to the mystery of life about him.

He was never a special favorite with his teachers; that was scarcely to
be expected. In his very early years, his pockets were gone through with
every morning when he entered the school door, and the contents, when
confiscated, would comprise a jew's-harp, a bit of catgut, screws
whittled out of wood, tacks, spools, pins, and the like. But when robbed
of all these he could generally secrete a piece of elastic, which, when
put between his teeth and stretched to its utmost capacity, would yield
a delightful twang when played upon with the forefinger. He could also
fashion an interesting musical instrument in his desk by means of spools
and catgut and bits of broken glass. The chief joy of his life was an
old tuning-fork that the teacher of the singing school had given him,
but, owing to the degrading and arbitrary censorship of pockets that
prevailed, he never dared bring it into the schoolroom. There were ways,
however, of evading inexorable law and circumventing base injustice.
He hid the precious thing under a thistle just outside the window. The
teacher had sometimes a brief season of apathy on hot afternoons, when
she was hearing the primer class read, "_I see a pig. The pig is big.
The big pig can dig;_" which stirring in phrases were always punctuated
by the snores of the Hanks baby, who kept sinking down on his fat little
legs in the line and giving way to slumber during the lesson. At such
a moment Anthony slipped out of the window and snapped the tuning-fork
several times,--just enough to save his soul from death,--and then
slipped in again. He was caught occasionally, but not often; and even
when he was, there were mitigating circumstances, for he was generally
put under the teacher's desk for punishment. It was a dark, close,
sultry spot, but when he was well seated, and had grown tied of looking
at the triangle of elastic in the teacher's congress boot, and tired
of wishing it was his instead of hers, he would tie one end of a bit of
thread to the button of his gingham shirt, and, carrying it round his
left ear several times, make believe he was Paganini languishing in
prison and playing on a violin with a single string.

As he grew older there was no marked improvement, and Tony Croft was by
general assent counted the laziest boy in the village. That he was lazy
in certain matters merely because he was in a frenzy of industry to
pursue certain others had nothing to do with