit, and awaited with sundry apprehensions his return from school, fearing that his excitable temper might have been provoked into some manifestation, which would not only affect his creditable entrance into the school, but also his standing with uncle Rutherford.

But Jim had a check upon himself whereof Milly wot not; namely, that he knew of the prize to be secured in case he gained the approbation of uncle Rutherford, a prize which, as we know, he was more anxious to win for the sake of defeating Theodore Yorke than for the attainment of the scholarship itself.

So, although he had to put a strong restraint upon himself, and was inwardly boiling with wrath and indignation, he bore the gibes and sneers with the utmost self-command, and apparently unfailing good-nature, till Theodore Yorke, who had made himself at home among his new surroundings as readily as Jim had done, joined in the “chaffing” with a vim and bitterness which could have their source only in a feeling of personal spite and hatred.

“Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington,” he repeated; “and he hasn’t a right to one of the names, unless it’s Jim. He hasn’t got any name; nobody knows what his name is, or who he is, or where he came from. He hasn’t got any folks, either.”

This was wounding poor Jim in the tenderest point, as the amiable Theodore well knew; and it was more than his victim could well stand.

“And I’d rather have no folks at all than have such as yours,” he shouted, almost beside himself with rage at this exposure of that which he considered to be his disgrace. Then suddenly recalled to a sense of his regard for this boy’s grandparents, Captain and Mrs. Yorke, and of all the kindness he had received from them, for a hearty gratitude for favors received was one of the strongest features of Jim’s character, he hastened to set matters in their true light; “at least, such a father as they tell yours was. If I had a gran’father or gran’mother like yours, there couldn’t be none better; but if I had a father was such a scallywag as yours, I say a good sight better have none. And you ain’t a bit like the old folks, neither; you’re another such a one as your father. I wouldn’t own such a one!”

This tirade was interspersed with other expressions more forcible than choice, and which are better omitted; and, as may be supposed, it did not tend to mend matters. Recrimination followed recrimination; insults from one to another went from bad to worse, Theodore being even more of an adept in such language than Jim, who had always been considered a proficient; and one of the teachers came upon the playground just in time to see Jim deal a furious blow at his opponent, who caught sight of the master before he had returned it, which he would otherwise doubtless have done; and who immediately assumed an air of innocent, injured virtue, too lofty-minded and forgiving to return the blow.

As the rules against fighting within school bounds were particularly severe, Jim’s was a heinous offence. He was sternly called to order and reprimanded with severity; and although, in consideration of his being a new boy, he was let off with this, he began his school career somewhat under a cloud; while Theodore posed as a martyr, and a boy with a regard for school discipline, to his teachers, but the other boys knew better, and with few exceptions espoused Jim’s cause, and at once pronounced Theodore the “sneak” and “bully” that he was. But that was small comfort to Jim, who, on coming home, had to report, as he truthfully did, that he had failed to keep his temper on this the very first day of his entrance into the school.

Milly consoled and encouraged him as best she might, bidding him to take heart and to struggle even harder for the future, and being very sparing of blame for his share in the quarrel.

Fate, as short-sighted and with as dull an eye to expediency as uncle Rutherford, had decreed not only that the two boys, Jim and Theodore, should be in the same school, but, their attainments being of about the same range, that they should be put into the same class, an arrangement which did not tend to the maintenance of the peace so much to be desired.

But, in spite of his unlucky beginning, Jim speedily became a favorite in the school, both with masters and schoolmates. His frank, merry ways, obliging disposition, ready wit, and quickness at repartee, soon gained him a host of friends on the playground; while his evident desire to make progress in his studies, wherein he had a stimulus unsuspected by any one but Bill, his sturdy truthfulness, and general obedience to rules and regulations, won him golden opinions from those in authority. Ambition, whether for greater or lesser aims, was Jim’s ruling passion, and now he had so many spurs to urge him on; for, added to his own personal aspirations and the determination to prove himself a credit to his benefactors, was the overwhelming desire to outstrip Theodore, and wrest from him the prize.

