The Cadets of Flemming Hall — Reading Companion

“THERE comes the stage!”

At the word, four or five boys came leaping down the flight of steps and joined the lad watching at the gate, as the old coach crept slowly up the hill. The powerful, iron-gray horses, tired out with their long climb, plodded onward, quite unconscious of the eager faces above them. Suddenly a smooth brown head was popped out of the stage window, followed by an arm that waved vigorously in answer to the ringing cheer which greeted the owner’s coming.

“Hurrah, there’s Hal!”

The stage turned in under the arching gateway, and the horses, quickening their pace as they reached their journey’s end, toiled up the gravel driveway leading to the steps. Before they had fairly stopped, out jumped a boy of sixteen, dressed in a gray uniform, resplendent with brass buttons. He was immediately seized and surrounded by his schoolmates, all talking at once.

“Glad to see you back, old boy!”

“So late I was afraid you had cut Flemming Hall for good!”

“Why didn’t you wait till Christmas, and done with it?”

“Where’ve you been all summer?”

“Lots of new fellows here and our new teacher; you just ought to see him!”

Without deigning to reply to the shower of questions, as soon as he had shaken hands all round, the new-comer turned back to the stage and said,—

“Come, Leon, step out and show yourself.”

As he spoke, a boy two or three years younger than himself stepped down from the stage and joined the group, a little shyly, it must be confessed. But Harry laid a protecting hand on his shoulder, as he said by way of introduction,—

“See here, you fellows, this kid is my brother, Leon Arnold. He’s a good fellow, plucky enough to make up for his small size, and I know you’ll like him. Now come on, one at a time, and I’ll tell Leon who you all are, so you can start fair and square. This is Louis Keith,” he went on, turning to a slender lad of fifteen whose dark olive skin and blue-black hair were suggestive of Japan or China, rather than American birth; “we call him Ling Wing, or Wing for short. He’s the dude of Flemming Hall, and immensely proud of himself when he gets on his dress uniform. This next one,” he added, pointing to a yellow-haired, roly-poly youth of about the same age; “is Max Eliot. Look out for him; he’ll get you into all sorts of mischief.”

“Don’t you worry, young Arnold; I’ll get you out again, and that’s more than Hal does for his friends. Ask him about the night Max and Louis went after the pies,” interrupted the tallest of the group, a sixteen-year-old giant who was already past his six feet and was still stretching upward, while his small sandy head and blue eyes looked ridiculously boyish at the top of his manly figure.

“This, Leon,” his brother explained, without paying the slightest heed to the interruption; “is Jack Howard, popularly known as Baby. He’s a good fellow, but an awful drain on the family purse, for the tailor always charges him double for his uniforms.”

During the laugh that greeted this sally, a young man drew near the group, a well-built, athletic-looking young man dressed in army blue, whose brown eyes brightened behind their spectacles as he put out his hand, saying cordially,—

“Harry, I am glad to see you at last. We had almost given you up.”

Regardless of Leon and of his introductions, Harry whirled around quickly and grasped the outstretched hand.

“Lieutenant Wilde! Are you really back here? How jolly!”

“Back again, as well as ever and delighted to be with my boys once more, after six months of rest. They were all here but you, and the doctor and I were beginning to be afraid you were not coming, after all. Is this the brother you wrote about?”

“Oh, yes, this is Leon. Leon, Leon, this is Lieutenant Wilde,” he added, eagerly pulling his brother by the sleeve.