Before the end of the week I had my studies well in hand.  I was a little ashamed at finding myself at the foot of the various classes, and secretly determined to deserve promotion.  The school was an admirable one.  I might make this part of my story more entertaining by picturing Mr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a red nose and a large stick; but unfortunately for the purposes of sensational narrative, Mr. Grimshaw was a quiet, kindhearted gentleman.  Though a rigid disciplinarian, he had a keen sense of justice, was a good reader of character, and the boys respected him.  There were two other teachers—­a French tutor and a writing-master, who visited the school twice a week.  On Wednesdays and Saturdays we were dismissed at noon, and these half-holidays were the brightest epochs of my existence.

Daily contact with boys who had not been brought up as gently as I worked an immediate, and, in some respects, a beneficial change in my character.  I had the nonsense taken out of me, as the saying is—­some of the nonsense, at least.  I became more manly and self-reliant.  I discovered that the world was not created exclusively on my account.  In New Orleans I labored under the delusion that it was.  Having neither brother nor sister to give up to at home, and being, moreover, the largest pupil at school there, my will had seldom been opposed.  At Rivermouth matters were different, and I was not long in adapting myself to the altered circumstances.  Of course I got many severe rubs, often unconsciously given; but I had the sense to see that I was all the better for them.

My social relations with my new schoolfellows were the pleasantest possible.  There was always some exciting excursion on foot—­a ramble through the pine woods, a visit to the Devil’s Pulpit, a high cliff in the neighborhood—­or a surreptitious low on the river, involving an exploration of a group of diminutive islands, upon one of which we pitched a tent and played we were the Spanish sailors who got wrecked there years ago.  But the endless pine forest that skirted the town was our favorite haunt.  There was a great green pond hidden somewhere in its depths, inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles.  Harry Blake, who had an eccentric passion for carving his name on everything, never let a captured turtle slip through his fingers without leaving his mark engraved on its shell.  He must have lettered about two thousand from first to last.  We used to call them Harry Blake’s sheep.

These turtles were of a discontented and migratory turn of mind, and we frequently encountered two or three of them on the cross-roads several miles from their ancestral mud.  Unspeakable was our delight whenever we discovered one soberly walking off with Harry Blake’s initials!  I’ve no doubt there are, at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering about that gummy woodland with H.B. neatly cut on their venerable backs.