G. W. was undoubtedly "sweet," undoubtedly brave, but he was not "merry"

those first months of school life. The work of lessons was bitter-hard for him, and the school routine most painful. Never in his life before had he given a thought to his color. In the Tampa days, before he had entered Colonel Austin's tent to "offer himself up on the altar of his country," there had never been a question as to his "position;" he had been just a "waif." His "army career" had placed him upon a pinacle where his color had served but to add to his glory.

Here, on the playground, except for Jack and three or four others, G. W.

was quietly ignored, and in a helpless way the little fellow felt it keenly, despite the Colonel's warning.

He tried to look ahead. He studied more and more diligently. He meant to be all the kinds of hero that Colonel Austin desired.

"Fo' de Lawd!" he said one day in his room, as he scanned his trim figure in the gray school uniform before the gla.s.s. "Fo' de Lawd! I can't understand it." (G. W. was beginning to put the "d's" and "g's" on words now.) "I don't lie, and I ain't afraid of nothing--and I wouldn't do a mean thing any sooner dan dey! It's jes' my skin, and my skin's only a different color on the _outside_, de inside is jes'--is just de same." Poor little G. W.

"An' I'se getting 'long fine in my cla.s.ses." (So he was, and at the cost of terrific strain and study.) "An' I likes--I like the--boys first rate--but nawthing in dis education's going to git de black off dis skin!"

There was one hour in the school-day that George Jones--he was "G. W."

only to Jack Austin, and that in private--enjoyed thoroughly.

This was an evening hour when one of the younger professors took the smaller pupils into a library and told them history stories; stories dealing with valiant deeds. There was a flavor of camp life and soldiering about many of the tales that George Jones understood far better than the other boys. In the glow of his interest he generally forgot to notice if any boy edged away from him when he chanced to forget his "color" and drew too near; but Colonel Austin's son always noticed it, and his loyal heart ached.

"Oh! if I were only sure that Daddy would think this was a good time to speak out!" Jack often muttered between his teeth. "I wish these fellows knew how awfully white G. W. is inside!"

But the Colonel had warned Jack against "speaking out" unless indignities to little G. W. should become unendurable.

During one of these story hours in the library, G. W. had remained in the study-room to conquer a particularly knotty problem in addition, while Jack, eager for the tale, which was to be an unusually splendid one, ran on ahead. It happened that when G. W. reached the room he was the last, and the others were cl.u.s.tered around Professor Catherwood.

G. W. paused a moment to look for Jack, but among those dark and light heads grouped close he could not distinguish him. Just then the story plunged into the thick of interest, and G. W. took the nearest empty chair. Unfortunately it was beside Tom Harding, a very quick-tempered but warm-hearted boy, who had, perhaps, more than any other pupil, made G. W.'s life at "Oakwood" a grim experience. He glanced around as G. W.

sat down. "Please take another seat!" he said.

For a moment the silence vibrated. G. W. arose and stood rigid, with downcast eyes. The master, too much disturbed to speak, was silent. But Jack Austin arose.

"Tom Harding!" he said with flashing eyes, "George Jones has a white heart and he is the bravest boy in this room! If you knew"--

At this point G. W. went to Jack's side. "Don't you tell dat, Jack!" he said. "Don't yer! You know what de--the Colonel said. Don' yer displease de Colonel!"

But Jack's blood was up. There was something in his young voice that quieted even G. W. He put his hand upon G. W.'s shoulder and kept it there while he spoke.

"George is my legally adopted brother, boys. He saved my father's life down in Cuba." Then came the whole brave, pathetic story, broken here and there by a shake in Jack's voice.

"And when G. W."--Jack had forgotten the more dignified name--"made up his mind on the hill-top to go down after my father, he plunged off where Spaniards were hidden thick and bullets flying. He went alone, and he was awful little. And he went on, and wounded soldiers met him and told him my father was off helpless on the ground in some bushes, and he got near there and he saw a Spaniard aiming his gun and G. W. aimed his and shot true, and the soldier the Spaniard was going to shoot--was my father! And G. W. got my own father back to the tent hospital all alone and no one else on earth did it. My father says G. W. had a glorious, glorious hero-strength. My father and my mother and myself are never, never going to forget what G. W. did! And G. W. is going to have the best life my father can help him get! Now isn't he brave and fine enough to be respected? Is any one going to mind his brown color when his soul is as white--as white as snow? What would you have of a boy?" Jack's voice failed him. G. W., by his side, stood with his back to the boys, even yet as rigid as a statue.

For a second--stillness; then a stir in the group. Tom Harding came forward, his fine young face quivering with emotion.

"I beg your pardon, George," he said. "_I_ will never make your life hard again!"

"Nor I! Nor I! Nor any of us!"

It came like a shout.

A smile beamed upon the face of little G. W. His simple, strong, sunny nature responded to the honest outburst. He turned to the boys.

"I'se sorry about my skin," he said slowly, "since you-all don't like de color; but I like de--the color of yours, and I'se goin'--going ter learn all that de Colonel wants me ter learn! I'se never going to disappoint de Colonel!"

Professor Catherwood raised his hand. "Three cheers for _our_ hero!"

said he.

"I think," he went on, when the hurrahing had died down, "that two hero stories are almost too many for one evening; besides you've got a chance to know a live hero. I am sure no boy of Oakwood will ever again fail to recognize the real article in the hero line, when he sees it.

Good-night!"

Since that evening G. W.'s only battles have been with his school-books.

And but for the manly help of his honest school-mates, the far-off victory would seem even dimmer than it does to George Washington McKinley Jones.

THE GOLDEN HOUR SERIES

_A new series of books for young people, bound in extra cloth, with illuminated designs, ill.u.s.trations, and t.i.tle-pages made especially for each volume_

A LITTLE DUSKY HERO. By Harriet T. Comstock.

THE CAXTON CLUB. By Amos R. Wells.

THE CHILD AND THE TREE. By Bessie Kenyon Ulrich.

DAISIES AND DIGGLESES. By Evelyn Raymond.

HOW THE TWINS CAPTURED A HESSIAN. By James Otis.

THE I CAN SCHOOL. By Eva A. Madden.

MASTER FRISKY. By Clarence W. Hawkes.

MISS DE PEYSTER'S BOY. By Etheldred B. Barry.

MOLLY. By Barbara Yechton.

THE WONDER SHIP. By Sophie Swett.

WHISPERING TONGUES. By Homer Greene.