Left End Edwards | Page 2

the school ended four years later, when the services of
the present head, Mr. Joshua Fernald, A.M., were secured. The death of
Mr. Torrence in 1897, after a long and honoured career, removed the
school's greatest friend and benefactor, but, by the terms of his will,
placed it beyond the reach of want for many years. With new buildings
and improvements made possible by the generous provisions of the
testament the school soon took its place amongst the foremost
institutions of its kind. In 1908 the charter name was changed to
Brimfield Academy--William Torrence Foundation, the course was
lengthened from four years to six and the present era of well-deserved
prosperity was entered on. Brimfield Academy now has
accommodations for 260 boys, its faculty consists of 19 members and
its buildings number 8. Situated as it is----"
Steve yawned frankly, viewed again the somnolent street and idly
turned the pages. There were several pictures, but he had seen them all
many times and only the one labelled "'Varsity Athletic
Field--Gymnasium Beyond" claimed his interest for a moment. At last,
"They've got a peach of an athletic field, dad," he observed approvingly.
"I can see six goals, and that means three gridirons. And there's a
baseball field besides. The catalogue says that 'provision is also made
for tennis, boating and swimming,' but I don't see any tennis courts in
the picture."
"All right," grunted his father from behind the paper.
"I wonder," continued Steve musingly, "where you get your boating
and swimming. It says that Long Island Sound is two and a half miles
distant. That's a long old ways to go for a swim, isn't it?"
Mr. Edwards laid the paper across his knees and regarded the boy

severely. "Steve," he said, "about the only thing I've heard from you
since that catalogue arrived is the athletic field and the gymnasium. I'd
like to refresh your mind on one point, my son."
"Yes, sir?" said Steve without much eagerness.
"I'd like to remind you that you are not going to Brimfield Academy to
play football or baseball, or to swim. You're going there to study and
learn! I don't propose to spend four hundred and fifty dollars a year,
besides a whole lot for extras, to have you taught how to kick a football
or make a home-hit. And----"
"A home-run, sir," corrected Steve humbly.
"Or whatever it is, then. I expect you to buckle down when you get
there and learn. Remember that you've got just two years in which to
prepare yourself for college. If you aren't ready then, you don't go.
That's flat, my boy, and I want you to understand it. So, if you have any
idea of football and tennis as your--er--principal courses you want to
get it right out of your head. Now, for a change, suppose you have a
look at the studies in front of you, and don't let me hear anything more
about the gymnasium or the--the what-do-you-call-it field."
"All right, sir." Steve obediently turned the pages back. "Just the same,"
he said to himself, "he didn't know what 'mens sana in corpore sano'
meant any better than I did! Bet you he didn't kill himself studying
when he went to school!" With a sigh he found the "Courses of Study"
and read: "Form IV. Classical. Latin: Vergil's Aeneid, IV--XII, Cicero
and Ovid at sight, Composition (5). Greek: Xenophon's Hellenica,
Selections, Iliad and Odyssey, Selections, Sight Reading, Reviews,
Composition (5). German (optional) (4). French: Advanced Grammar
and Composition, Le Siege de Paris, Le Barbier de Saville----"
At that moment a shrill whistle sounded outside the library window and
Steve's eyes fled from the pamphlet to the grinning face of Tom Hall
set between two of the fence pickets. The Catalogue of Brimfield
Academy was tossed to the further end of the seat, and Steve, nodding
vigorously through the window, jumped to his feet.

"I'm going for a walk with Tom, sir," he announced half-way to the hall
door. Mr. Edwards, smothering a sigh of relief, glanced at the weather.
"Very well," he said. "Don't get your feet wet. And--er--be back before
it's dark."
Steve disappeared into the dim hallway and Mr. Edwards gave honest
expression to his sense of relief by elevating his feet to the seat of a
neighbouring chair, dropping the newspaper and, with a luxurious sigh,
composing himself for his Sunday afternoon nap. But peace was not yet
his, for a minute or two later Steve came hurrying in again. Mr.
Edwards opened his eyes with a frown.
"Sorry, sir," said Steve, "but Tom wants to see the catalogue."
His father nodded drowsily and Steve, securing the pamphlet, stole out
again with creaking Sunday shoes. Very quietly the front door went
shut and peace at last pervaded the house. In