Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute by Jr. Horatio Alger (romance book recommendations TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute by Jr. Horatio Alger (romance book recommendations TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“I hope so, too,” said Hector, but he evidently spoke doubtfully.
“I should like a little conversation with you, Professor Smith,” said Allan Roscoe. “I don’t know that it is necessary to keep Hector here during our interview.”
Socrates took the hint.
He rang a hand bell, and a lank boy, of fifteen, appeared.
“Wilkius,” said Mr. Smith, “this is a new scholar, Hector Roscoe. Take him to the playground, and introduce him to Mr. Crabb.”
“All right, sir. Come along.”
This last was addressed to Hector, who went out with the new boy.
“I thought it best to speak with you briefly about Hector, Professor Smith,” commenced Allan Roscoe.
“Very appropriate and gratifying, Mr. Roscoe. I can assure you he will be happy here.”
“I dare say,” returned Mr. Roscoe, carelessly. “I wish to guard you against misinterpreting my wishes. I don’t want the boy pampered, or too much indulged.”
“We never pamper our boarding pupils,” said Socrates, and it is quite certain that he spoke the truth.
“It spoils boys to be too well treated.”
“So it does,” said Socrates, eagerly. “Plain, wholesome diet, without luxury, and a kind, but strict discipline—such are the features of Smith Institute.”
“Quite right and judicious, professor. I may remark that the boy, though reared in luxury by my brother, is really penniless.”
“You don’t say so?”
“Yes, he is solely dependent upon my generosity. I propose, however, to give him a good education at my own expense, and prepare him to earn his living in some useful way.”
“Kind philanthropist!” exclaimed Socrates. “He ought, indeed, to be grateful.”
“I doubt if he will,” said Mr. Roscoe, shrugging his shoulders. “He has a proud spirit, and a high idea of his own position, though he is of unknown parentage, and has nothing of his own.”
“Indeed!”
“I merely wish to say that you do not need to treat him as if he were my nephew. It is best to be strict with him, and make him conform to the rules.”
“I will, indeed, Mr. Roscoe. Would that all guardians of youth were as judicious! Your wishes shall be regarded.”
After a little more conversation, Allan Roscoe took his leave.
So, under auspices not the most pleasant, Hector’s school life began.
CHAPTER VII. THE TYRANT OF THE PLAYGROUND.
Under the guidance of the lank boy, named Wilkins, Hector left Mr. Smith’s office, and walked to a barren-looking plot of ground behind the house, which served as a playground for the pupils of Smith Institute.
Wilkins scanned the new arrival closely.
“I say, Roscoe,” he commenced, “what made you come here?”
“Why do boys generally come to school?” returned Hector.
“Because they have to, I suppose,” answered Wilkins.
“I thought they came to study.”
“Oh, you’re one of that sort, are you?” asked Wilkins, curiously.
“I hope to learn something here.”
“You’ll get over that soon,” answered Wilkins, in the tone of one who could boast of a large experience.
“I hope not. I shall want to leave school if I find I can’t learn here.”
“Who is it that brought you here—your father?”
“No, indeed!” answered Hector, quickly, for he had no desire to be considered the son of Allan Roscoe.
“Uncle, then?”
“He is my guardian,” answered Hector, briefly.
They were by this time in the playground. Some dozen boys were playing baseball. They were of different ages and sizes, ranging from ten to nineteen. The oldest and largest bore such a strong personal resemblance to Socrates Smith, that Hector asked if he were his son.
“No,” answered Wilkins; “he is old Sock’s nephew.”
“Who is old Sock?”
“Smith, of course. His name is Socrates, you know. Don’t let him catch you calling him that, though.”
“What sort of a fellow is this nephew?” asked Hector.
“He’s a bully. He bosses the boys. It’s best to keep on the right side of Jim.”
“Oh, is it?” inquired Hector, smiling slightly.
“Well, I should say so.”
“Suppose you don’t?”
“He’ll give you a thrashing.”
“Does his uncle allow that?”
“Yes; I think he rather likes it.”
“Don’t the boys resist?”
“It won’t do any good. You see, Jim’s bigger than any of us.”
Hector took a good look at this redoubtable Jim Smith.
He was rather loosely made, painfully homely, and about five feet nine inches in height. Nothing more need be said, as, in appearance, he closely resembled his uncle.
Jim Smith soon gave Hector an opportunity of verifying the description given of him by Wilkins.
The boy at the bat had struck a ball to the extreme boundary of the field. The fielder at that point didn’t go so fast as Jim, who was pitcher, thought satisfactory, and he called out in a rough, brutal tone:
“If you don’t go quicker, Archer, I’ll kick you all round the field.”
Hector looked at Wilkins inquiringly.
“Does he mean that?” he asked.
“Yes, he does.”
“Does he ever make such a brute of himself?”
“Often.”
“And the boys allow it?”
“They can’t help it.”
“So, it seems, you have a tyrant of the school?”
“That’s just it.”
“Isn’t there any boy among you to teach the fellow better manners? You must be cowards to submit.”
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