“Hang Ogleport!” exclaimed Val. “Think of me!” “Yes,” said Zeb, with a look of deep sympathy out of his left eye, “your case is a hard one. Val, don’t you think the wind is rising a little?” “Seems so,” said Val. “And a bit westerly?” “More and more west.” “Val, the Academy ought to have a chance to express its grief over the loss of Bar Vernon. You and I had better go and carry the sad news to the old bell.” Val felt as if that sort of thing would give his mind just the relief he needed, and by the time the bell had finished its midday work of recalling the boys to their studies, its last duty for the day, the “van” in the western gap of the steeple had been securely hitched to the tolling gear, and two agile forms were creeping down-stairs as lightly and silently as cats. “The wind will be higher towards night,” said Zeb to his friend, “but there’s no telling when the bell may begin to express his feelings.” Nevertheless, they both returned to their desks and duties with a truly wonderful degree of firmness, sticking bravely to their books in spite of more than one ominous wave of grating sound which came creeping down upon them from the bell-tower. There was that upon Dr. Dryer’s mind that day, which so absorbed it that no ordinary interruption would have sufficed to secure his attention. Indeed, never in all their experience of him had his pupils been so puzzled to get at the meaning of his “explanations,” while he once so far wandered from an exact use of terms as to address Hy Allen as “Euphemia.” Hiram was afterwards compelled to thrash half a dozen small boys and one large one before he could deliver himself from the consequences of that slip of the tongue. Hiram would rather have died than have submitted to being called Euphemia Allen, or even “Effie,” much as he doubtless admired the Doctor’s pretty daughter. School was out at last, however, and Zebedee Fuller led the way to the mill-dam for the accustomed swim. He found Gershom Todderley and Patrick Murphy strolling about outside the mill, in a way which plainly indicated their readiness to listen to any kind of news from “up-town.” Nor were they by any means disappointed either as to quantity or quality, for Zeb relieved Val Manning of all necessity for answering questions. “Hark!” suddenly exclaimed Pat. “Hear that, now! Begorra, that’s the bill bruk loose again!” “Ah, yes, the bell!” sighed Zeb. “Somebody has told the old fellow about George Brayton and Bar Vernon.” “That’s what it’s towled for?” asked Pat. “Yes, Patrick,” said Zeb. “Do you s’pose it told itself?” “That’s what it’s doin’ the noo,” exclaimed Pat. “It’s ownly a praste can do anythin’ right for that same bill.” “That’s my opinion,” said Zeb, solemnly. “Those ghosts from Mrs. Wood’s are at it in broad daylight. What are we coming to?”