Sink or Swim; or, Harry Raymond's Resolve

THE VERNON HIGH SCHOOL.

“Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote.”

These words were declaimed in a clear, ringing voice from the platform of the Vernon High School. The speaker was a boy of fifteen, well-knit, and vigorous, with a frank, manly expression, and a prepossessing face. His dark chestnut hair waved slightly above a high, intellectual brow, and his attitude, as he faced his school-mates, was one of ease and unconscious grace. His eye flashed as he declaimed with appropriate emphasis the patriotic extract which commences in the well-known words quoted above. He had learned the orator’s secret,—to be in earnest,—and he carried his audience with him. When, at the conclusion of his declamation, he bowed and walked to his desk, the boys broke into spontaneous applause. Though this was contrary to the rules of the school, Reuben Tower, A. M., the principal, uttered no reprimand. He had himself been pleased with the declamation, and sympathized to some extent with the scholars.

“Very well indeed, Master Raymond! You speak as if you felt it,” he said.

Harry Raymond looked gratified at this double commendation. The applause of his school-mates pleased him, for he was by no means indifferent to their good opinion, which he tried on all occasions to deserve. He was no less pleased with Mr. Tower’s praise, for he had a high respect for his ability, and that praise was never lightly bestowed.

I have spoken of Harry’s good appearance. I am obliged to confess that his dress had nothing to do with this. In fact, his jacket and pants were of very coarse texture, and by no means elegant in fit. Besides this, they appeared, though neat, to have seen considerable service, and there was a patch on one knee,—very small, indeed, but still a patch. In fact, I may as well state at the outset, that Harry was the son of a house-carpenter,—an industrious and intelligent man, but still of limited income, and obliged to economize strictly in order to lay aside, as he made it a point to do, a hundred dollars a year, as a provision for the future.

The applause which followed our hero’s declamation was almost unanimous. I say almost, for there were two boys who did not join in it. One of these was James Turner, a boy about Harry’s age, but more slightly made. He was the son of Squire Turner, the wealthiest man in Vernon, and his dress afforded quite a contrast to the ill-fitting garments of our young hero. The village tailor’s skill had not been deemed sufficient, but James had accompanied his father to New York, where his measure had been left with a Broadway tailor, who had made up the suit and sent it to Vernon by express. The cloth was very fine, and there was a style and neatness of fit about the clothes of which James felt very proud. He regarded his companions with a supercilious air, as if convinced of his own immeasurable superiority, in dress at least.

James Turner did not participate in the applause called forth by Harry Raymond’s declamation. On the contrary, he sat with an unpleasant sneer on his lips, and cast a glance of scorn at the patch, which his quick eye had detected in our hero’s pants.

There was another boy, sitting next to James, who also refrained from joining in the applause. This was Tom Barton, a friend and hanger-on of James Turner, who, by persistent flattery, earned the privilege of being treated with half-contemptuous familiarity and condescension by the young aristocrat. He knew that James did not like Harry Raymond, and the sneer which he saw on the lips of his patron gave him the cue. He attempted to imitate it, and gaze scornfully at the young orator in his momentary triumph.

“James Turner!” called out the principal.

James Turner rose from his seat, and walked to the platform, which he ascended, greeting the audience with a stiff and consequential bow, and an air which might be interpreted to mean, “Boys, you will now have the privilege of hearing me speak.”

James had selected a good piece,—Patrick Henry’s well-known appeal to arms, familiar to every school-boy, commencing, “I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience.”

It is a fine piece of oratory, lofty in tone and sentiment, and should be spoken with dignified earnestness. James Turner’s voice, which was shrill, was scarcely calculated to do justice to it. Still it would not have called out any demonstration from the young auditory, but for one or two peculiar ideas on the part of James, as to the proper way of speaking it. When he came to the clause, “We have prostrated ourselves before the throne,” he suited the action to the word, and sank upon his knees. But, afraid of soiling his pantaloons, he first spread out his silk handkerchief on the platform, and this spoiled whatever effect the action might otherwise have had. There was a general titter, which the young aristocrat saw with anger. At the end of the sentence, he rose from his knees, and, with a general scowl at the boys, kept on with his declamation.

But a more serious contretemps awaited him. A little further on, the orator says, “We have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne.” Here again, James, with a striking lack of judgment, thought it would heighten the effect to suit the action to the word. Accordingly, he prepared to kick out with his right foot. Unfortunately, he was so provoked with his school-mates, for their lack of appreciation of the other point he had made, that he executed the manœuvre, if it may properly be so called, with a spiteful emphasis which was too much for his equilibrium. He lost his balance, and fell forward in a ludicrous manner, and rolled over on the floor of the school-room.

It could not be expected that fifty school-boys could restrain their merriment under such trying circumstances. There was a wild burst of laughter, in which, after an ineffectual attempt to resist the infection, Mr. Tower himself was compelled to join. Boys laughed till the tears came into their eyes, and the merriment was only increased when James Turner rose to his feet, and with an air of offended majesty marched indignantly to his seat, darting a look of withering scorn, as he meant it to be, at his youthful audience.

The laughter recommenced, and became almost hysteric. The principal, however, quickly recovered himself, and said:—

“Boys, that will do. Turner, you must excuse the boys for a little good-natured merriment at your expense. I think your conception of the gestures proper to use with your piece is not quite correct. However, that is a point on which the most experienced speakers are apt to make mistakes; not only boys, but men. Your intention was good, though the effect was injured by circumstances.”

These remarks ought to have appeased the offended orator, but he evidently did not mean to be appeased so readily. His feeling of mortification was swallowed up in a greater feeling of anger and irritation at the presumption of his school-mates, in daring to laugh at him, the son of the richest man in Vernon. He felt that he was entitled, rather, to be treated with respect and deference. So he sat sullenly through the remainder of the speaking, with an ill-tempered scowl upon his features.

When the speaking was over, Mr. Tower rose and said:—

“Boys, you are aware that at the commencement of the term I offered a prize to the boy who, in your own judgment, should be pronounced to have succeeded best in declamation, taking into consideration the whole term. As this is the last time we shall declaim before vacation, I will call for the vote now. I shall distribute small slips of paper among you, and I will ask each boy to inscribe upon his slip the name of that one who, in his opinion, deserves the prize. We will afterwards count the votes.”

Slips of paper were accordingly distributed, and the boys were soon busy in recording their votes.

“Sheffield, you may collect the votes,” said Mr. Tower.

The boy referred to passed among the desks with his hat, and the slips of paper were deposited therein. These were handed to the teacher, who forthwith proceeded to count them.

The count over, he rapped on his desk.

“Boys,” he said, “I will announce the vote. Votes cast, fifty. Of those Walter Sheffield has one; James Turner, two; and the remainder, forty-seven in number, are for Harry Raymond, to whom I have great pleasure in awarding the prize, of which he has been pronounced worthy by the nearly unanimous vote of his school-mates. Raymond, you will come forward.”

Harry Raymond advanced towards the teacher’s desk, amid the loud applause of his companions.

Mr. Tower placed in his hands a handsomely bound volume, consisting of selections from the best efforts of orators, ancient and modern, saying:—

“I have great pleasure in giving you this volume, Raymond, for my own judgment approves the selection of your school-fellows. I trust you will be able to express in your life, as you have so appropriately done upon the platform, the lofty and elevated sentiments of our best orators.”

There was a flush of gratification upon our hero’s cheek, as he received the book with a respectful bow, and returned to his seat amid the renewed applause of his fellow-pupils.