An Extra Turn

ANIEL MONROE, M.A., M.D., ScD., and so forth, and so forth, sat pondering, with a deep frown on his brow, scowling at a recently opened letter which he held in his hand. He was a young man, still well under thirty, in spite of the degrees he held from Toronto University in Canada, and from various institutions of learning in England, the United States, and Germany. The room he occupied was large, finished in natural wood, furnished with all the luxury of a modern club, and, indeed, it looked like an apartment belonging to some association devoted to athletics, On the walls hung boxing gloves, foils, and numerous other accessories to the strenuous life.

It was, in fact, the private office of the Professor of Physical Culture, pertaining to the University of Wissacompton, which, as everyone knows, is the third largest community of students west of Chicago. It is scarcely necessary to remind readers who are interested in such things that the Wissacompton University football team last year mowed down the chief men of the eastern colleges as if the Wissacomptons were a section of one of their own prairie fires; and all this was due to the masterly organization and training of young Dr. Monroe, Professor of Athletics, responsible for the physical condition of something like three thousand undergraduates.

Dr. Monroe was a Scotch Canadian, who had graduated at Toronto University, had taught school for a while in his native land, then had drifted across the border with an ever-increasing salary, until he reached the position he now held, and of all the instructors in Wissacompton, he was the most popular and the most respected, for he was the master of his trade, and withal so modest, so mild, so gentle and courteous, that it was impossible for the most sullen of men to dislike him. Left penniless, with a widowed mother and an invalid younger brother, Monroe had worked his way through college, and thus acquired the highest qualifications either as a teacher, or a physician, and it was also known that he could make a good living as a blacksmith or a carpenter. It as not to be wondered at, therefore, that the western young men who attended Wissacompton College, few of whom were overburdened with riches, should admire and respect an individual who had conquered difficulties as Monroe had done.

In personal appearance Dr. Monroe was as mild-mannered a man as ever knocked an astonished ruffian into the gutter. He was so well built and so finely proportioned that although one could not but admire him, few realized that his muscles were like tempered steel, nor suspected the wonderful athletic feats he could perform when put to it.

He was an excellent organizer, and carried on his work with four assistants whom he had himself trained, and so the first question that cropped up in his mind on reading his brother's letter answered itself. He might easily leave the University for a month or six weeks, and, on his return, find things pretty much as he had left them. That was one consolation, so he determined to ask the president for an extra vacation till Christmas time, although it was now the early part of November, with the College in full swing.

The letter which had so disturbed the usually placid current of Monroe's life, although from his brother, was not written in his brother's handwriting. It was dated at the City Hospital, Toronto, and ran as follows:—

"Poor old Peter," sighed the Doctor, as he read the letter once again. "What brutes they must be to abuse so gentle a creature. I must go and cheer him up, and, by Jove, I think I'll teach Pineknot school till the Christmas vacation comes on. It will be a change from University life."

Although Pineknot school is somewhat out of the way, Dan Monroe reached it without much trouble, for the railway brought him to within fourteen miles of the place, and a fine span of horses made light of the fourteen miles, for the sleighing was excellent, and the air crisp, delicious, inspiring. A teacher is not usually obtained except at midsummer, or early in the new year, so the Doctor found Pineknot school still closed, and old Scott hailed the newcomer with obvious gratification, because there had been a good deal of grumbling at the incident which had closed the school, not from any sympathy with the stricken teacher, but because numerous children were left at home and in mischief.

Within a few days Dr. Monroe was as popular with the young women that attended, and with the small boys and girls, as he had been at the western University. The big boys, however, held aloof, and proved proof against a charm which they regarded with suspicion. His clement schoolroom manner, without even a hint of corporal punishment, might well breed contempt in the minds of the overgrown lads who had been brought up on the gad. His deferential courtesy to all showed him to be a milksop, but these Miss Nancy ways, although appreciated by the girls, were quite naturally held in manly scorn by the big boys. Tom Scott mincingly mimicked him one day, which caused great hilarity among his comrades, but the schoolmaster merely smiled, and complimented Tom on his improving manners.

