“You’ll get over that soon,” answered Wilkins, in the tone of one who could boast of a large experience.

“I hope not.  I shall want to leave school if I find I can’t learn here.”

“Who is it that brought you here—­your father?”

“No, indeed!” answered Hector, quickly, for he had no desire to be considered the son of Allan Roscoe.

“Uncle, then?”

“He is my guardian,” answered Hector, briefly.

They were by this time in the playground.  Some dozen boys were playing baseball.  They were of different ages and sizes, ranging from ten to nineteen.  The oldest and largest bore such a strong personal resemblance to Socrates Smith, that Hector asked if he were his son.

“No,” answered Wilkins; “he is old Sock’s nephew.”

“Who is old Sock?”

“Smith, of course.  His name is Socrates, you know.  Don’t let him catch you calling him that, though.”

“What sort of a fellow is this nephew?” asked Hector.

“He’s a bully.  He bosses the boys.  It’s best to keep on the right side of Jim.”

“Oh, is it?” inquired Hector, smiling slightly.

“Well, I should say so.”

“Suppose you don’t?”

“He’ll give you a thrashing.”

“Does his uncle allow that?”

“Yes; I think he rather likes it.”

“Don’t the boys resist?”

“It won’t do any good.  You see, Jim’s bigger than any of us.”

Hector took a good look at this redoubtable Jim Smith.

He was rather loosely made, painfully homely, and about five feet nine inches in height.  Nothing more need be said, as, in appearance, he closely resembled his uncle.

Jim Smith soon gave Hector an opportunity of verifying the description given of him by Wilkins.

The boy at the bat had struck a ball to the extreme boundary of the field.  The fielder at that point didn’t go so fast as Jim, who was pitcher, thought satisfactory, and he called out in a rough, brutal tone: 

“If you don’t go quicker, Archer, I’ll kick you all round the field.”

Hector looked at Wilkins inquiringly.

“Does he mean that?” he asked.

“Yes, he does.”

“Does he ever make such a brute of himself?”

“Often.”

“And the boys allow it?”

“They can’t help it.”

“So, it seems, you have a tyrant of the school?”

“That’s just it.”

“Isn’t there any boy among you to teach the fellow better manners?  You must be cowards to submit.”

“Oh, you’ll find out soon that you must submit, too,” said Wilkins.

Hector smiled.

“You don’t know me yet,” he said.

“What could you do against Jim?  He’s three or four inches taller than you.  How old are you?”

“I shall be sixteen next month.”

“And he is nineteen.”

“That may be; but he’d better not try to order me round.”