"Seet down! Seet down, all han'!" And all sank down, Bonaventure in a ma.s.s of weeping and clinging children. 'Mian too resumed his seat, at the same time waving to the stranger to speak.

"My friends," said the visitor, rising with alacrity, "I say when a man makes a bargain, he ought to stick to it!" He paused for them--as many as could--to take in the meaning of his English speech, and, it may be, expecting some demonstration of approval; but dead silence reigned, all eyes on him save Bonaventure's and Sidonie's. He began again:

"A bargain's a bargain!" And Chat-oue nodded approvingly and began to say audibly, "Ya.s.s;" but 'Mian thundered out:

"_Taise toi_, Chat-oue! Shot op!" And the silence was again complete, while the stranger resumed.

"There was a plain bargain made." He moved a step forward and laid the matter off on the palm of his hand. "There was to be an examination; the school was not to know; but if one scholar should make one mistake the schoolhouse was to be closed and the schoolmaster sent away. Well, there's been a mistake made, and I say a bargain's a bargain." Dead silence still. The speaker looked at 'Mian. "Do you think they understand me?"

"Dey meck out," said 'Mian, and shut his firm jaws.

"My friends," said the stranger once more, "some people think education's a big thing, and some think it ain't. Well, sometimes it is and sometimes it ain't. Now, here's this man"--he pointed down to where Bonaventure's dishevelled crown was drooping to his knees--"claims to have taught over thirty of your children to read.

Well, what of it? A man can know how to read, and be just as no account as he was before. He brags that he's taught them to talk English. Well, what does that prove? A man _might_ speak English and starve to death. He claims, I am told, to have taught some of them to write. But I know a man in the penitentiary that can write; he wrote too much."

Bonaventure had lifted his head and was sitting with his eyes upon the speaker in close attention. At this last word he said:

"Ah! sir! too true, too true ah yo' words; nevertheless, their cooelty! 'Tis not what is print' _in_ the books, but what you learn _through_ the books!"

"Yes; and so you hadn't never ought to have made the bargain you made; but, my friends, a bargain's a bargain, and the teacher's"--He paused invitingly, and an answer came from the audience. It was Catou who rose and said:

"Naw, sah. Naw; he don't got to go!" But again 'Mian thundered:

"_Taise toi_, Catou. Shot op!"

"I say," continued the stranger, "the mistake's been made. _Three_ mistakes have been made!"

"Ya.s.s!" roared Chat-oue, leaping to his feet and turning upon the a.s.semblage a face fierce with triumph. Suspense and suspicions were past now; he was to see his desire on his enemy. But instantly a dozen men were on their feet--St. Pierre, Catou, Bonaventure himself, with a countenance full of pleading deprecation, and even Claude, flushed with anger.

"Naw, sah! Naw, sah! Waun meesteck?"

"Seet down, all han'!" yelled 'Mian; "all han' seet dah-oon!" Only Chat-oue took his seat, glancing upon the rest with the exultant look of one who can afford to yield ground.

"The first mistake," resumed the stranger, addressing himself especially to the risen men still standing, and pointedly to Catou, "the first mistake was in the kind of bargain you made." He ceased, and pa.s.sed his eyes around from one to another until they rested an instant on the bewildered countenance of Chat-oue. Then he turned again upon the people, who had sat down, and began to speak with the exultation of a man that feels his subject lifting him above himself.

"I came out here to show up that man as a fraud. But what do I find? A poor, unpaid, half-starved man that loves his thankless work better than his life, teaching what not one schoolmaster in a thousand can teach; teaching his whole school four better things than were ever printed in any school-book,--how to study, how to think, how to value knowledge, and to love one another and mankind. What you'd ought to have done was to agree that such a school should keep open, and such a teacher should stay, if jest one, one lone child should answer one single book-question right! But as I said before, a bargain's a bargain--Hold on there! Sit down! You sha'n't interrupt me again!" Men were standing up on every side. There was confusion and a loud buzz of voices. "The second mistake," the stranger made haste to cry, "was thinking the teacher gave out that last word right. He gave it wrong!

And the third mistake," he shouted against the rising commotion, "was thinking it was spelt wrong. _She spelt it right!_ And a bargain's a bargain! The schoolmaster stays!"

He could say no more; the rumble of voices suddenly burst into a cheer.

The women and children laughed and clapped their hands,--Toutou his feet also,--and Bonaventure, flirting the leaves of a spelling book till he found the place, looked, cried--"In-com-pre-hen-_sibility_!" wheeled and dashed upon Sidonie, seized her hands in his as she turned to fly, and gazed speechlessly upon her, with the tears running down his face.

Feeling a large hand upon his shoulder, he glanced around and saw 'Mian pointing him to his platform and desk. Thither he went. The stranger had partly restored order. Every one was in his place. But what a change!

What a gay flutter throughout the old shed! Bonaventure seemed to have bathed in the fountain of youth. Sidonie, once more the school's queen-flower, sat calm, with just a trace of tears adding a subtle something to her beauty.