The young ruffians saw they had to deal with one who turns the other cheek also, and said themselves in their own graphic language, that this was a soft snap. The elder brother was evidently going to prove an easier problem than even the younger had been.

Of course, mimicking a teacher, is not, after all, a heinous offence, and therefore Dr. Monroe merely smiled at Tom Scott. But he was watching the young man, and waiting with a patience which he was careful to conceal, for some important act of insubordination on his part that would justify drastic measures of suppression.

To his amazement, as the school session prolonged itself into December, it was Sam Perkins, and not Tom Scott, who achieved the proud position of being the worst boy in the school, and a dozen times a day Sam qualified for an excellent thrashing that never came,

Bill Patterson and Jim Macpherson also committed deeds which, if done by Tom Scott, would have brought vengeance on his head, and at last Dr Monroe saw that it had been resolved that someone else than young Scott should be chosen to attack the teacher. He surmised that Scott's father, as the senior school trustee, had had enough of the grumblings of the section against his son's act of violence which had caused the school to be closed, and so the old man had evidently warned his boy that it was "hands off" until Christmas, and Perkins was probably the conspirator chosen to fling the bomb.

Under the compassionate rule of the new teacher, and because of the ever-smouldering rebellion on the part of the big boys, discipline in the schoolroom was rapidly going to pieces, but Monroe continued his work as calmly as if he did not know what discipline was.

All of the elder pupils had qualified for punishment, although they were blissfully unaware of the fact. In a little private memorandum book Monroe set down hour and date of offense, with the name of the offender, in case he might forget when the time came. They were entertaining a recording angel unawares, and no tear from that angel's eye would blot out a single item in the record. With the utmost patience Monroe was waiting for some definite breach of the law on the part of Thomas Scott, and he had supreme faith, taking the young ruffian's temperament into consideration, that the act would not be long delayed. One of the duties of the larger boys was the bringing in of wood from the shed outside to replenish the large iron box-stove which heated the schoolroom. It was the duty of the smaller boys, a pair of them being allowed the task, to fill the large pail with water at the pump, and see that no one suffered from thirst in the schoolroom. The stove was set near the door, and the sheet-iron pipe rose from it to a sufficient height, then at right angles proceeded the length of the schoolroom until it disappeared into the chimney behind the master's desk. What with stove and stovepipe the room was kept well warmed, even during the coldest day of winter.

In those days, and in this district, the schoolhouse was of rather a primitive description. The windows were small, and situated in a row just under the ceiling on either side. Along each wall had been constructed a broad, sloping, fixed desk, running the length of the schoolroom, and on benches before this desk sat the larger boys on the one side, and the larger girls on the other, the backs of each toward the center of the schoolroom. The smaller children, who did not use writing materials, sat on benches parallel with those occupied by their elders, and the smallest of the A B C class were gathered around three sides of the big box-stove.

One day when it was Scott's turn to bring in the armful of split beech and maple, he allowed, with deliberate cruelty and pretended clumsiness, the load to fall on the toes of some of the little chaps seated on the low bench beside the stove. This raised a howl of pain from the victims, and a shout of laughter from the more unsympathetic section of the pupils.

"Well, then, keep your hoofs out of the way, confound you," cried Scott, truculently, casting a glance at the teacher which said, plainly enough: "What are you going to do about it?"

Monroe rose from his desk, and went down the room; then, kneeling on the floor, he calmed the little fellows as well as he could, taking off the shoes and stockings of those who were suffering most, and manipulating their Utile feet, to soothe away the pain. He then tenderly put on stockings and shoes again, gave each a silver coin from his pocket, and told them to go home for the day.

"First aid to the injured," he said, with his ingratiating smile. "Your mothers will be the best physician, so hurry home as quickly as you can, and if your feet hurt to-morrow, don't come to school."

Rising he said softly to Scott: "That was an accident, I suppose?"

"No, it wasn't," replied Scott defiantly, "The little fools are always in the way."

