But now he was holding himself in, and with set teeth keeping back the pain. The week had been long and hot and trying, and this day had been the worst of all. Through the little dirty panes of the uncurtained windows the hot sun had poured itself in a flood of quivering light all the long day. Only an hour remained of the day, but that hour was to the master the hardest of all the week. The big boys were droning lazily over their books, the little boys, in the forms just below his desk, were bubbling over with spirits—spirits of whose origin there was no reasonable ground for doubt.
Suddenly Hughie Murray, the minister's boy, a very special imp, held up his hand.
“Well, Hughie,” said the master, for the tenth time within the hour replying to the signal.
“Spelling-match!”
The master hesitated. It would be a vast relief, but it was a little like shirking. On all sides, however, hands went up in support of Hughie's proposal, and having hesitated, he felt he must surrender or become terrifying at once.
“Very well,” he said; “Margaret Aird and Thomas Finch will act as captains.” At once there was a gleeful hubbub. Slates and books were slung into desks.
“Order! or no spelling-match.” The alternative was awful enough to quiet even the impish Hughie, who knew the tone carried no idle threat, and who loved a spelling-match with all the ardor of his little fighting soul.
The captains took their places on each side of the school, and with careful deliberation, began the selecting of their men, scanning anxiously the rows of faces looking at the maps or out of the windows and bravely trying to seem unconcerned. Chivalry demanded that Margaret should have first choice. “Hughie Murray!” called out Margaret; for Hughie, though only eight years old, had preternatural gifts in spelling; his mother's training had done that for him. At four he knew every Bible story by heart, and would tolerate no liberties with the text; at six he could read the third reader; at eight he was the best reader in the fifth; and to do him justice, he thought no better of himself for that. It was no trick to read. If he could only run, and climb, and swim, and dive, like the big boys, then he would indeed feel uplifted; but mere spelling and reading, “Huh! that was nothing.”
“Ranald Macdonald!” called Thomas Finch, and a big, lanky boy of fifteen or sixteen rose and marched to his place. He was a boy one would look at twice. He was far from handsome. His face was long, and thin, and dark, with a straight nose, and large mouth, and high cheek-bones; but he had fine black eyes, though they were fierce, and had a look in them that suggested the woods and the wild things that live there. But Ranald, though his attendance was spasmodic, and dependent upon the suitability or otherwise of the weather for hunting, was the best speller in the school.
For that reason Margaret would have chosen him, and for another which she would not for worlds have confessed, even to herself. And do you think she would have called Ranald Macdonald to come and stand up beside her before all these boys? Not for the glory of winning the match and carrying the medal for a week. But how gladly would she have given up glory and medal for the joy of it, if she had dared.
At length the choosing was over, and the school ranged in two opposing lines, with Margaret and Thomas at the head of their respective forces, and little Jessie MacRae and Johnnie Aird, with a single big curl on the top of his head, at the foot. It was a point of honor that no blood should be drawn at the first round. To Thomas, who had second choice, fell the right of giving the first word. So to little Jessie, at the foot, he gave “Ox.”
“O-x, ox,” whispered Jessie, shyly dodging behind her neighbor.
“In!” said Margaret to Johnnie Aird.
“I-s, in,” said Johnnie, stoutly.
“Right!” said the master, silencing the shout of laughter. “Next word.”
With like gentle courtesies the battle began; but in the second round the little A, B, C's were ruthlessly swept off the field with second-book words, and retired to their seats in supreme exultation, amid the applause of their fellows still left in the fight. After that there was no mercy. It was a give-and-take battle, the successful speller having the right to give the word to the opposite side. The master was umpire, and after his “Next!” had fallen there was no appeal. But if a mistake were made, it was the opponent's part and privilege to correct with all speed, lest a second attempt should succeed.
Steadily, and amid growing excitement, the lines grew less, till there were left on one side, Thomas, with Ranald supporting him, and on the other Margaret, with Hughie beside her, his face pale, and his dark eyes blazing with the light of battle.
Without varying fortune the fight went on. Margaret, still serene, and with only a touch of color in her face, gave out her words with even voice, and spelled her opponent's with calm deliberation. Opposite her Thomas stood, stolid, slow, and wary. He had no nerves to speak of, and the only chance of catching him lay in lulling him off to sleep.
They were now among the deadly words.
“Parallelopiped!” challenged Hughie to Ranald, who met it easily, giving Margaret “hyphen” in return.
“H-y-p-h-e-n,” spelled Margaret, and then, with cunning carelessness, gave Thomas “heifer.” (“Hypher,” she called it.)
Thomas took it lightly.
“H-e-i-p-h-e-r.”
Like lightning Hughie was upon him. “H-e-i-f-e-r.”
“F-e-r,” shouted Thomas. The two yells came almost together.
There was a deep silence. All eyes were turned upon the master.
“I think Hughie was first,” he said, slowly. A great sigh swept over the school, and then a wave of applause.
The master held up his hand.
“But it was so very nearly a tie, that if Hughie is willing—”
“All right, sir,” cried Hughie, eager for more fight.
But Thomas, in sullen rage, strode to his seat muttering, “I was just as soon anyway.” Every one heard and waited, looking at the master.
“The match is over,” said the master, quietly. Great disappointment showed in every face.
“There is just one thing better than winning, and that is, taking defeat like a man.” His voice was grave, and with just a touch of sadness. The children, sensitive to moods, as is the characteristic of children, felt the touch and sat subdued and silent.
There was no improving of the occasion, but with the same sad gravity the school was dismissed; and the children learned that day one of life's golden lessons—that the man who remains master of himself never knows defeat.
The master stood at the door watching the children go down the slope to the road, and then take their ways north and south, till the forest hid them from his sight.
“Well,” he muttered, stretching up his arms and drawing a great breath, “it's over for another week. A pretty near thing, though.”
CHAPTER II
THE DEEPOLE
Archibald Munro had a steady purpose in life—to play the man, and to allow no pain of his—and pain never left him long—to spoil his work, or to bring a shadow to the life of any other. And though he had his hard times, no