Milly noticed, whenever he reported progress to her, that there was a certain sort of repressed excitability about him, a wistful nervousness very foreign to his assured independence and self-confidence, and he several times seemed as if he were going to make some disclosure to her; all of which made his young mistress think that he had something on his mind which he was half inclined to impart to her, although he could not quite resolve to do so. She bided her time, however, being sure that it would come sooner or later, and only now and then tried to open the way by asking him if he had any thing further to tell her.

But the only result of this would be a shame-faced embarrassment and a sheepish denial, followed by an evident desire to cut short the interview.

When Jim had been at school about a month, making, according to the reports of his teachers, who were closely questioned by uncle Rutherford, fair progress with his studies, and showing a self-command and control over his temper which had not been expected from him after the fiery outburst of the first day, an incident occurred which would have afforded him an opportunity for mortifying Theodore, had he not been restrained by a motive which was stronger than his antagonism to his rival.

The vagaries and peculiarities of Captain Yorke, with his ignorance and indifference to city ways and manners, had more than once drawn public notice upon him; the episode of Daisy as a peanut-vender, with the old sailor as her aider and abetter, being but a trifling circumstance compared to some others; and Mrs. Yorke was in constant terror lest he should in some way make himself more notorious than would prove agreeable.

About this time, a celebrated actor was performing in the city in the farce of “Dundreary Married,” wherein Lord Dundreary having, as the title indicates, taken to himself a wife, falls beneath the tyranny of a domineering mother-in-law, to whom he submits till submission becomes intolerable, when he turns upon her, asserts himself, and proclaims himself master in his own house.

Our boys, Norman and Douglas, having seen the farce in company with the rest of the family, and having been greatly amused by it, conceived the idea of treating the captain to a sight of the same; and, having obtained father’s permission to do so, they invited the old man to an evening’s entertainment.

“Wa’al,” he drawled with his usual deliberation when considering any matter, “I don’ care if I do. When I was a youngster, I was brung up to think play-actin’ was a sin, an’ I’d about as soon a thought of shakin’ han’s with the evil one hisself, as of goin’ to the theayter; but either I’ve gotten wiser as I’ve gotten older, or else maybe the play-actin’ folks has gotten better behaved; but times is changed somehow, an’ I seen some play-actin’ in the hotel down to the P’int, an’ they was real ladies an’ gentlemen did it, too. I was a peepin’ in at the winders more’n once; an’ the hotel-keepers, Mr. Loydd an’ Mr. Field, if they didn’t come, one one time, an’ t’other another, an’ bring me into the hall an’ near to the doors where I could see fust-rate. An’ I didn’t see no harm onto it. The play-actors was very pretty behaved, an’ I didn’t see no breakin’ of comman’ments. I never could see what folks wanted to purtend they was other folks for, and sometimes to go a-talkin’ as if they was come out of by-gone days. But if you’re for takin’ me to the theayter, I reckon I won’t come to no harm by it. Enyhow, I know ye’ve got to come to city ways when ye’re to the city; folks kinder look daggers at ye ef ye don’t. There’s the landlady to the house where me and Mis’ Yorke puts up; she’s the best, an allers doin’ for Mis’ Yorke, an’ come an’ sit with her an’ talk my talk by the hour she will, straight on, like as she’d been woun’ up; an’ she come yesterday, all kin’ of fussy like, an’ her face red, an’ she says, says she, ‘Captain Yorke,’ says she, ’ef ye wouldn’t mind me askin’ a little favor of ye?’”

“‘Sartinly not, ma’am,’ says I; an’ I was reckonin’ she was wantin’ to borrer money. But what do ye s’pose it was, Norman? She goes and she says, says she, kinder hesitatin’ like yet, ’Would ye mind, capt’in, a-eatin’ with yer fork, ’stead of yer knife? Miss Jarvis, what sits next ye at the table, she’s kinder narvous, an’ she says it sets her teeth on edge, an’ she says she can’t stan’ it; an’ she’s my best payin’ boarder, bein’ she has the second-story front an’ back; an’ it would obleege me, ef ye don’t min’.’

