seats, trying to be orderly and failing utterly. The Bhaers did their
best to have the lads behave well at meal times, and generally
succeeded pretty well, for their rules were few and sensible, and
the boys, knowing that they tried to make things easy and happy,
did their best to obey. But there are times when hungry boys
cannot be repressed without real cruelty, and Saturday evening,
after a half-holiday, was one of those times.
“Dear little souls, do let them have one day in which they can howl
and racket and frolic to their hearts’ content. A holiday isn’t a
holiday without plenty of freedom and fun; and they shall have full
swing once a week,” Mrs. Bhaer used to say, when prim people
wondered why banister-sliding, pillow-fights, and all manner of
jovial games were allowed under the once decorous roof of
Plumfield.
It did seem at times as if the aforesaid roof was in danger of flying
off, but it never did, for a word from Father Bhaer could at any
time produce a lull, and the lads had learned that liberty must not
be abused. So, in spite of many dark predictions, the school
flourished, and manners and morals were insinuated, without the
pupils exactly knowing how it was done.
Nat found himself very well off behind the tall pitchers, with
Tommy Bangs just around the corner, and Mrs. Bhaer close by to
fill up plate and mug as fast as he could empty them.
“Who is that boy next the girl down at the other end?” whispered
Nat to his young neighbor under cover of a general laugh.
“That’s Demi Brooke. Mr. Bhaer is his uncle.”
“What a queer name!”
“His real name is John, but they call him Demi-John, because his
father is John too. That’s a joke, don’t you see?” said Tommy,
kindly explaining. Nat did not see, but politely smiled, and asked,
with interest :
“Isn’t he a very nice boy?”
“I bet you he is; knows lots and reads like any thing.”
“Who is the fat one next him?”
“Oh, that’s Stuffy Cole. His name is George, but we call him Stuffy
’cause he eats so much. The little fellow next Father Bhaer is his
boy Rob, and then there’s big Franz his nephew; he teaches some,
and kind of sees to us.”
“He plays the flute, doesn’t he?” asked Nat as Tommy rendered
himself speechless by putting a whole baked apple into his mouth
at one blow.
Tommy nodded, and said, sooner than one would have imagined
possible under the circumstances, “Oh, don’t he, though? And we
dance sometimes, and do gymnastics to music. I like a drum
myself, and mean to learn as soon as ever I can.”
“I like a fiddle best; I can play one too,” said Nat, getting
confidential on this attractive subject.
“Can you?” and Tommy stared over the rim of his mug with round
eyes, full of interest. “Mr. Bhaer’s got an old fiddle, and he’ll let
you play on it if you want to.”
“Could I? Oh, I would like it ever so much. You see, I used to go
round fiddling with my father, and another man, till he died.”
“Wasn’t that fun?” cried Tommy, much impressed.
“No, it was horrid; so cold in winter, and hot in summer. And I got
tired; and they were cross sometimes; and I didn’t get enough to
eat.” Nat paused to take a generous bite of gingerbread, as if to
assure himself that the hard times were over; and then he added
regretfully: “But I did love my little fiddle, and I miss it. Nicolo
took it away when father died, and wouldn’t have me any longer,
’cause I was sick.”
“You’ll belong to the band if you play good. See if you don’t.”
“Do you have a band here?” Nat’s eyes sparkled.
“Guess we do; a jolly band, all boys; and they have concerts and
things. You just see what happens to-morrow night.”
After this pleasantly exciting remark, Tommy returned to his
supper, and Nat sank into a blissful reverie over his full plate.
Mrs. Bhaer had heard all they said, while apparently absorbed in