The teacher bowed without comment, and went back to his desk.

"Put up your books and slates," he said, a request which occasioned some surprise, for that was the order of dismissal at twelve o'clock or at four.

"There will be no more school for the rest of the day. To-morrow at nine o'clock prompt, if you please. Thomas Scott, Samuel Perkins, William Patterson, James Macpherson, Robert Bland, John Davidson, and John Patterson will remain behind. I should like to discuss with the large boys I have named some questions pertaining to the discipline of the school.

Some of those who remained laughed outright, some sniggered, and some smiled. They were all quite ready to discuss discipline or anything else with "Molly," which was one of their names for the new teacher. The others filed boisterously through the doorway, and raised wild shouts of joy at finding themselves so unexpectedly free. Monroe closed the door, locked it, and put the big key in his pocket; then walked quietly back to his desk.

"Boys," he begged, "put those benches out of the way against the wall. I wish a clear floor space. If you desire a bench to sit on, put it at the other end of the schoolroom. Place all the rest under the long desks." He was very promptly obeyed, and now the seven seated themselves at the further end of the room. All laughter and talk had ceased, and each face wore a look of expectancy. The master raised the desk-lid, and took out half a dozen sticks of such a length that they must have rested crosswise inside the desk from corner to corner. The boys knew enough of the wood-lore to recognize these as being very effective means of offense or defense, made of the toughest wood that grows in North America—namely, hickory. They were each about the size of the butt end of a whip-handle. If a man of strength wielded one of these rods, it became a deadly weapon. The stoutest two-handed sword would break long before such an implement of hickory would give way. One or two of the boys turned a little pale. Was this elegant, dapper young man about to try his strength against seven? It seemed incredible, but somehow our young men did not like the look of a smile that played upon Monroe's sensitive lips, and in his gleaming eyes they could find no trace of fear.

Taking one of these thick rods in his hand, he swung it through the air with the same kind of motion that an expert woodman uses when he judges a new, smooth, glass-shaven hickory axe-handle, and estimates its convenience to his hand.

"Scott, come here," he said, in a voice so low that only the tense stillness of the room made it audible.

Scott shuffled to his feet, came forward half the length of the room, and stopped.

"Are you going to try to thrash me?" he said, in a voice more controlled than any had he ever used in that room before. There was no fear in his eye, either. His lips were compressed and his fists clenched.

"I was thinking of making the attempt, Scott. Any objections?"

"I knocked out your brother, and I can knock you out. Put away that club, and come down on the floor, if you dare."

"Oh, very well," said the master, "Anything to oblige."

He relinquished the hickory stick, abandoned his position behind the desk, and stepped from the platform to the floor. As he approached Scott nonchalantly, seemingly unprepared for attack, the latter rushed toward him, and delivered a vicious kick intended to double him up like a jack-knife. Like a jack-knife he did double up, but not because of the kick, which never reached him. The attack was delivered with the right foot, and Monroe expertly placed his open left palm under the heel of the boot, and gripped it like a vise. Standing thus on his left foot, Scott flung up his arms to recover his balance, then dropped on his back. As he fell on the floor he flung out a sturdy kick with his free foot intended to shatter the grasp that held the other, but Monroe's right hand grasped Scott's left ankle, and in spite of his comical writhings and struggles on the floor, held him firm.

Every boy was now standing up. Tom Scott helplessly beat the floor, twisting and turning his body, trying, without effect, to wrest himself from the iron grip of the schoolmaster,

"Boys!" exclaimed Monroe, "I wish to say a word or two," but here he had to pause, for the noisy struggle Scott was making on the floor rendered conversation impossible.

"Do keep quiet, Tommy," pleaded his gaoler. "You are making me feel as if I held the shafts of a turbulent wheelbarrow going over a corduroy road. Please oblige me by keeping still."