"Chil'run, beloved chil'run," said Bonaventure, standing once more by his desk, "yo' school-teacher has the blame of the sole mistake; and, sir, gladly, oh, gladly, sir, would he always have the blame rather than any of his beloved school-chil'run! Sir, I will boldly ask you--_ah_ you not the State Sup'inten'ent Public Education?"

"No, I"--

"But surely, sir, than a greater?--Yes, I discover it, though you smile. Chil'run--friends--not the State Sup'inten'ent, but greater!--Pardon; have yo' chair, sir."

"Why, the examination's over, isn't it? Guess you'd better call it finished, hadn't you?" He made the suggestion softly, but Bonaventure answered aloud:

"Figu'atively speaking, 'tis conclude'; but--pardon--you mention'

writing. Shall you paht f'om us not known--not leaving yo' name--in a copy-book, for examp'?"

"With pleasure. You do teach writing?"

"If I teach writing? To such with desks, yes. 'Twould be to all but for the privation of desks. You perceive how we have here nothing less than a desk famine. Madelaine! Claude! Sidonie!--present copy-book'!

Sir, do you not think every chile should be provided a desk?--Ah! I knew 'twould be yo' verdic'. But how great trouble I have with that subjec'! Me, I think yes; but the parents,"--he looked tenderly over among them,--"they contend no. Now, sir, here are three copy-books.

Inspect; criticise. No, commence rather, if you please, with the copy-book of Madelaine; then _p'oceed_ to the copy-book of Claude, and finally conclude at the copy-book of Sidonie; thus rising by degrees: good, more good, most good."

"How about," asked the stranger, with a smile, as he turned the leaves, "about Toutou and Crebiche; don't they write?"

"Ah! sir," said Bonaventure, half to the stranger and half to the a.s.semblage, "they write, yes; but--they ah yet in the pot-hook and chicken-track stage. And now, chil'run, in honor of our eminent friend's visitation, and of the excellence with which you have been examine', I p'onounce the _exhibition_ finish'--dispensing with 'Twink', twink' lil stah.' And now, in the book of the best writing scholar in the school--you, sir, deciding that intricacy--shall now be written the name of the eminent frien' of learning hereinbefo'

confronting.--Claude! a new pen!"

The stranger made his choice among the books.

"Chil'run, he has select' the book of Sidonie!" Bonaventure reached and swung a chair into place at his desk. The visitor sat down.

Bonaventure stood over him, gazing down at the hand that poised the pen. The silence was profound.

"Chil'run--sh-sh-sh!" said the master, lifting his left arm but not his eyes. The stranger wrote a single initial.

"G! chil'run; G!--Sir, does it not signify George?"

"Yes," murmured the writer; "it stands for George." He wrote another.

"W! my chil'run; George W!--Sir, does it not sig--_My_ chil'run!

George Washington! George Washington, my chil'run! George Washington, the father of his country! My chil'run and fellow-citizen' of Gran'

Point', he is nominated for George Washington, the father of his country! Sir, ah you not a relation?"

"I really can't tell you," said the writer, with a calm smile. "I've always been too busy to look it up." He finished his signature as he talked. Bonaventure bent over it.

"Tar-box. Chil'run and friends and fellow-citizen', I have the p'oudness to int'oduce you the hono'able George Washington Tarbox! And now the exhibition is dismiss'; but stop! Sir, if some--aw all--desire gratefully to shake hand'?"

"I should feel honored."

"Attention, everybody! Make rank! Everybody by two by two, the school-chil'run coming last,--Claude and Sidonie resting till the end,--pa.s.s 'round--shake hand'--walk out--similah a fu-nial."

So came, shook hands, and pa.s.sed out and to their simple homes, the manhood, motherhood, maidenhood, childhood of Grande Pointe, not knowing that before many days every household in the village was to be a subscriber to the "Alb.u.m of Universal Information."

One of the last of the householders was Chat-oue. But when he grasped the honored hand, he also held it, fixing upon its owner a generous and somewhat baccha.n.a.lian smile.

"I'm a fool, but _I_ know. You been put op a jawb on me. Da.s.s four, five days now I been try to meck out what dat n.i.g.g.ah at Belle Alliance holla to me when I gallop down de road." (Chat-oue's English had been acquired from negroes in the sugar-house, and was like theirs.) "He been braggin' dat day befo'"--turning to Bonaventure--"how 'twas him show you de road to Gran' Point' las' year; and so I git mad and tell him, me," addressing the stranger again, "how we goin' git school shot op. Well, dat night I mit him comin' fum Gran' Point' and he hol'

at me. I been try evva since meck out what he say. Ya.s.s. An' I _jis_ meck it out! He say, 'Watch out, watch out, 'Mian Roussel and dat book-fellah dawn't put op jawb on _you_.' Well, I'm a fool, but I know. You put op jawb on me; I know. But da.s.s all right--_I don't take no book._" He laughed with the rest, scratched his tipsy head, and backed out through the _pieux_.

Only a fairy number remained, grouped around the honorable Tarbox.

They were St. Pierre, Bonaventure,--Maximian detaining a middle-aged pair, Sidonie's timorous guardians,--and two others, who held back, still waiting to shake hands.

"Claude," cried Bonaventure; "Sidonie."