So the next boy who rudely shoved me aside and knocked my hat off received a painful surprise, for my right fist came so hard against his cheekbone that he stood for a moment as though stunned. Then he moved, and I moved, and the boys standing near could hardly tell which was which until we separated, pretty well bruised. After that the boys were careful not to knock my hat off my head; if they did, they took pains to let me know that it was not intentional.
I told Brush about this set-to, and he approved of it. “That’s right,” he said; “fight any of them, even if you know that you’re going to get licked; then they won’t tease you.”
My father was the principal chief of the tribe and leader of the village of the “Make-believe white-men;” he had plenty of horses, the standard of Indian wealth, yet that did not entitle me to a place in any of the different gangs in the school; I had to show that I was not afraid to stand up and fight. Even good-natured Brush had to bristle up at times and engage in a lively tussle, else there would have been no peace for him. Now I was wanted by the smaller gangs and invited by them to their places of sport; but Brush held on to me and kept me out.
Among the boys there was the gang of the “Big Seven” which Brush had been trying to enter; but, for some reason which I did not then understand, they would not admit him. He did not care to go into any of the gangs of smaller boys, of which there were quite a number. I thought the “Big Seven” did not want him, because he was too small; but later I found out there was another reason for it.
As time passed, I learned more and more of the peculiar ways of the boys at the school, of the teachers, and of my books. It was not long before I felt quite at home and independent; but Brush and I were still without a gang.
II
Brush
“Frank, you’re learning fast!” said Brush one afternoon as I was laboriously writing my lesson on a slate with his help. “I’m glad; I want you to catch up with me so we can be in the same classes.”
I felt proud of his praise and worked all the harder. We had gone through the alphabet swimmingly, and once, when I said it without a break, he slapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, “That’s good!” When I was able to read short sentences, I felt quite sure that I should soon take my place among the advanced pupils.
In and out of school Brush helped me along; in our play and when our work brought us together, he always managed to teach me something of the English language, and I was a willing student because he taught me in a way that made the work a pleasure. Graybeard, not knowing what a kind and patient assistant he had in Brush, thought he had in me an exceptionally bright scholar, for I made rapid headway in learning to speak English, won several promotions, and soon found myself in the Second Reader class.
Brush was a bright fellow and quite a student. He and I sat at the same desk in the schoolroom, side by side at the dining-table, and we were bedfellows. From him I learned many things he had gleaned from the superintendent’s library, for he was a great reader, and the superintendent, who liked the boy, favored him in various ways, loaned him books to read, and talked with him about them.
Of all the stories he used to tell me, and he knew a great many, I liked best to hear him recount the old stories out of the Bible. He was familiar with them all, and told them in a way that delighted me, for he fitted them to my notions. He made them very real. One day he read to me a story, but I could not understand it as well as when he told it in his own simple way, so I asked him not to read them to me any more. The time for the telling of stories was at night after Graybeard had gone downstairs to his own rooms, having warned us against loud talking.
My friend always seemed happy, yet at times, particularly on Saturdays, I noticed he would appear sober, almost melancholy. He did not go home as the rest of us did, and I wondered at this very much. He had a way of disappearing about the time I was ready to start home, so I never had a chance to invite him to my house, as I had often intended to do. I tried a number of times to bring him to speak of himself, but he would throw me off that line of talk, and my curiosity went unsatisfied for a long time.
“Say, Brush, where do you live?” I asked one afternoon as we were in the belfry. “You don’t go home Saturdays like the rest of us.”
“There’s a man on the top of the hill near Big Elk’s grave,” he said evasively as he looked through the spyglass.
I could see the man with my naked eyes as he stood on the topmost point against the clear, blue sky.
“Take the spyglass and look at him,” continued Brush, as though to put off my question.
“Do you live on
