Nothing else occurred that morning to interrupt the exercises, excepting that a boy in the reading class threw us all into convulsions by calling Absalom A-bol’-som “Abolsom, O my son Abolsom!” I laughed as loud as anyone, but I am not so sure that I shouldn’t have pronounced it Abolsom myself.

At recess several of the scholars came to my desk and shook hands with me, Mr. Grimshaw having previously introduced me to Phil Adams, charging him to see that I got into no trouble.  My new acquaintances suggested that we should go to the playground.  We were no sooner out-of-doors than the boy with the red hair thrust his way through the crowd and placed himself at my side.

“I say, youngster, if you’re comin’ to this school you’ve got to toe the mark.”

I didn’t see any mark to toe, and didn’t understand what he meant; but I replied politely, that, if it was the custom of the school, I should be happy to toe the mark, if he would point it out to me.

“I don’t want any of your sarse,” said the boy, scowling.

“Look here, Conway!” cried a clear voice from the other side of the playground.  “You let young Bailey alone.  He’s a stranger here, and might be afraid of you, and thrash you.  Why do you always throw yourself in the way of getting thrashed?”

I turned to the speaker, who by this time had reached the spot where we stood.  Conway slunk off, favoring me with a parting scowl of defiance.  I gave my hand to the boy who had befriended me—­his name was Jack Harris—­and thanked him for his good-will.

“I tell you what it is, Bailey,” he said, returning my pressure good-naturedly, “you’ll have to fight Conway before the quarter ends, or you’ll have no rest.  That fellow is always hankering after a licking, and of course you’ll give him one by and by; but what’s the use of hurrying up an unpleasant job?  Let’s have some baseball.  By the way, Bailey, you were a good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about the candy.  Charley Marden would have caught it twice as heavy.  He’s sorry he played the joke on you, and told me to tell you so.  Hallo, Blake!  Where are the bats?”

This was addressed to a handsome, frank-looking lad of about my own age, who was engaged just then in cutting his initials on the bark of a tree near the schoolhouse.  Blake shut up his penknife and went off to get the bats.

During the game which ensued I made the acquaintance of Charley Marden, Binny Wallace, Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and Fred Langdon.  These boys, none of them more than a year or two older than I (Binny Wallace was younger), were ever after my chosen comrades.  Phil Adams and Jack Harris were considerably our seniors, and, though they always treated us “kids” very kindly, they generally went with another set.  Of course, before long I knew all the Temple boys more or less intimately, but the five I have named were my constant companions.

My first day at the Temple Grammar School was on the whole satisfactory.  I had made several warm friends and only two permanent enemies—­Conway and his echo, Seth Rodgers; for these two always went together like a deranged stomach and a headache.