Glengarry Schooldays | Page 4

should have to grow stern
and terrifying, and rule these young imps in the forms in front of him
by what he called afterwards, in his moments of self-loathing, "sheer
brute force," and that he always counted a defeat.
Munro was a born commander. His pale, intellectual face, with its
square chin and firm mouth, its noble forehead and deep-set gray eyes,
carried a look of such strength and indomitable courage that no boy,
however big, ever thought of anything but obedience when the word of
command came. He was the only master who had ever been able to
control, without at least one appeal to the trustees, the stormy tempers
of the young giants that used to come to school in the winter months.
The school never forgot the day when big Bob Fraser "answered back"
in class. For, before the words were well out of his lips, the master,
with a single stride, was in front of him, and laying two swift, stinging
cuts from the rawhide over big Bob's back, commanded, "Hold out
your hand!" in a voice so terrible, and with eyes of such blazing light,
that before Bob was aware, he shot out his hand and stood waiting the
blow. The school never, in all its history, received such a thrill as the
next few moments brought; for while Bob stood waiting, the master's
words fell clear-cut upon the dead silence, "No, Robert, you are too big
to thrash. You are a man. No man should strike you--and I apologize."
And then big Bob forgot his wonted sheepishness and spoke out with a
man's voice, "I am sorry I spoke back, sir." And then all the girls began
to cry and wipe their eyes with their aprons, while the master and Bob
shook hands silently. From that day and hour Bob Fraser would have

slain any one offering to make trouble for the master, and Archibald
Munro's rule was firmly established.
He was just and impartial in all his decisions, and absolute in his
control; and besides, he had the rare faculty of awakening in his pupils
an enthusiasm for work inside the school and for sports outside.
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