“‘Jes’ as lief eat off ten forks, ma’am,’ says I, ‘ef it suits ye an’ Mis’ Jarvis. I been a-noticin’ she was kinder pernikity like an’ fussy, an’ kinder offish with me; but if it’s the difference of knives or forks, the best payin’ boarder ain’t goin’ to be hurt by me.’ But, boys! I didn’t know by a long shot what I was a-promisin’. I tell ye, the knife would keep goin’ up the nateral way as it was used to; an’ yesterday I didn’t get no kind of a dinner, nor a breakfast this mornin’, thinkin’ of that pesky fork. So to-day I was boun’ I’d get my dinner; so I cuts it up an’ spoon-victuals it, for fear of hurtin’ the feelin’s of the best payin’ boarder. City ways is uncommon troublesome, when ye ain’t let eat the way is most handy. But I don’t care if I go to the theayter with ye. I never see the inside of one of them places.”

“Oh, a real theatre is nothing like the dining-rooms of the hotels, where you saw the amateur theatricals,” said the posted Norman; “and father wouldn’t let us go if it were any harm. He said we could take you, captain.”

“No; an’ I reckon the governor wouldn’t be for goin’ to no place he shouldn’t go,” said the captain reflectively. “An’ he was along of you t’other night, wasn’t he?”

Norman and Douglas, anxious to overcome any scruples the old man might have, assured him that uncle Rutherford went quite often to the “theayter,” and thus quieted any remaining qualms of conscience which he might have; for Captain Yorke pinned his faith on uncle Rutherford, and all that the governor did was right in his eyes. So the expedition to the theatre was arranged to the satisfaction of my brothers, who anticipated much amusement in watching the impression the play would make upon the unsophisticated old veteran.

But a shock was in store for them which they had not foreseen; for the amount of observation which the captain saw fit to draw upon the party was almost too much for even their well-seasoned boyish nerves.

For the sake of obtaining an uninterrupted view of the stage, the boys had secured seats which the event proved to be too conspicuous for their comfort. No sooner were they all seated than the captain began with his comments and criticisms, his “them’s my opinions,” in a manner and tone which they vainly strove to moderate. Fortunately they were in the main complimentary and approving; and the old seaman’s quaint appearance, his evidently childlike ignorance and inexperience, diverted those of the audience who were within hearing, and led them to be indulgent to his rather obtrusive reflections upon men and things.

“Wal,” he said, gazing around and above him, up at the lofty frescoed ceiling, the sparkling crystal chandelier, the rich curtains, and other adornments of the house, “wal, it does beat all! It goes ahead of any meetin’-house I ever see; an’, I say, ’tain’t fair on the Almighty to be makin’ a better place for to be pleasurin’ in, than what we makes for him to be praised in. Yes, sir; an’ them’s my opinions, an’ I stands by ’em. What’s them folks up in them little cubby-holes fur?” pointing to the boxes. “Oh,” as Douglas explained, “they’s high an’ mighty, be they? can’t set along of the multitude? Wal, every man, an’ woman too, to her own likin’; I’d as lief be here. Seems kinder conspicuous like, settin’ up thar, an’ whiles I ain’t ashamed to show my face afore no man, I don’t hanker after settin’ up to be stared at.”

Happily the occupants of the boxes were beyond the reach of his voice, or at least of the tenor of his remarks; but the boys were on tenterhooks lest their garrulous companion should give offence. But from the moment that the curtain went up, and the mimic scene presented itself to his gaze, he sat spell-bound and silent, perfectly absorbed in the vivid portrayal of the chief character in the drama.

