ot so sure that I shouldn't have pronounced it Abolsom
myself.

At recess several of the scholars came to my desk and shook hands with
me, Mr. Grimshaw having previously introduced me to Phil Adams, charging
him to see that I got into no trouble. My new acquaintances suggested
that we should go to the playground. We were no sooner out-of-doors than
the boy with the red hair thrust his way through the crowd and placed
himself at my side.

"I say, youngster, if you're comin' to this school you've got to toe the
mark."

I didn't see any mark to toe, and didn't understand what he meant; but I
replied politely, that, if it was the custom of the school, I should be
happy to toe the mark, if he would point it out to me.

"I don't want any of your sarse," said the boy, scowling.

"Look here, Conway!" cried a clear voice from the other side of the
playground. "You let young Bailey alone. He's a stranger here, and might
be afraid of you, and thrash you. Why do you always throw yourself in
the way of getting thrashed?"

I turned to the speaker, who by this time had reached the spot where we
stood. Conway slunk off, favoring me with a parting scowl of defiance.
I gave my hand to the boy who had befriended me--his name was Jack
Harris--and thanked him for his good-will.

"I tell you what it is, Bailey," he said, returning my pressure
good-naturedly, "you'll have to fight Conway before the quarter ends,
or you'll have no rest. That fellow is always hankering after a licking,
and of course you'll give him one by and by; but what's the use of
hurrying up an unpleasant job? Let's have some baseball. By the way,
Bailey, you were a good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about the candy.
Charley Marden would have caught it twice as heavy. He's sorry he played
the joke on you, and told me to tell you so. Hallo, Blake! Where are the
bats?"

This was addressed to a handsome, frank-looking lad of about my own age,
who was engaged just then in cutting his initials on the bark of a tree
near the schoolhouse. Blake shut up his penknife and went off to get the
bats.

During the game which ensued I made the acquaintance of Charley Marden,
Binny Wallace, Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and Fred Langdon. These
boys, none of them more than a year or two older than I (Binny Wallace
was younger), were ever after my chosen comrades. Phil Adams and Jack
Harris were considerably our seniors, and, though they always treated
us "kids" very kindly, they