But Tommy was foaming at the mouth with rage to find his strength thus nullified, and himself made a fool of, and as he would not desist, Monroe, with a peculiar jerk backwards and a sudden twist, dropped Tommy downward with his face on the floor. Then the Doctor placed his foot firmly in the small of his back, and holding him so, addressed the boys. "You may think it un-British for a combatant to kick, but I should like to say this in Tommy's favor. What he has done would be considered in France, and other Latin countries, entirely justifiable. There it is called the savate, which doesn't mean kick, as you might imagine, but literally 'old shoe.' I studied the art of the savate in Paris, and there is much to recommend it. I have often thought that we English-speaking people are foolish to concentrate our attention on our two fists, and neglect such excellent means of either attack or defence as our two feet afford. I may show you samples of the savate before we are finished, and I am sure it will interest you, so you mustn't hold it against Tommy that he kicks, but merely regard him as having been educated in Paris. Now, Tommy, do you want to get up?"

The master removed the foot from the small of Scott's back, and retreated a few paces. Scott rose to his feet in a rage, and clenching his fists, waded in with the energy of a mad bull.

The master easily prevented any of the blows touching him, but made no effort to strike back, watching rather for the expected kick, which at last came. He parried it, and in the parrying, whirled. None of the boys knew exactly what happened; it was like a flash of lightning. The schoolmaster's foot during the whirl rose in the air, and struck Scott behind the ear with such force that the young man turned a complete somersault, without even touching the floor with his head in the swift gyration through space. He came down with an appalling crash, and lay stunned and still.

"That," said the master, "is the most terrible movement of the savate. In using it, you run the chance of breaking the neck of your opponent, but I knew Tommy's bull-neck was as thick as his head, so I risked it. It is called the coup de pied tournant, and it usually takes its beginning from the impetus given by a kick from your opponent. The only parry for a coup de pied tournant that I know of is to get out of its way, and you will have observed that Tommy neglected to do this. Just throw some of that ice-water in his face, will you? I don't like Tommy to be missing these interesting speeches."

But instead of rescuing poor Scott from oblivion by means of cold water, there rang out a defiant battle-cry from Sam Perkins, evidently a signal previously agreed upon. With splendid unanimity, the whole six flung themselves upon their lone antagonist.

"Ah," breathed Monroe, with a sigh of supreme contentment, as he retreated until his back was against his desk; then, with the airy grace of a dancing-master teaching a new quick-step, he sailed into the crowd with fist and foot, and before five seconds had elapsed, a row of boys lay on the schoolroom floor, several bleeding at the nose. Monroe grasped the wooden pail, and dashed a quantity of water first on Scott, who was beginning to rouse himself, then distributed the remainder impartially over the rest. Replacing the empty pail, he stood with his back against his desk, his hands in his trousers' pockets.

"My dear lads," he said, "I am beginning to love you. You have generously given me a most unexampled opportunity of showing you the beauty of the savate, which comes into play whenever one man is attacked by a crowd. When I locked myself alone in here with you seven, I did not intend to use the savate, but I knew if you attacked simultaneously I might be compelled to do so. Luckily, Scott led out with his foot, and after that the way was clear, You have generously given me the stern joy which warriors feel when they meet a foeman worthy of their foot, as one may say, although it spoils the rhyme of the couplet. "And now, my dear chaps, get up, and sit upon the bench, which has become a penitent stool. Scott, how's your head? Still on your shoulders? Well, it's a marvel. You seem a little stiff in your movements. Come this way, if you please."

The master picked up the abandoned hickory rod.

"Any objection to my thrashing you, Scott, in the approved way of schoolmasters?"

"No," muttered Scott. "Hold out your hand."

Scott did so, and first on his right and then on his left, received without perceptible wincing as severe a punishment as that schoolroom had ever witnessed,

"Samuel Perkins!"

Samuel rose up and took his medicine out of the same bottle. "William Patterson!" William came forward, and went back to the bench whimpering a little, to be succeeded by James Macpherson and the rest. Then Monroe, pleasantly requesting the lads to move the bench, which they promptly did, took out the key and unlocked the door,

"To-morrow morning, at nine o'clock sharp, lads. Good afternoon. Good afternoon."