against the panes. The boys heard the blast roaring outside and the
comfort of the warm room was heightened by the contrast. Harry's eyes
turned reluctantly back to his Tacitus and the customs and manners of
the ancient Germans. The curriculum of the Pendleton Academy was simple,
like most others at that time. After the primary grades it consisted
chiefly of the classics and mathematics. Harry led in the classics and
Dick in the mathematics.

Bob Turner, the free colored man, who was janitor of the academy,
brought in the morning mail, a dozen letters and three or four
newspapers, gave it to Dr. Russell and withdrew on silent feet.

The Doctor was principal of Pendleton Academy, and he always presided
over the room in which sat the larger boys, nearly fifty in number.
His desk and chair were on a low dais and he sat facing the pupils.
He was a large man, with a ruddy face, and thick hair as white as the
snow that was falling outside. He had been a teacher fifty years,
and three generations in Pendleton owed to him most of the learning that
is obtained from books. He opened his letters one by one, and read
them slowly.

Harry moved far away into the German forest with old Tacitus. He was
proud of his Latin and he did not mean to lose his place as first in the
class. The other boys also were absorbed in their books. It was seldom
that all were studious at the same time, but this was one of the rare
moments. There was no shuffling of feet, and fifty heads were bent over
their desks.

It was a full half hour before Harry looked up from his Tacitus.
His first glance was at the window. The snow was driving hard, and the