The great actor appeared first in the rôle of a celebrated man of his own profession, an actor of bygone days, whose name will always be famous; and from the moment that he stepped upon the stage, it was all reality to Captain Yorke. There was no “pretendin’ he was other folks,” to him, as it had been when he had witnessed the amateur theatricals and tableaux at the Point; and with a hand upon either knee, he leaned eagerly forward, his eyes fixed upon the scene before him, and absolutely speechless in his breathless interest. But when the curtain came down after the first act, he broke forth again to the edification and delight of those within hearing. Ladies listened and smiled at the simple-hearted old man; and gentlemen, who were near enough, encouraged him to ramble on, evidently considering him a novel species of entertainment, second only to that which was passing upon the stage. He was a character as good as any there.

Norman, enchanted with the sensation his charge was making, would put no check upon him; but the more shrinking Douglas was not so well pleased. Still, seeing that no offence was given, but rather the contrary, he possessed his soul in patience, devoutly wishing, however, that it was time for the close of the performance, which, under these circumstances, afforded him no pleasure. And as the captain’s excitement grew with each succeeding act, and the encouragement of those about him, and he grew more and more superior to considerations of time and place, Douglas would fain have quitted his seat and the theatre; and was only restrained from doing so, because he thought it would be mean to leave Norman in the lurch.

At length came the farce “Dundreary Married;” and the captain, who, it afterwards appeared, had in former years suffered divers things at the hand of an obnoxious mother-in-law, grew more excited than ever, and became furiously indignant, not only at the all-assuming lady, but also at the supine Dundreary, who allowed himself to be thus imposed upon. He grumbled and muttered, and really seemed as if he would make for the stage, as he said, “to give the old creetur a piece of his mind.” Even Norman was now uneasy lest he should make more demonstration than was meet, while Douglas did his best to induce both his companions to come out; but the captain was immovable, and not to be persuaded. Indeed, he scarcely seemed to heed Douglas’s arguments, so intent was he on the fortunes of the persecuted husband. His delight when that hero showed symptoms of some spirit was unbounded; and when at last he roused himself altogether from the laisser aller which had suffered so long and patiently, and fairly bade the lady leave his house and his wife to his own authority and protection, the old man sprang to his feet, and, waving his hat in the air, exclaimed in a voice which rang in stentorian tones through the house,

“Pitch into her, my lad! Give it to her! That’s right. Pitch into the mother-in-law!”

The effect, as may be imagined, was electric. There was a moment’s pause, then a laugh; then, as Norman and Douglas fairly dragged and hustled the captain into his seat, the inimitable actor bowed and waved his hand to the old man, who had, as it were, paid such an involuntary tribute to his powers; and the next moment a storm of applause broke forth, in compliment to both, it would appear, to the gratified actor, who had thrown his spell over the guileless old sailor to such an extent as to render him insensible to aught else, and to the innocent spectator who had been thus impressed by his matchless impersonations. As the performance came to a close, and the audience were leaving the house, the captain the centre of all eyes around him, an usher made his way to him, bearing a request from the star that he would step behind the scenes and shake hands with him.

Nothing loath, the captain readily consented, inviting the boys to go with him; but this Douglas, much disturbed by the notoriety of the evening, flatly refused, while bold Norman, who had no fear of man before his eyes, agreed to accompany him. Indeed, it was not safe to lose sight of him; there was no knowing of what vagaries the captain might be guilty if he were left entirely to his own devices. Norman felt that he was capable of any thing, and that he must keep a secure hold upon him. Moreover, the old man was not at all familiar with the city streets, and he must be guided safely to his boarding-house.

When they arrived behind the scenes, the great actor shook hands heartily with the old seaman, thanking him for the tribute which he had paid him. But here the captain’s enthusiasm fell flat. Meeting the object of his sympathy face to face, and as man to man, and finding that the interesting scenes he had just witnessed were but an inimitable mimicry, was a great disappointment; and he seemed to feel wronged and defrauded in some way.

“There warn’t nothin’ real about it,” he said indignantly and in a hurt tone to the boys, as they took their way homeward. “There warn’t nothin’ true at all. There bean’t no mother-in-law, nor wife, nor nothin’; there warn’t even any chap with the long whiskers, for it warn’t hisself at all, though he said it was that t’other one shook han’s with me, and said I’d give him a big compliment. ’Twas all purtendin’ an’ makin’ b’lieve. It’s a shame an’ a sin for to go makin’ out so life-like ye are what ye ain’t, an’ takin’ folks in so. It’s kinder cheatin’ play, I think; an’ Mis’ Yorke, she wurn’t jes’ so easy in her min’ ‘bout me goin’ to the theayter, an’ I reckon I’ve come to her way of thinkin’; an’ thank ye kindly, boys, but there’ll be no more theayter-goin’ fur me. The Scriptur says, ‘A fool an’ his money is soon parted,’ an’ meanin’ no ungratefulness to you, boys I’ve faith to b’lieve it; for it’s not good manners, neither good deeds, to make out that way, an’ take folks in. An’ them’s my opinions, an’ I’ll stan’ by ’em!”

The last thing the boys heard, as the door of his temporary home closed upon him, was, “No more theayters for me; they’re clean agin’ Scriptur.”

This, of course, was great fun for our frolicsome Norman, always ready for a joke or a good story; and although Douglas had not taken unalloyed pleasure in the events of the evening, he, too, could see the droll side of them now that they were over. They were rehearsed with great glee at the breakfast-table the next morning; and it occurred to me that here, if he chose to use it, was the opportunity for Jim to revenge himself for some of the sneers cast upon him by Theodore Yorke. I was wicked enough, however, not to suggest the idea to any one else, lest a word of warning or counsel should restrain him; and in the sequel Jim proved himself far the better Christian of the two, in spite of the superior advantages which had always been mine.

This happened to be Friday, when he brought home from school his weekly report, which he always took at once to Milly. The record for this week proved an unusually favorable one; but he had more to add to this.

“Miss Milly,” he said, after she had expressed her pleasure at the progress he was making and at his standing in “conduct,” “Miss Milly, I was real forgivin’ an’ like livin’ up to the mark you sot us for doin’ unto others, in school to-day. But it does come awful hard, when you get the chance to pay off a feller, to let it slip; an’ I don’t know as I could have done it if it hadn’t been for thinkin’ of the old captain himself, an’ how good he’d been to me, an’ that I wouldn’t like to go back on him.”

Light flashed upon Milly. The boy had been tempted to make use of the occurrences of the preceding evening to revenge himself upon Theodore Yorke for his previous slights and insults; and had refrained, chiefly from loyalty to his old friend, it is true, but, perhaps, partly prompted by the wish to do right.

It had so happened, that two boys in the class had been at the theatre also, and had been witnesses of the captain’s antics, but without knowing who he was, or of his connection with Theodore. In recess they told the story, doubtless with more or less of exaggeration, of the old countryman who had made himself so conspicuous and according to their showing so ridiculous at last night’s entertainment.

Of course Jim at once recognized the hero of the tale; but not so Theodore, his grandfather having, for a wonder, preserved a discreet silence on the subject, being totally unaware that he had exhibited himself in an unusual way on the occasion. Perhaps the poor captain had felt a little mortified that he had been so carried away by that which was, after all, “on’y pretendin’,” and did not care to rehearse his experience.

However that may be, Theodore had heard nothing of it, and laughed and jeered with the other boys at the more than graphic relation of his two schoolmates.

Strong was the temptation to Jim to expose him, and to draw upon his enemy the laugh which must follow; but, to his credit be it said, he refrained, except in so far as to give him a knowing look which conveyed to that amiable youth the conviction that it was no other than his grandfather who was furnishing food for merriment to half the school, and that Jim was aware of it and held this rod over him. The knowledge that this was so was not calculated to soften Theodore’s animosity toward Jim. Disposed as he was to raise a laugh or a sneer at the expense of another, he could not endure them himself; and to feel that he was thus in the power of the boy whom he hated, was intolerable to him. From this time, however, it gave him a wholesome awe of Jim, and proved a check upon him; and “Jim Grant Garfield Rutherford Livingstone Washington” rang less often over the playground, now that he ceased to lead in the cry upon the claimant of so many names.